Send your unsigned legible confessions and accusations of 400 words or less, changing the names of the innocent and guilty, to "I, Anonymous," c/o The Stranger, 1535 11th Ave., Third Floor, Seattle WA 98122, or e-mail us at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Earlier this year I found myself in a tight situation -- without a home, and slave to several illegal substances. For some unexplainable reason, a foreign family, who regularly attends St. Mark's Cathedral (hence their charitable disposition), took it upon themselves to adopt me and nurse me back to health. I told this family (mother works at Microsoft, father is a UW professor, daughter still in France) that I am Kurt Cobain. I told them I wrote "Smells Like Teen Spirit," and I have a wife and child in California by the names of Courtney Love and Francis Bean. Oh, and yes... I have a tortured soul.
My confession to the truth here, although I need not fear it will be read by them (they lack the depravity required to pick up The Stranger), is that I cannot continue this way, because I am not, and would never really want to be, Kurt Cobain. Doing the research, playing a tragic cartoon character, and abiding by the set rules of someone else's life, is finally just too hard.
However, since becoming Cobain, I've learned it's not only possible to live vicariously through fiction, but how truly empty fame can be. So knowing what I know now, on April 4th, 2000, Kurt Cobain will die for a second time. Ironically, I too will be 27 when I shoot myself; disillusioned, and wrought with inner turmoil. The beauty of this event, however, will most likely be heard by no one, unlike the original event in '94. I promise, however, to leave a better, clearer note this time around.
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Hey Anonymous Readers!
August is "Crackpot Kurt Cobain Murder Theory" month. Send in your hare-brained theory by August 31!