The Truth About Whitney

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I don’t know why I’m mad about Cocaine being found in Whitney’s system.  We all knew she had issues with drugs. And we knew they’d torn apart her vocal chords. We saw her on “Being Bobby Brown” eyes red and chinky from weed mixed with white lines. But still, we held Whitney to a higher plane. She was out of this world, beyond the Mariah Careys & Celine Deions.  She had sass, soul, & style, while wiping profuse sweat dripping from her upper lip.

But this is why we point fingers at the thugs in her life. First it was Bobby Brown, hood boy from Boston, who dragged her down into the clutches of habitual drug use. And now it’s Ray J, knucklehead from Compton, who folks say was Whitney’s “Runnerboy” picking up coke she needed when her plane landed in LA.

 The truth? You attract what you are. Long before Whitney met Bobby. Back when Ray J was born, Ms. Houston was a church going street girl from Brick City, Newark NJ. It was the 80s, where big hair, raw sex, powdered drugs, and rock & roll ruled. She’d blown up as a model turned R&B siren, and was the hot chick, hiding hood roots with makeup and etiquette class.  And when she met Bobby, at the height of his New Edition and solo career fame, they flocked together, sharing common colored feathers. Years later, when the divorce was done, Ray J came. He loved older women. He had that down to earth West Coast confident swag. He was like a young Bobby Brown — mediocre singer, fuck you attitude, exuding a natural attraction to Whitney’s inner hood child that never died.

So we can blame the men in her life – the Browns, the Norwoods, whoever. But in the end, Whitney’s life was the path she chose. And her death was the grave she dug.

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