When I was little, I was obsessed with death. I had a calendar and when I heard in the news that someone died, like someone being bombed by the Baader-Meinhof gang, I would mark that day with a cross. Last night I cried about the child of a rock star who died. The rock star was someone I took care of when I first moved to L.A., after he had abdominoplasty. I hated his band and music and we made fun of him because he had gotten fat (hence the need for abdominoplasty). And last night I read that his little girl died from a horrible disease and I felt guilty for making fun of him ten years ago.
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