foomart foomart

And here's where I write something mean about a dead person I've never met.

So many people have so much to say about Elliott Smith, how beautiful and fragile he was and how the big mean world was just too much for his gentle soul and how inevitable and romantic it was that he chose to solve the problem by sticking a knife in his chest. Oh, bullshit. The way I read it, we're meant to learn something in this lifetime. Maybe that lesson takes place in the form of a hard life, like you're born with no legs, or you live a short life foraging for scraps of rotten food with flies crawling on you and no clean water, or maybe you're a sensitive musician with a successful career and a shitty batch of brain chemistry. The whole fucking point is to live through it, to find a way around whatever it is. Flipping the board over mid-game is the only way to really and truly lose. Even if you stay on the same square your whole life, even if you go backwards, you haven't lost as long as you keep playing. Suicide means flip! your little pawn is gone under the couch, nothing left but a click and a rattle through an eventual vacuum hose. Game over, you lose. He lost.

You know what? Maybe he had a hard time because he wore those stupid brown corduroys all the time. There's never been a documented case of things going well for someone in brown corduroys. All these people seem to care so deeply about the guy now, but where were they when he was shopping for pants?

12:18 PM