RS: To Be or Not to Be

I can't decide whether or not to feel sorry for Brittany Spears. I see myself reflected. No, I have never shaved my head. It isn't a good look for me, even if I were misguidedly trying to stay a step ahead of a follicle drug test. No, I have never beaten a car with an umbrella although I did get drunk at brunch once, exited the restaurant, saw the most beautiful BMW I had ever seen and promptly licked it. I don't know why. I have no memory of the incident but certain friends won't let me forget. How grateful am I that I am a nobody and that no cameras are snapping eight by tens of my every move? Plenty. I've said, "Oops I did it again" again and again and have called way too many drug dealers to "hit me baby one more time". I hope none of that makes it onto the final cut of the life movie that flashes before my eyes when I die, let alone on a 24-hour loop on every infotainment outlet in existence. And, no, I've never put a small child in danger by driving with it on my lap, almost dropping it, or turning its car seat the wrong way. I was, however, once swinging my 2 year old nephew gleefully in the air and swung his still too soft skull into a spinning ceiling fan. He survived and so will Brittany's kids. And, no, I have never married someone in Vegas and had the marriage annulled, but I have sobered up and looked foggily across the Posturepedic and regretted it so much that I wished it could all be undone by simply slipping the Pope a few bucks. What we do have in common are the following: I married a loser who sponged off me for all he could get, I was escorted to a mental health care facility on an ambulance gurney, and I've gone out on the town before without wearing underwear. Fortunately, I wasn't also wearing a dress and my nethers never made it onto the internet--to my knowledge. I've made a fool of myself, squandered too much money on drugs, and refused to listen to those around me who tried to help me help myself—though there is no evidence that Brittany has anyone in her life trying to help her. She is slowly committing suicide. I attempted the same thing both slowly and expeditiously. I got lucky. She may not. I know I am not supposed to care. I pretend not to. But my ears prick up when new news comes on the television. So, mustn't I? Oh, I sneer and make fun and scoff about her getting what's coming to her. But I have learned that inertia does not apply to a life spinning out of control, eventually you crash into something. The best you can hope for is that your brains don't end up splattered on the windshield. I got lucky. I wonder if she will. Do I care? I honestly don't know. Should I care? Life seems to indicate not. Sometimes I get caught in traffic because idiot drivers in front of me can't stop staring at an accident alongside the road. They can't seem to look away until they can't see anything anymore and then they speed off without a second thought. Am I one of those people I hate so much? Yes. Truth is, it is just Brittany. Some white trash, semi-talented, gum chewing, roots showing, ass-wiggling scum bag who fucked up her life because she got too much too fast and is spoiled and stupid. But those accidents we can't look away from are not just fascinating spectacles or even simple reminders of "better you than me". Human beings bled that blood on the roadside. And heartbroken families don't get to speed away from the wreckage without a second thought. And Brittany, for all her ridiculousness, is just a human being in trouble—trying to speed away from wreckage of her own creation. And I can't look away. Here's hoping that whenever inertia loosens it grip that she crashes into something safe and soft. Not that I care.