Oh, God! How I love Amy Winehouse. I love her music, her crazy, her drugs, her tats, her eyeliner, her everything. Where was "Tears Dry on Their Own" when I was walking down the street crying that I "got so attached"? I could have cheekily chanted "no! no! no!" when people told me to take myself a nice, long sober vacation.
And best of all, she isn't lecturing me on the evils of globalization or greenhouse gases. She sings to me and makes the best use a 24 year-old can of fame and fortune. She snorts and drinks herself senseless all day and all night. Why do I applaud self-destruction? Because while I may not know brilliance, I do know that.
All this said, this clip from the MoBo awards is too much for even me to bear. It's not so much the mumbly singing and the sad, step-step, but the blank expression that glazes over her face that is downright deadly. It's one thing to be aggressive, coked-up crazy, it's another to seem so vulnerably fucked up that you need help recognizing people and everyday object. Oh soft and cloudy smack, second only to marriage as the last recourse of the truly pitiable.
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