The headline read, “Whitney Houston found dead at 48! I gasped out loud from the shock. Money and fame had not been enough to save her.
Whitney Houston had met her faith, I thought, because of love. Stupid stupid love. Or should I say rather, that she had met her fate because of lust mistaken for love. Lust that stuck a needle in her arm and told her, ‘now you’re living, baby.’ Lust that told her that anything she wanted was acceptable.
Lust that she tried over and over to force into conforming to happily ever after. And when it – lust – wouldn’t conform, because it was never meant to be that thing, love, she turned to drugs as a means of coping.
If only she could have accepted that oil and vinegar are only good as a salad dressing.
It is without a doubt, the hardest thing in the world for a woman to accept, that perhaps she weren’t meant for marriage. That perhaps she might have been better off remaining single.
What might the headlines have read if Whitney Houston had never met Bobby Brown? “Whitney Houston at 48 can still blow!”