the cracked-out cry that launched a thousand parodies.
i remember reading about a young whitney houston in "seventeen" magazine. after 13 years in a private girls' school, it became my bible on how to stand and deliver my teenage years through high school. me, an awkward thirteen; fashion senseless, gangly and green. and whitney, so ripe, so resplendent as a teen model; column quoted, "dreams of becoming a singer"...
i actually remember the headache caused by rolling my eyes.
[aren't all models really rocket scientists?]
what, me, bitter that i stopped growing at thirteen?
but, whitney did rocket with talent so extraordinary, that even if her music for the masses and lacquered lyrics accelerated your breakfast just a little too quickly, like haley's comet, she was undeniably one in a million.
[or at least once every 75 years...]
so it was within a collective tongue, tsk-ing tumult that whitney's addiction was revealed.
the headlines were so pedestrian. so unimaginative. so unscrupulously gleeful.
"houston, we have a problem..."
dive into the melee, tear up the mosh pit...oh, how we love to watch them fall. with a patronizing tilt of the head, we calmly stand tall over our cannibalistic trophies. panting, self-righteous. back of the hand to the lips. blood smeared. blood sport.
"it's a shame about that whitney. she had so much potential."
beware famebaggers. today's disco ball headlines are tomorrow's compost mulch.
there's a surge before you crest that wave of adrenaline; like the anthemic build of a perfectly crafted pop song. it wiggle, wiggle, wiggles the french tips of your pedi., body surfing through to its hair tossing conclusion.
ah, but today's was a natural high.
"we got your cell cept level back and dr. k. feels comfortable lowering you to 750 mg twice a day".
and so i extracted a past only 10 months old. and emptied. and emoted.
she used to take 23 meds a day. now she takes 4.
and i thought.
i could, "what if" all the live, long day about the increased potential for rejection...
i could, "what if" my side effects don't improve...
and i could, "what if" i relapse...and...and...and...
but, instead i thought.
this is one moment in time. it will never come again. and you are so rip, torn happy, your head might explode if you don't soap a smile on that mopey mug.
"give me one moment in time...when i'm more than i thought i could be..."
[me and whitney. who knew.]
thank you for the stinky, cheese ballad that soared through my head all afternoon.
in high school, i thought i was you for a hot minute. oh, and everywoman, i feel your
pain. every minute of every day.
love, the little red-haired girl xoxo
and so this galvanized gladiator lay down her sword, glistening with chunky giblets, and sighed.
because tomorrow she will begin the fight again.