Twenty years ago, in the chilly, early twilight hours of the Pacific Northwest, Kurt Donald Cobain sat alone in a room on the property he shared with his wife and 20-month old daughter. He was arguably the world's biggest rock star. In minutes, he would be the world's most famous suicide victim. He loaded a syringe with enough black tar heroin to kill several people, injected it into his right arm, steadied himself, and pulled the trigger on a shotgun, ending his life instantly. He was 27.
He left his wallet open on the floor so the body could be identified, an oddly courteous act during the final motions of a life's sudden, violent denouement. He also left a note, most of which would be read aloud by his wife, Courtney Love, at a gathering near Seattle's Space Needle a few days afterward. For a few weeks, time almost stopped, or at least appeared to.
I was 17 in April of 1994, and this somehow seemed like the most important thing that had ever happened to me. It felt like my childhood was ending. But, in looking back on it, the two decades of nearly endless dissection of the event itself and the months leading up to it, I've come to a disturbing conclusion: Kurt Cobain's death wasn't nearly as important as people would like it to be.
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