I’d say you had a good night if you came stumbling out of a club with scratches on your arm, blood running down your leg, a gut full of coke bloat, sweaty strands of hair in your face and your scattered emotions switching from “I LOVE ALL Y’ALL!” to “FUCK ALL Y’ALL!” in the blink of a side-eye. But when I see Whitney Houston stumbling out Kelly Price’s Grammy party looking like this, I don’t need to see any receipts before I shake my head while cursing Ray-J’s crooked dick for this. It seems as soon as Whit hopped on Ray-J’s crooked dick for a second time, she got struck with the crackhead fever again. My feelings about all of this are best expressed through the sea of endless side-eyes around Whitney.
I don’t know how I feel about it, but 2012 is turning out to be the year of leaky singers. No, I should think positive. Maybe that’s not blood on Whitney’s leg. Maybe that doody bubble finally popped. That’s a trail of relief running down her leg.