In Seattle, there was a peculiar thing that happened in the late 80s and early 90s. The weather was always wet, the skies mostly gray, and the streets slicked with rain and possibility, though neither one seemed to go anywhere. And so it was, in the birthplace of grunge—when the amplifiers hummed with distortion and the voices growled with despair—that something crept into the music, into the veins of the musicians, into the city itself: heroin.

You see, heroin was like one of those friends who tells you it’ll all be fine. Just a little bump. A little ride down the rabbit hole, nothing more. But it was a lie. It was always a lie. And yet, in Seattle, with its sagging skies and soggy souls, people believed it. And they didn’t just believe it—they embraced it. Bands embraced it. They held it to their chests like an old, worn jacket on a cold night, knowing full well the seams were coming apart.

Kurt Cobain did it. Layne Staley did it. Chris Cornell, though he took his exit later, danced close enough. They all partook. They all knew. The thing about destruction is it doesn’t whisper—you can hear it from miles away. You can see it in the hollow eyes of the people who went before you. But it was a thing, you see. It was part of the package, like flannel shirts and torn jeans. You signed up for the whole lot—melancholy, addiction, and that early grave looming closer with every hit.

And here’s the absurd part: they knew. They all knew. Heroin wasn’t some mystery back then. It wasn’t hidden in shadows, cloaked in misunderstanding. It was right there, bare-faced and ugly, like a bomb with a visible countdown timer. And these kids—the ones with guitars slung low and voices that could tear the air—they didn’t run from the bomb. They leaned in. They held it close.

What’s worse, they complained about it. Yes, once they saw their friends dropping like flies, one by one—faces pale, voices silenced—they lamented, “Why, why did we lose another one?” They sang songs about the misery of early death. The pain of it. The sheer injustice. It was as if they had forgotten who pressed the needle to their arm in the first place.

There’s a funny thing about ruination. It never hides. It invites you in, but it doesn’t trick you. If you choose it, you know what you’re getting. And in Seattle, surrounded by the crumbling walls of a music scene that screamed with anger, self-destruction became the norm. And yet, the surprise on their faces when someone didn’t make it out—when someone’s heart gave up and their breath stopped—was almost comical.

Here’s the truth no one wanted to admit: there was nothing compelling about heroin. It didn’t have to be done. The invitation was always optional, and transparently pointless. But they chose it, one after another, like a grotesque game of follow the leader, and when the consequences arrived on their doorsteps, wrapped in body bags and funerals, they acted like it was some cosmic injustice.

Seattle wasn’t cursed. It was just complicit. It participated in its own decay. There’s no great mystery to addiction. No profound call to join in, no invisible force pulling you toward the needle. Just choices. And those choices have outcomes as clear as the rain on the street.

But the absurdity continued. They kept singing about it. Writing songs about the loss. As if they hadn’t known the rules from the beginning. As if the dealer hadn’t told them, right from the start, “This one’ll take you down.”

You want a different outcome? Don’t choose the road to destruction. But in Seattle, back then, that wasn’t the point, was it? Destruction was the point. And yet, they mourned, as if they hadn’t seen it coming, as if it were all some tragic, cruel joke played on them by fate.

But fate had nothing to do with it.

It didn’t take long, did it? One by one, the lights went out. And when they fell, the world gasped and wrote songs about loss, as if some grand tragedy had unfolded. Seattle wept for its fallen heroes—the tortured souls who had given voice to the bleakness of an era.

But here’s the thing: there were no heroes in this story. Not a one. It was just a city full of kids who picked the easiest way out. They could have lived. They could have made art, made music, made lives that stretched far beyond the rain-drenched streets and the bottom of a syringe. But instead, they chose the one thing everyone knew would take them down.

And then, they complained about it. Isn’t that funny? You shoot up heroin for years, knowing full well that it’ll kill you, and then when it finally does, people act like the reaper pulled a fast one. “Oh, how could this have happened?” they ask, wringing their hands. “Such a shame. So young. So talented.” Yeah, well, you can be as talented as you want, but it doesn’t mean a damn thing if you’re dead by 27.

Because guess what? If you don’t want to die young, you don’t have to. You just don’t do heroin. It’s that simple. But in Seattle, they liked to make it sound complicated. They turned self-destruction into art, as if putting on flannel and shooting smack was some deep, existential statement. As if walking into death with your eyes wide open was the only authentic way to live. But there’s nothing deep about it. It’s just lazy.

You know what’s harder than dying young? Living. Living through the boredom, the rain, the pain, and still showing up, every damn day. That’s not romantic, it’s not tragic—it’s just real. But they didn’t want real. They wanted the path of least resistance, the warm blanket of addiction that let them blame the world for their own choices.

And what’s worse is they turned around and called it unavoidable. Like they had no choice. Like Seattle was just some cosmic black hole that sucked them in, and once they started playing music and taking the hits, that was it—inevitable early death, wrapped in a neat little coffin.

Here’s a newsflash: it’s only unavoidable if you don’t bother to avoid it. There were plenty of people who didn’t pick up the needle, who made it through the muck and the fog and kept on living. Those are the people no one writes songs about because, frankly, they weren’t dying. It wasn’t poetic to live a long, boring, sober life. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? It’s not about poetry, or the tortured artist routine. It’s about making it to tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, until maybe—just maybe—you get to look back at a life that meant something.

But no, they wanted the short route. The lazy route. And you can call it tragedy all you want, but when someone sits there and lets a substance ruin their life, when they know exactly what they’re doing, it’s not tragic. It’s pathetic. It’s weak.

So, they stuck needles in their arms, and Seattle wept when they didn’t make it. But seriously—what did they expect? You’re not going to outsmart heroin. You’re not going to find some secret way to make it work. It takes you out. Every time. And if you let it, you’re not some misunderstood genius—you’re just another loser who let the world get the best of you.

You want to call it fate? Fine, call it fate. But don’t act surprised when it plays out exactly how everyone said it would. You get the result you sign up for. There’s nothing noble in watching your friends die and then walking straight down the same path, claiming you had no choice. It’s not fate—it’s cowardice. Plain and simple.

Because here’s the truth no one wants to hear: to live, all you had to do was stay away from the poison. That’s it. No grand strategy required. Just don’t pick up the needle, don’t romanticize death, don’t pretend like it’s a tragedy when it finally comes knocking at the door you left wide open.

In the end, it wasn’t Seattle that killed them. It wasn’t the rain or the music or the fame. It was them. They killed themselves, one hit at a time. Weak. Pathetic. And we stood there, shaking our heads, pretending like we didn’t see it coming. But we did. Everyone did.

And what’s the lesson? It’s not complicated. Don’t destroy yourself. Don’t indulge the loser psychology that says it’s all hopeless, so you might as well get high. It’s total denial of what everyone knows is needed to actually achieve something sustaining. You might as well be playing video games to hide from the world. There’s nothing heroic about letting a substance take you out when you could’ve been living. You know what happens when you choose that road.

You want a different ending? Don’t choose it.