Tears for Whitney, Tears for Me

Okay, so Whitney's dead.

For the record, I was NOT her number one fan. 

Okay, so she was both beautiful and almost heartbreakingly cute, with that supernova smile and that sweet little girl's nose that could crinkle and bring in the spring thaw all by itself. 

Okay, so she had a three-octave range and was every bit as brilliant at the low end as she was at the high.

Okay, so she could sell a song like almost nobody else you ever saw.

I enjoyed her, when I happened upon her performing.  I didn't go out of my way to see her, but I always enjoyed her when I did.

Scratch that--I wasn't going to watch that horrid reality show on a bet.  I saw the commercials, and I did NOT want to see Whitney portrayed like that.  Though I wasn't her number one fan.

I can't keep the tears out of my eyes today. 

Because Whitney's dead.

And the world is just that much less beautiful today.  There is not enough beauty, for the eyes or for the ears.  Whitney looked as beautiful as she sounded.  There aren't nearly enough beautiful singers.  There's not nearly enough beautiful anything.

I don't know what the coroner's report will say.  But, like everybody else who knows anything about her story, I expect it will say something about how drugs and alcohol had weakened something or other.  If she hadn't done those things, she would still be with us.  Unintentionally, but truly, she killed herself.  She stole from us.  She stole herself from us.  Just like Elvis and Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin and Mama Cass and John Belushi, she robbed us.

There is not enough beauty in the world.  And there is too much pain, and too much evil.

Whitney wasn't evil.  She was beautiful.  And she was in pain.  Self-medicated.

Like me.  Only I eat--my drug of choice.  I've gotten so fat my chest tingles where the huge fat gut intersects my lower ribs.  It will kill me as surely as that illustrious roll call above were killed.  I don't know their pressures and their pains.  But I know mine.  And right now there is a jar of lightly-salted dry roasted peanuts I can't keep my hand out of.  Because one handful of peanuts won't make that much of a difference, right?

Is that why I can't keep the tears out of my eyes?  Because Whitney was a fellow addict?

Have I lost a sister?

Maybe we all have.

Recquiescat in pacem, Whitney Elizabeth.  You made the world better.