Ozzy’s Gone, and the World’s a Little Less Loud

They don’t make ‘em like Ozzy anymore.

I don’t mean that in the nostalgic, beer-commercial kind of way. I mean they literally don’t. The man was a fucking anomaly. A bat-biting, reality-television, eyeliner-wearing chaos engine who stumbled out of Birmingham, England and changed the course of music forever — all while somehow finding room in that wild, addled heart to love people like me. Like us.

Ozzy Osbourne wasn’t just the Prince of Darkness. He was the patron saint of the misunderstood, the outcast, the queer kid with too much eyeliner in a world that couldn’t fucking deal with it.

Black Nail Polish and Open Arms

When I came out, I didn’t have a rainbow-colored welcome wagon waiting. What I had were mixtapes. Bootlegged recordings. Lyrics scrawled in Sharpie on my school binder. And Ozzy. Always Ozzy.

For a guy who looked like he clawed his way out of a haunted mansion and screamed about demons and blood, the man was weirdly soft when it came to human rights. He never made a big production of it, never slapped a “Love Wins” sticker on his tour bus. But the support was always there — quietly powerful and unwavering.

Back when it was dangerous to stand with the queers, he did. While other rock stars were tossing around slurs and riding high on toxic masculinity, Ozzy was hugging drag queens backstage and saying shit like, “Who gives a fuck who you love? Just don’t be an asshole.”

Simple. Beautiful. Righteous.

The Freaks Understood the Assignment

You see, Ozzy didn’t belong to any one scene. He was the scene. Punk kids, goth kids, leather daddies, suburban burnout kids with chipped nail polish and gender confusion — we all saw something of ourselves in him. Or at the very least, we saw someone who didn’t flinch at the sight of us.

That counts for a hell of a lot when you’re young, scared, and looking for a reason not to walk off the edge.

Ozzy’s concerts were church. But not the boring kind with wine and guilt and homophobia. No, these were sweaty, grimy temples of sound where nobody gave a fuck what you looked like, who you kissed, or what pronouns you answered to — as long as you showed up and screamed your lungs out.

We built chosen family under those lights. We moshed and wept and bled and danced. Ozzy gave us that. A place where the freaks ran the show.

He Was Messy. And That’s Why We Loved Him.

Was he perfect? Fuck no. He fucked up. He said wild shit. He fell off the wagon more times than I can count. But guess what? So have I. So have you. We’re human. And Ozzy never pretended to be anything else.

What made him an icon wasn’t the darkness — it was the vulnerability. The way he wore every scar, every mistake, every awkward apology like a goddamn badge of honor. He taught us that survival is a kind of rebellion. That staying alive — especially when the world is trying to grind you down — is the most punk rock thing you can do.

A Queer Ally in Black Leather

Some people posthumously slap “ally” labels on celebrities like it’s a marketing gimmick. But Ozzy? He earned that title. Quietly, steadily, and without any press release. He defended us when it wasn’t popular. When it wasn’t safe.

He welcomed queer artists on stage. Donated to AIDS research when politicians were still calling it a “gay plague.” He stood up for trans folks before most of Hollywood could even spell it.

He didn’t need to wave a flag. He was the flag — tattered, black, pierced through with safety pins and waving proudly above a sea of beautiful misfits.

Final Bow

Now he’s gone. And I’m not going to dress it up — it fucking hurts.

The world feels quieter. Less dangerous, but also less free. Ozzy’s death feels like the end of a chapter we’re not ready to close. But here’s the thing: legends like him don’t really die. They echo. Through the riffs. Through the eyeliner. Through every queer kid screaming their lungs out in some dive bar karaoke night, clawing for a little catharsis.

He taught us that darkness isn’t something to fear. It’s something to dance in. To own. To build your damn identity around.

So tonight, I’m putting on No More Tears, lighting a candle, and pouring one out for the batshit prophet who taught me — taught all of us — how to be loud, how to be honest, and how to give a fuck even when it hurts.

Rest in power, Ozzy.

You beautiful, unhinged, glitter-drenched bastard.

boy (he/they/it)
boy (he/they/it)https://boyjoey.com
Alpha | boy | DJ | Content Creator | Former Co-Producer of the Mayhem Leather Contests at BBM. Just here for a good time.

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