I find it amazingly creepy that when I heard the news on the radio today that Anna Nicole Smith had suddenly died at the age of 39, it didn't surprise me one bit.
There seemed to be so much tragedy and drama and heartache associated with the former Playboy centerfold that an abrupt end to her life really didn't seem to come out of the blue.
I know I'm really in the minority here, but I've always felt sorry for Anna Nicole. She was who she was, a former topless dancer who was plucked out of relative obscurity by an 80-something year old oil billionaire who had the hots for her (and all of her, um, attributes).
So what if he was a million years her senior? From all accounts, she made him happy. Like it or not, she was his wife. So when he died, she probably deserved his money. But one of his sons fought -- and fought hard -- for the money. And that son dropped dead last year, the prime example of not being able to "take it with you."
Of course, there was her son's mysterious death at age 20, just a few days after she gave birth to a daughter. And then, a nasty debate about who the father of the little girl was, the sleazy lawyer named Stern or some other lover.
Her life was a mess. She often slurred her words, stumbling around and falling down and appearing to all the world as a woman with a bigtime substance abuse problem.
And now, her body lies in a freezer in a hospital morgue, awaiting the autopsy that will undoubtedly reveal her ingestion of something she probably shouldn't have ingested.
I just felt sorry for her.
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