Tragic.
Waste.
Meet the new adjectives.
Same as the old adjectives.
Mindy McCready's suicide is, admittedly and inevitably, all three of the aforementioned.
As is, also admittedly and inevitably, sadly the case, what will follow, at least in the moment, is equally sad, tragic and wasteful.
The dramatization of an already too dramatic life.
Worse still, the romanticising of a life long ill fated because of its immersion in chemical addiction and mental illness.
And that would have been true had Mindy McCready been a platinum selling country singer.
Or a minimum wage convenience store clerk.
The fact that she was, of course, the former as opposed to the latter simply serves as the catalyst for a 1001 nights of gab, gossip and E! True Hollywood Stories.
And throw in that she shot the dog...and herself...on the front porch of the rural house and you've got a script that writes itself.
One can only hope not.
No one asked, so no one need heed any opinon I might offer.
Not that will inhibit my offering it.
Mindy McCready is dead.
Sad.
Tragic.
Waste.
And all the Facebook posts, Twitter tweets, maudlin media memorializing and/or salacious sensationalism in the known universe will neither bring her back nor help any one to make any sense out of senselessness.
The real honoring to be done here is obvious.
Say a prayer for her soul.
And let her go.
And let's put some of that regret, concern, sadness, sympathy and even passion to work at making it easier for those struggling with demons to find real, lasting assistance, as opposed to the medicine show/reality show brand.
While making it a lot harder for that same damaged soul to be left alone on a rural porch to shoot the dog.
First.
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