I’m getting concerned, you guys. So many of the musicians I grew up with have died in the past few years and I’ve yet to have single ugly cry. What’s wrong with me?
As a 10-year-old, I listened to my Thriller album nonstop and even performed a routine to PYT at assembly. When MJ died, sure I was sad, but I didn’t feel like part of my youth had died like so many friends. I felt more like my youth said sayonara when by body stopped producing the enzyme to properly digest dairy.
Am I not emotionally available enough to grieve?
Any wedding DJ that plays I Wanna Dance with Somebody (Who Loves Me) is rewarded every time with a shot and a tip, please and thank you. When Whitney died, my friend Ty Tivo’d the funeral and watched it repeatedly, Chardonnay by his side. I think I watched a few highlights on E!?
The artists whose records I got 12 for a penny through Columbia House are dying at alarming rates and I haven’t had to call in sick to work a single day!
And now Prince is dead and I’m all dealing with the news like a pro. Do you know how many times I listened to Purple Rain, people??!!! Not to mention my early fascination with that whole Wendy & Lisa relationship (which now makes more sense).
Is this because I haven’t had children and will never experience a truly open heart? Or maybe I’m alright and it’s just that my spirit artist is still alive.
Maybe when Agnetha from ABBA is greeted with a bearhug from Jesus, I’ll be naked and spitting up half-digested Xanax into the toilet. Or maybe it will come out of nowhere.
Maybe one day I’ll read about the death of that lady singer from T’Pau with all the 80’s hair on the news ticker. Six months later I’m suffering from bedsores and a mortgage in default. Now that would be some shocking drama I could appreciate!