Let’s be clear about something. I know that without a doubt I will die in some completely ridiculous jackass fashion. Drunkenly stumbling on the stairs thereby cracking my melon and dying spread-eagle in the foyer of my home? Sure. Driving off into a ravine headfirst because I’m texting “gonads!” to my friend Ben? Likely. Bleeding out from a massive head trauma after convincing my pal Jane that she could totally shoot a PBR can off of my head with a potato gun? You bet.
Any of these scenarios could be more like premonitions but please, LORD, please…do NOT let me expire in the bathtub. I cannot think of anything more demoralizing for me or scarring for those who discover my bloated nekkid body. Face down in a toilet of my own vomit? I’LL TAKE IT. Just please, not wet and nude and splayed out in the tub.
Of course I’m referring to the tragic circumstances of the death of pop legend, Whitney Houston. By all accounts a heartbreaking ending to a troubled life. You can’t help but wonder when someone who seemingly “has it all” is so unstable and self destructive, yet you see it time and time again. Amy Winehouse. Michael Jackson. John Belushi. Kurt Cobain. Folks who have all the fame and fortune most of us covet but find happiness and peace so elusive.
We won’t know the whole story for some time but the reports of the days prior to her death are pretty
The paparrazi photographed her leaving a nightclub and her legs appear to be scratched and bleeding. Now this is not that uncommon. I have left a bar or two in my day in that exact state due to some unfortunate quasi-violent dance moves/convulsions to Nine Inch Nails’ “Head like a hole”. In fact, I’m sure I probably bruised others with my flailing mad dance skillz.
Other witnesses report Whitney doing drunken handstands out by the pool at the Beverly Hilton. Now what exactly is wrong with that? Yours truly has been known to do some magnificent impromptu cartwheels after a few jager bombs back in the day. I *may* have even done one in my office. Luckily this was in the glorious days before YouTube. YouTube ruins everything.
Whitney was reportedly slurring and sweaty and still intoxicated the next day after her nightclub sighting.
Give me a very large break, folks. What do you expect after a good old fashioned bender? Being slightly still drunk beats being hungover anyday! My good pal Jessica once had to escort me off an elevator at work one morning for being in such a condition*. I thought I was doing pretty well to be at work, but evidently my toxic breath and wet hair were a dead giveaway. I remember Jessica being stern about the severity of the situation but I also remember me being really giggly. Clearly I am a child. I thought the whole thing was pretty funny but by lunchtime that day I recall NOTHING being remotely funny. The going got rough. My head hurt, my stomach lurched and I managed to barf the two gallons of Gatorade I’d downed during the morning. Still, all in all it was pretty rock-star.
So, upon review I guess what I’m saying is that my dumbass just needs to stay away from the bathtub. One could argue that at one point in my life I could have been headed in that direction. Not so. This gal likes her cocktails, but knows damn well that she’s too stupid for prescription pills. Math is hard and I know that if one works, fourteen will prolly work better, so I just stay away altogether. I know how my crazy pea-brain works in certain scenarios. My friend Ben and I convinced ourselves once that it was the lining in the cans of Keystone beer that got you so fucked up. Shortly thereafter, Ben and I also *may* have put a dead squirrel into a lunch sack and given it to a friend on Mother’s Day. Allegedly.
As for Whitney, Godspeed to your sweet soul. There’s truly nothing funny about her situation or sad passing.
I know what it’s like to want the wheels to stop turning, Whitney. I also know what it’s like to want to sleep forever. There but for the Grace of God.
* in my defense I had spent the prior evening partying with a rock-star, Juliette Lewis. That gurl can throw down, yo.