I Feel Bad for Kelly Osbourne

There’s no worse feeling than feeling bad for somebody else. This sympathy shit is meant for people with real human emotions, like people who cry when they see puppies or cut off their nads to prevent overpopulation. But even I feel bad for Kelly Osbourne. No, not because of her epileptic seizure last week that sent her to the hospital. But because she just seems like a classically tragic hero. She got dad’s palor but got none of his crazy ass artist genes that allowed such an ugly mug to become a rock god. So she’s chosen to immerse herself in the celebrity model culture where she sticks out like an ingrown toenail amid a sea of hot piggies. She changes her face, her hair, her body, her fashions, her whatever the hell she can find to change, but it’s never to be. Like a short kid putting on stilts for basketball tryouts. Or that chick who wanted to be the next Jan Stenerud but booted the ball eleven yards, on three bounces.

Life is so much simpler when you give up your aspirations. Yeah, you’re a empty mediocre human vessel devoid of dreams, but then you don’t have to tweet photos of an IV drip tapped into your tatted up ham-hock when you’re in the hospital. It’s a tradeoff. I choose not to be the pretty fish. With beer, it’s not so bad.