This is something I meant to add to yesterday’s post, but it slipped my mind. Old man, and all that.

On one of those jail calls, Colt Gray told his crazy mom he was a “big dog,” putting himself in the same league as Sandy Hook and the rest of his little rogues’ gallery.

Let me be clear. Colt Gray is not a ‘big dog.’ He’s not even a chihuahua. Right now he’s the flavor of the week because he just got sentenced, and that’s it.

Once his dad is sentenced tomorrow and closes out this whole grim family affair, Colt Gray disappears from the conversation entirely. He becomes just another copycat who burned four lives to the ground chasing a few likes and thumbs-ups from the other troglodytes rotting away in that poisoned little ecosystem of teenage edgelords and living dead ends he was so proud to run with.

Out here in the real world, past Winder, Georgia, and past the news cycle that’s currently obsessing over him, he’ll be forgotten by the time school starts back up in a few weeks.

That’s the whole tragedy of it, really. He murdered four people chasing infamy, and infamy has the shelf life of a gas station hot dog.

If you actually want to be remembered, go do something worth remembering. Build something, fix something, save somebody, write something good. It doesn’t have to make you famous. Even if only a handful of people ever remember you for it, that’s still a hell of a lot more than will remember Colt Gray.