Goddamn.

Heath Ledger is dead.

Dead.

Fuck. Goddamn it. No, no, no.

Take it back.


I know there are those who would think me ridiculous for sobbing, wracked with grief, snot dripping as I read a news story about someone who was a stranger. But those aren't the people who read me, anyway. I haven't read my emails or written here for a while because I've been off in a divergent fantasy land, trying to escape from the reality that my escapist world had become. Knowing every semi-public detail of Jake Gyllenhaal's life was no longer the source of distracting joy it had been before those details grew to be almost exclusively about his relationship. Too painful to dwell on.

So I escaped into fan fiction, a thing that swallowed me alive just as efficiently as I knew it would. But how can I go on reading Brokeback Mountain fics now? There is no Ennis for me without Heath. And it feels criminal to indulge in something that evokes his image so vividly as a form of escapism when he himself has, it appears, achieved the ultimate escape.

I'm sorry.
I'm so fucking sorry.