The very last thing you want to happen during the Michael Jackson performance you’ve been practicing tirelessly in your bedroom while everyone else your age was out living their lives is some dude’s spine shattering into a billion pieces. Not because he’ll likely be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his days, but because he hijacked the 20 seconds of fame that you deserved. That you earned.
Now, as they drag this kill joy’s lifeless body into an ambulance, you’ll never know if someone in the crowd of 29 people wanted an autograph. Maybe Kevin Federline was there and wanted to collaborate but thought it was in poor taste to approach an artist after witnessing someone accidentally commit suicide.
This reminds me of the time that Stacy DeLuca asked me to slow dance in eighth grade and then Billy Tarkowski puked all over the dance floor. Everyone scattered and 15 years later, Stacy still hasn’t returned my calls or opened her bedroom window when I scale the side of her house. So many ‘what ifs’ and Tarkowski fucked it all up. Hey Billy, if you’re reading this, go sit on a fucking cactus, you cockblocking jerkoff.