This title of an album by the Talking Heads is hilarious because it didn’t make sense in the first place, so asking it to stop making sense is like asking me to continue breathing.

Part of the value of realizing that I am a meaning making machine whose life is empty and meaningless, is knowing that part of my nature is to work to make sense of a world that frequently makes no sense.

For example, sometime last night, my friend and co-worker, Christie Rainey shot and killed herself. WTF.

Edit: Christie would have said that she “elected to discard the physical,” or “got off the front lines.” On occasion of others of my acquaintance doing the same, she had corrected me thus.

Christie was the perfect example of someone who, in retrospect, made perfect sense as a candidate for the suicide you never saw coming. She was friends with everyone–even the people who were friends with nobody–always smiling, probably involved with drugs and alcohol more than she needed to be, survivor of her son’s suicide some two years ago, and never letting anyone know (at least as far as I can tell) what she was dealing with.

Christie had plans with friends, family and coworkers to go see concerts and take road trips. This was either a spur-of-the-moment decision, or something deliberately and very carefully withheld.

And it makes no sense. No sense at all. A bolt from the blue. Out of left field. Shot in the dark. Unforeseeable. And as a machine that makes sense out of things, I simply can’t deal with that.

It causes me to feel out of control. (In reality, I’m not in control.) I feel anxious; afraid; wondering who the next one will be. For surely, there will be another, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. I feel afraid.

I’m starting to hate sunny, beautiful Tuesdays. Those are the days that bad things happen.