Michael

Michael died yesterday. I learned this news via email from a friend of his from San Diego. A friend I'd never met... or heard of for that matter. Which has made it easier for me to pretend it never happened. Like the email never reached my inbox. Or hasn't been opened and sits unchecked in my Yahoo email inbox. Or that this, in true Michael fashion, is just another of his more elaborate and dramatic practical jokes (although, why they're called practical is beyond me... there is nothing practical about trying to feel something -- anything -- and produce the shocked, devastated tears you know wait just below the surface while you're, at the moment, locked tightly and comfortably (thankyouverymuch) in your post-surgery, Vicodin-induced stupor) and he's simply measuring everyone's love for His Royal Fabulous-ness based on how many seconds it takes for us all to rush to San Diego. In which case, I'm probably at the top of his shit list.

Because I don't believe he's gone. Not for a second.

The email (that I never received... never read...) said nothing about cause of death. Phone number of sender was included in email but since I never got the email or read it, I can't possibly call to find out why... how... who... when... where. That kind of phone call will only produce one result. Confirmation that truth or elaborate Michael-hoax, I don't want to know. Ever. I realize that this is a completely selfish, self-preserving act... I'm okay with that. Besides... suicide is the most selfish act anyone could succeed at.