After Death

The only death I felt this year was my grandpa’s. every celebrity death after that was just like feeling a mosquito bite after surviving a gunshot wound. It meant nothing. Literally nothing.

Now, 2016 was a shit year for almost everyone. I’m not gonna pretend I’m the only one who’s had it rough this year, or act like my stuff is more important. Because honestly, only assholes do that. But I will reserve myself the right not to care. Society can’t demand that I care about Debbie Reynolds or George Michael or Carrie Fisher to the same extent I did the grandfather who I’ve known since the day I was fucking born. Someone who was 100% supportive of everything I do and now won’t be around to see it pay off. My only reason to ever celebrate Christmas. The guy who still made sure I got 100 bucks on my birthday even while he was stuck in a goddamn hospital bed.

Nothing Carrie Fisher, George Michael, David Bowie, or whoever the fuck else died this year, have done in their lives will never be as important. Nothing.

And no, I’m not gonna say I’m bothered by people mourning these famous people because I don’t care; to each their own. And I think that if you’re still able to shed tears for strangers who never knew or gave a shit you exist, then that’s a good thing. Because after losing a certain share of loved ones… I find it impossible to really give a crap. I think that it sucks that these people are gone, I do, and I think it’s sad the world is now deprived of their talents, but emotionally I don’t feel anything.

B.B

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