Today, social media explodes again - in a fucking hypocritical way - because Sinéad O'Connor died.
From all nooks and crannies of fame, and the "ordinary" person, praise is now being poured out on her, while these same persons have not spent a single word, or thought, on Sinead over the last few decades.
It's old wisdom that you're only really appreciated as an artist after you die, which suddenly brings your songs back into the spotlight, and the (corpse) picking from record companies just scales up a notch.
However, I do not want to talk about the death of - very gifted - singer Sinéad, I want to talk here about yet another "tormented" soul, who lost the fight with the inner demons, a fight openly advertised by herself.
What is it with all these artists - Kurt Cobain, Amy Whinehouse, Whitney Houston, Elvis Presley, Chester Bennington, Michael Jackson, George Michael and now again Sinead O'Connor - that they either piss themselves to death, squirt themselves to death or take their own lives, through the "unbearable" life of being an artist?
By now I am getting sick to my stomach of the lamentations of fragile artists' souls who bathe in - self-sought - fame and fortune, but when this status is finally achieved assume a status of tormented martyrs, because that is apparently part of being an "artist.
Billions of people on this earth have a tougher life than all those aggrieved scale figures, but cannot afford the "luxury" of suicide because they have children or parents to take care of, for example, and no one will shed a tear over their - yes I'll just plop it in - selfish termination of life.
Of course there is a job for managers and record companies, who apparently still cannot protect their flagships after decades of sex, drugs and rock 'n roll, but the choice of the path of self-destruction still lies with the "tormented" artist himself, who apparently must always choose the most destructive path of least resistance.
I too was "in love" with the Sinéad O'Connor in the chillingly beautiful clip from Nothing Compares 2 U, but that doesn't mean I closed my eyes to the "mental nutcase" she later became, and the way she fucked up her own - rich - life.
Of course my take on it will earn me hate reactions - so be it - but I'm not going to join in the beatific polonaise that is now being run by pretty much the entire (artist) world, because the fact is that no one cared about her anymore, which almost forced her to announce her mental breakdown to the whole world.
It is - it is often said - not the weight of your backpack that matters, but how you carry it. This is a daily truth - including for me - for billions of people around the world, but it is the most adored, pampered and money- and fame-laden artists who look only at the heaviness, but never at how to carry the backpack, and therefore revel in self-pity.
I hope that Sinead's soul will now find its rest, a rest that many others have not been granted in their daily, much tougher struggles.
And to all the wannabe artists, I just want to say one thing: if you can't stand the heat get out of the kitchen.