We've been hearing this since January, since David Bowie died.
"2016! You cruel beast! You are the worst! Curse you forever, you monster!"
We heard it when Alan Rickman died and Prince and a whole host of other people maybe you've heard of, maybe you haven't.
Every celebrity death, no matter how obscure or expected, was treated like a sword to our collective heart.
The last straw had been coming for me for some time, but it really hit when John Glenn, aged NINETY-FIVE, died yesterday (RIP, sir).
My Twitter and Facebook feeds were filled with the usual chorus of "FUCK YOU, 2016! You are Satan himself!"
All of this over the death of a 95-year-old, someone who had lived an extra long, celebrated life. That's not 2016's fault. It's nature's.
I am 37 (for one more week, let me have it). The people I grew up watching and listening to and reading about during the heyday of People Magazine are all getting up there. Fucking Luke Perry was just on the cover of AARP Magazine. DYLAN McKAY is an OLD. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but 2017 isn't going to be any lighter on Big League celebrity deaths.
Does it suck when people are taken from us too soon? Yes, obviously. It's terrible. But it's not 2016's fault. Blame cancer. Blame the fact that we don't have a cure yet. Blame the overprescribing of opioid painkillers. Blame a government and society hell bent on cutting funding for research and dumbing down the population to the point that we might never solve these problems.
But don't blame an innocent arbitrary number ascribed to a made-up place in time.
I wrote a book! It's YA novel, THE SOUND OF US. You can find the details right here! Kirkus calls it "a winning story about a teenage voice student that hits all the right notes."
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