A year ago today I hadn’t thought much about what happens when you die, or even what could happen when millions of people who feel a connection to a man like Michael Jackson suddenly lose him.

Last week I told myself that Michael Jackson’s memorial service would be the event to push me into the acceptance stage. Once I saw his golden casket and his brothers lined up in tribute I accepted that he is really gone. Here we are at the end of the line, and although theoretically the stages of grief can occur in any order and even cycle back and forth on top of themselves, acceptance is where we have to stay. It’s not an easy thing to do, but

I don’t remember seeing Bambi, but I was about four years old when I saw Frosty The Snowman. My father was upstairs doing whatever adults do and heard a piercing scream come from the den. He rushed downstairs expecting to find a child with a cracked skull or a nail in her foot, but I was just sitting there, screaming and crying in one healthy piece. “What’s wrong? What happened?” he asked. I poked my lip out and shouted: “FROSTY MELTED!!!!!!!!”

After screaming like a banshee for a few more minutes I started breathing normally again

In the traditional sense, bargaining means making a “deal” with a higher power – for example, I’ll be a better person, I’ll trade XYZ, just let me live or bring my loved one back. In this case I’m sure we all agree that we’d ante up a few bucks for the Resurrect Michael Jackson Fund. As far as still-living pop singer currency I’d be willing to put up, say, FIFTYLEVEN Chris Browns and a bucket of R. Kellys for just one Michael Jackson. Since the weight of Michael’s contributions is heavier than most of what we could possibly

I’m Angry at the Media.

I consider myself a McNugget-sized part of the media but the coverage of Michael Jackson’s death and its aftermath has done nothing more for journalism than demonstrate what low standards news outlets will set just to drive viewership. I’m still miffed at CNN for its faux-journalistic integrity on June 25, reporting that “other news outlets say Jackson has died,” but speaking of him in the past tense for hours beforehand while not bothering to have a single reporter at the actual hospital

The entire world was shocked by the premature death of Michael Jackson. Sure, we all knew that the man was under stress. The intense scrutiny at the hands of the media, which was essentially fueled by our own obsession with celebrity, took a visible toll on Michael; the recurring allegations of child abuse and financial debt of an unimaginable magnitude made him even more of a recluse; his varying health problems that were always hard to separate from his general weirdness undoubtedly contributed to his early passing. Still, it’s hard to believe that any combination of these factors could lead to death at age fifty. But we tend to forget that we’re average, and the average person (who, mind you, can only hold a tune in the shower) only worries about the neighborhood busy-body, overdue student loans, and pretty bad allergies every spring. By comparison Michael’s life should be as unimaginable as the science behind evolution or The Big Bang – it’s just too large and far-out a process for our personal experience to let us believe he’s really gone. This, my friends, is why I am choosing not to. That’s right, I’m too sad believing it, so I’ve decided that Michael Jackson isn’t really dead, and I have five supporting reasons.