There are two facts I could never bring myself to believe:
1. Kurt Cobain was a heroin addict.
2. Kurt Cobain committed suicide.

Mind you, I am no one of those conspiracy theorist Courtney had Kurt killed fanatics. Kurt Cobain was my god. 2002-2003 were my Nirvana years.

I was handed a copy of “Nevermind” in seventh grade and never let go. The shit I heard was confusing, it really was that trashy Clear Channel station metal, but the drums were too fast. And, as usual, I couldn’t understand he lead singer worth a damn. My life never had real problems, but Kurt’s did, so, his problems were mine.

Of course, being oblivious to the fact that Nirvana has millions of fans, I perceived that I was the only one. I felt new, I felt original. (I ignored the fact that one of my best friends introduced them to me in the first place, and she was, another person).

At my height, I owned all eight Nirvana albums. (Yeah, even Hormoaning, the twenty-six dollar Japanese import with eight songs on it, most of which were already on “Incesticide”). I had one Nirvana t-shirt, and three Kurt Cobain t-shirts. I had two posters, and a patch on my backpack. I owned the Rolling Stone biography of Kurt, and his journals. I had read countless other books about him.

And suddenly, it was all gone. I now only have one album (“In Utero”). I still wear Kurt Cobain t-shirts, but it means nothing now.

It’s all because I figured out that:
1. Kurt Cobain was a heroin addict.
2. Kurt Cobain committed suicide.