After first asking her Facebook followers for a job and a place to live, Sinead O’Connor announced she was taking her own life by way of overdose at an undisclosed hotel room somewhere in Ireland. You can book the room next summer if you’re a big fan. Given her history of public suicide notices and the ongoing nature of her diatribes, the latest series of Facebook miserable seemed like more of a cry for attention than a goodbye note:
If I wasn’t posting this, my kids and family wouldn’t even find out. Was dead for another fortnight since none of them bother their hole with me for a minute. I could have been dead here for weeks already and they’d never have known. Because apparently I’m scum and deserve to be abandoned and treated like shit just when I’ve had my womb and ovaries chopped out and my child is frighteningly sick.
O’Connor is in some kind of legal battle with everybody she knows, including multiple ex-husbands over multiple children, at least one of whom has a case of child abuse under investigation against O’Connor. Sinead’s loosely intelligible garble suggests a combination of crazy and self-medication in the manner of Amanda Bynes days before Poodle Fire 2014. I’d like to review the medical order on that hysterectomy.
O’Connor’s early career antics and shocking social messages mocking the Pope and government leaders gave her a brief but ardent following. It turns out she was probably just blossoming into nuts and everybody took it for substance. Once you get money and fame it’s possible you’re just homeless looney with a really nice home. I’d hate to think she’s really going to kill herself though I must admit if you’d told me she died eight years ago I would’ve believed you. Keep me posted, Irish Facebook. More potato famine updates.
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