Mike Tyson, former heavyweight champion of the world, talked openly about wanting to kill himself.
Miley Cyrus, former Disney Starlet, committed career suicide on the VMA’s, twerking until twerking lost all of its silliness, crossing into the realm of cringe.
I get it, being here is hard. I get it, wanting out is easy. I get it, no one asked to be here, not really. We were brought here, every single one of us, screaming through the Vagina Gateway, to fulfill someone else’s fantasy of being Mommy & Daddy.
Or Daddy & Daddy.
Or just Mommy.
Or just Daddy.
Grandma Heather killed herself. First, she did it by extricating herself from the family, and hiding, in Aventura Florida, for well over 20-years. Then, at Highland Park Hospital, she did it by morphine drip.
Helplessly, I watched Grandma Heather. I don’t blame her. That’s bullshit. I blame her completely.
Ain’t that a bitch? When trust becomes a commodity, the weak person is shorted.
Incidentally, it’s not always easy to see detect the weak person. Look at Mike Tyson.
Iron Mike Tyson was being used by sadistic promoters for as long as he could violently bash his fists against the skull of another man, without thought.
Unfortunately, Mike Tyson is thoughtful. When I say unfortunately, I mean for promoters, not the rest of us.
Mike Tyson is helping the rest of us in a way Cassius Clay cannot.
Mike Tyson is helping us understand the torment of living outside of the ring, once the bell stops, once the applause fades, once the promoters stop promoting, once the money is gone, once the darkness you’re trained to unleash on others is turned upon yourself.
Alcohol is slow death. Diet Coke is diabetes in a can. Marijuana is self-limiting. Pharmaceuticals are a cash cow for Big Pharma. Fame is a hoax. The spotlight is more fickle than the highly coveted 18-24-year old demographic.
Ain’t that a bitch? When a compliment is being used secretly as advice, your manhood is being yanked.
Here’s how my family gives a compliment.
“It took you a long time to figure out what to do with it, Gregor, but your hair finally looks great.”
My father’s favorite game is to push my buttons and then, when I’m wounded in the corner, my head exploding with a list of grievances stretching all the way back to childhood, he gets-off on telling me, “Can we talk about something else?”
My mother’s favorite game is to push my buttons and then, picking myself up, the floor bloody, my eloquence reduced to ranting, she gets-off on turning into Grandma Heather.
Silvia Plath and Grandma Heather were amateurs. My mother is the heavyweight champion of Pity Partiers.
Ain’t that a bitch? When feedback is nothing more than a crushing right hook, suicide is the white towel.