I LOVED WHITNEY HOUSTON

I have only ever openly wept at the news of one other celebrity death—River Phoenix, back when I was in high school. Man, I had a crazy crush on River Phoenix, and thought his overdose was supremely unfair. OK, I also wept a bit for Princess Diana. Untimely celebrity deaths are a harsh reminder that life is fleeting, life is fragile, and that drugs and driving too fast can often be a quick ticket to heaven.

But when I heard the news about Whitney, it hit me harder than the others. As with Madonna, I had every single Whitney album (up until the Preacher’s Wife Soundtrack), knew all the words to all of the songs and sang and danced along to them for years. Her music made me happy. I idolized her for being both beautiful and the world’s best female vocalist. And I only ever saw her for being great—I completely ignored her reality show, pretended Bobby Brown didn’t exist and that the drugs were just a phase she’d get over. I got insanely excited about her Clive Davis-orchestrated comeback, which ended up being a big flop. In fact, I was STILL waiting on it when the news came through the Twitterverse that she’d died. Rumors about being her a new judge on X-Factor thrilled me to the bone. Now that will never happen.

I can’t say I loved Whitney any more than any other fan, but I can say I truly adored her music through and through, and have distinct childhood memories attached to almost every single one of her songs…riding the bus to elementary school, a kiss with a boy at swim camp, riding the bus in high school and lamenting an unrequited love, dancing my ass off to her pop hits, getting emotional in karaoke booths to her ballads…each song is a vivid reminder of good and bad times past.

I’m sorry we never got that comeback. You were the greatest, Whitney. The greatest singer of all.