And another makes you small.
I’m not going to even try to put my thoughts on paper about the recent death of Philip Seymour Hoffman. I found this excellent piece written by Steffani (I’ve been reading her stuff since long before the events she describes here) and, well, it’s fucking amazing.
Stress? We’re supposed to experience stress. It’s expected to cripple us sometimes. We’re supposed to cry, turn to people, act out, be stupid, lose a little sleep. That’s part of being alive. We can’t medicate that out of ourselves. It becomes our art, it drives our dreams, pushes us to do ever more. Pain forges our humanity.
Read the whole thing: What a sad fucking day. What a horrible fucking disease.
I have addicts in my life. It shows in different ways in different people. I myself am guilty of looking for a magic potion to somehow fix things.