This could have been me

Not to be all band wagony with the Treyvon Martin thing, but Cory Monteith - that could have been me.

I get it.  I'm a maybe jerk.  All these men of color, one being the President, trying to put themselves in the shoes of an isolated tragedy, and here I am being a jerk about a successful singer/actor that died in a tragic, yet cliché way.

Granted, a lot of successful Caucasian individuals have died as a result of overindulgence.  Sadly, a lot of African-Americans die as the result of gun violence.  Honestly, though, it's a reality.  Both instances really.  Whether you're white or black, the most common ways of death shouldn't be the basis of you trying to parallel your ability to survive with another individual's ability to not.

Cory was thirty or thirty-one (I don't feel like looking up his birthday), and I can fully say, whether I compare me to him out anyone else famous, I'm surprised I'm still alive.  Between twenty-one and thirty-one, I drank a lot.  I may have slowed down somewhere around twenty-five, but I still had moments where I tried to drink to the point of oblivion.  Yes, yes, I still do that once in a blue blue moon, but only at home (a secure place) and only when nothing is expected of me for the next couple days (I'm old and my recovery time is longer now).
Bit still.  In my naval youth, I drank a lot.  Seriously.  A lot.  There were times when I wouldn't eat because that was money I could have spent on alcohol, and food would have taken up precious space in my stomach I could use for alcohol processing.  These were actual thoughts I used to have.
After my first divorce, which was when I was twenty-one, I made myself promise three things - no one-night stands, no sex when drunk, and no fat chicks.  I broke all of those and one I didn't think I had to make (no sex while listening to Ren & Stimpy's Happy Happy Joy Joy song).  I vaguely recall having sex on the floor of the vending machine room in as hotel once.  Another time in the alley of an AM-PM.
After my second divorce, there was a lot if self-destruction attempted.  A lot.  Granted, my device was alcohol, not something as hard as Cory, Heath, or Curt was using, bit still could have turned out the same.  Jim Morrison - that could have been me.
However, for me - practically a nobody in the public eye, to compare myself to Cory and his tragic death if about add narcissistic as the President comparing himself to Treyvon's death.  Until his death, he was practically a nobody in the public eye.  Now a famous person tries to convince you there's a huge problem by trying to echo themselves into an isolated tragedy.

Shot, me too.  I know many fellow squids that drank their weight in tequila, ales, or rum and are alive today by some miraculous hand of fate.  Heck, there are times I've woken up wondering how I got into my bed and hoped to heck I didn't kill anyone on the way home.  Call it God, call it luck - but understand, I had it and those mentioned so fast didn't.
By a weird coincidence, my mom died twenty-seven years ago.  At the time, I believe God took her because what she had to offer to us was at a conclusion.  After all this time, I'm not so sure.  I think many of our lives could have been less challenging if she was still around to guide us.  I also know that who I am today couldn't exist any other way.
Treyvon and Cory are tragedies, but they're isolated.  To make sense of the death of two people that have zero impact on your lives is only asking for madness.  Heck, the one person that mattered to me, to rationalize her death almost brought me to an end.  Yes, they could have been me; she could have been me; but they/she aren't/isn't.  I'm me.  You're you.  He's him, and she's she.  Our lives ate independent, and to make sense of the randomness is just along for trouble.