  July 18th: “For, you see, when you live in Washington State remotely close to Seattle, you are intrinsically connected with Nirvana. And when you are feeling depressed you legally are required to listen to the poetry of Kurt Donald Cobain. You simply are. You must, at one time in your adolescence, go without showering for a week and wear flannel. Every year on April 5th you are required to say "Man, today He did it. " and then at one point, cry.” I forgot to close the blinds last night, which caused a strange awakening at five thirty this morning.
Never mind that I fell asleep two hours prior, I was too depressed to go back to sleep. I grabbed all my Nirvana LPs, my CD player, and sat in the dewy grass until my mom made coffee. I felt numb. Suicide scares the crap out of me. Not scary in the way that sci-fi thrillers are scary. But scary in that it could happen to anyone.
I mean, I could very well kill myself. I’m compulsive and over dramatic. The saving grace, really, is that I am terrified of pain. So blasting a rifle into my head isn’t my idea of eliminating my hurt. It’s more like a way to induce it. And my friends… holy fuck, my friends… I don’t know how I would cope with someone taking their life.
And if that person was close to me, the impact would be insurmountable. So when I think about Kurt Cobain’s suicide, it hurts. To me, musicians are this super species of people. Even thought I loath the celebrity-god mentality, there something about musicians that makes adoration of them alright. I love the way poetry can flow from a person like Kurt’s did for him. Aberdeen is on the other side of Seattle, this tiny little logging town.
It’s almost like there is a shadow cast over it, something dark and scary and unrelenting. It reminded me of how Sylvia Plath describes her depression as a bell jar. A suffocating lid that stifles everything beneath it. To me, the real shock was not so much that he killed himself but that he didn’t do it sooner. Having read his journals and being relatively obsessed with his life, I know that suicide had been in his thoughts for a long time. I read an entry of his were he talks about lying down on the train tracks near his home, wanting to end it all.
The train did come, but on the opposite track. He missed death by a few feet. I don’t know how to feel about Kurt’s death. But then, I don’t really know how to feel about his life , either. He was an amazing poet, guitarist. And I honestly feel that he was a voice of a generation.
He formed his own groove in the musical landscape, changed popular music forever. I love Kurt as much as I can love a postmortem man I never met. But its love all the same. I'm so happy. Cause today I found my friends. They're in my head.
I'm so ugly. But that's ok. 'Cause so are you. We've broke our mirrors. Sunday morning. Is everyday for all I care. And I'm not scared.
Light my candles. In a daze cause I've found god. Affectionately… Anna 
