Dear Amy, with all the money you made from selling records, couldn't you have at least ensured you didn't buy any dodgy shit? Like that you die from?
You stand for everything that is great and then really shit in Britain.
A simple girl from Camden became world famous by singing. That is very much the best, not many people from other countries can quite do that.
Then you couldn't handle all the fame and decided to get plastered.
For someone like me who has never been rich in his life and always had to struggle in life, I just don't get it. The post mortem apparently showed Cocaine, Ketamine, Alcohol in your blood. A dodgy Ecstasy pill in the mix has been the one that killed you.
I feel mugged for your death defies my existence. Me the poor, the untalented, the struggling. Your loyal servant. I would have died for you.
Just a couple of joints and some Vodka, wouldn't that just have been enough?
You have passed. Your music will live forever. In our hearts, in the digital world.
I for one disbelieve all this RIP nonsense. Once you die, you either become ashes to be scattered and finally part of mother earth rotting away in a coffin.
I however believe in whatever demons that bothered you and made you seek oblivion. As one who would never have the courage to die but wish to all the time, I can imagine the sense of relief you would have felt in that final moment when somewhere in your drugged consciousness, you knew this is it, you were dying.
I envy you for that one moment of release.