Excuse me for a minute while I climb onto my soapbox.
Yesterday, I was doing my usual Sunday morning routine: nothing. I was trolling Facebook, playing Candy Crush. As I was scrolling through my news feed, I saw the headline that actor Philip Seymour Hoffman died, apparently of a drug overdose. When I read that, I got a serious case of the sads. I loved him as an actor. He was in some of my favorite movies, in particular The Big Lebowski. Super talented, quirky….he could play such a range of characters. So, I was really bummed. He was only 46. I remembered reading recently that he had checked himself into rehab, but it wasn’t because he was using again. It was a preventative measure because for some reason, he felt as if he would have a major relapse. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop him and here we are. But, that’s not the overwhelming tragedy to me. The real tragedy is what I am reading in the aftermath of his death. Reports are saying that he was found in his bathroom, alone in his boxer shorts, with a needle stuck in his arm. It’s this last detail that has really made me sick; not because it happened, but because I know about it.