Marilyn Monroe turned 100 last week

Marilyn Monroe turned 100 last week. In her absence of course. Just about every reflection on her life, that I read, said something about how hard it would be to imagine Marilyn as a very old person. By dying young she stayed young forever — old story.

There’s a famous meme that says, “if you’re ever sad, just remember the world is 4.543 billion years old and you somehow managed to exist at the same time as David Bowie.” Sadly, that’s no longer true. 

I wonder if separation anxiety from celebrities has always been a thing. Or if it’s a modern day phenomenon. It’s probably more pronounced in people whose parents refused flatly to buy them the coloured candy they saw, in the aisle at the supermarket, on the way to the cashier. 

Naturally, I was hip to the mind-bending bullshit at a young age. Firstly, brightly coloured sweets gave me asthma. And secondly, I hated the extreme fruit flavours that were supposed to entertain your taste buds as a child.

Also, chocolate just made me tired. One of my friends said I was born an old man. That’s why I reckon Marilyn Monroe would have loved me in her old age. As much as I would’ve loved her back.

Farewell David Hockney, wish Marilyn for me.