Writing

WTF Tony.

It was five past midnight, and I was cleaning my kitchen.
I should've been sleeping but I couldn't stay still.

I had just found out Anthony Bourdain was dead.

My instant reaction was betrayal, then slowly manifested to anger.

Angry because the internet suddenly became an expert on suicide prevention.
Call a helpline. Find support. It strikes everyone. RIP. We love you.
Even at the death of other's expense, we try to make it about ourselves, how we think everyone else should react to this news.
Seeing how the food-related publications jumping on this anti-suicidal bandwagon, trying to dig back whatever old pixelated photos they have of the man (probably still lying in the morgue), all the tourism handles paying 'tributes' by sharing some snippets of random throw-away compliment he gave in some interview ages ago, just to squeeze out some social media juice, makes me sick. 

Seriously.
Please stop.

Please go away with your diluded post-rationalised constructive help.
Stop showing off how concerned or how smart or how PC you are.

Just let me be at loss. 

Let me feel betrayed that the best-case-scenario version of a food lover, a chef, a TV star, a rehab, an ex-addict, a man with sense of humour, a talented writer, an ex-husband, a father, a boyfriend, had cease to be.  

Let me morn as I try to make sense of this disappointment.
How this person who was supposedly the ambassador of embracing life went the complete opposite direction. 

I want someone to yell with me, to feel pity, lost, confused, and hurt.

I always thought maybe one day, the end game was to make so many, many friends as I explore.
With (or without) great wealth, one can still be humble, adventurous and content with life. 

Of course, one suicide does not change that. 
But damn it, I really wish it wasn't you. 
WTF Tony. 

I don't need echoes of 'suicide prevention', 'seek help', or 'inspirational' post, like one ugly block of anti-terror concrete bollard after another. 

I want someone to tell me it wasn't all a front. 

That despite all of this, you enjoyed yourself. 

The fact that I don't actually know you infuriates me more. 
You're a mere stranger, but it hurts. 

I guess that's why I was scrubbing the stove top.
I guess that was how I paid my respect.

Harvard Wang