Oh, Whitney, Whitney, Whitney.
I thought I was going to be able to hold my tongue and mourn in silent protest over the passing of my number one biggest role model from when I was a girl.
But the slander just keeps on rolling out. I really didn't want to see her coffin photo.
Or the crime scene photos either. But they are rammed down my throat at every turn. I couldn't even load my groceries on to the conveyor belt (with my children in tow) without seeing images of her sprawled out in the tub.
Why? Well, besides the fact that it's macabre and disturbing, it is completely fucking irrelevant.
It's the pettiness and judgmental douche bags that are making me ill. If she died quietly in her bed from a long battle with cancer, I'm sure we would be hearing an entirely different tune. It would be the Whitney Lament, not the Whitney Torment.
She's dead, mother fuckers. Let it go!
And it is nothing new. I'm not shocked in the slightest; I'm just annoyed.
I just wish people could focus on the amazing music that will live on as her legacy. That's how we remember her. It is how we SHOULD remember her. Everyone has their demons to bear, and whether it's because of their genius or because of their fame that magnifies it... it is tragic.
Imagine if Van Gogh cut his own ear off and sent it to a friend in today's "TMZ society"!
Or the fact that Gauguin likely gave a third of the native female adolescent population on Tahiti syphilis.
Or that Caravaggio was quite partial to young boys.
But time goes on. And when the paint is dry and the notes are written, that's all that is really important. All the extenuating circumstances surrounding how they lived and died are entirely inconsequential.
When they were alive, they created great art. Art that will live on long after they, and their children's children are gone.
So, to Whitney Houston, thank you for having lived, for having sung so beautifully, and for leaving us with your voice.
It was you that made me fall in love with music.