Dear Amy Winehouse: I saw you on TV the other day, and I hope you felt better than you looked, because you looked like hell. I can't remember exactly why you were on TV -- for something unhealthy, no doubt, because you really looked a lot like hell. Which brings me to my point: if you don't mind, could you hold off on dying for, like, two or three years? You know, until your career has run its course? I'd hate to see you slip into some sort of James Dean-ish messianic icon status just because you died prematurely. We're already saturated with dead douchebags who've become posthumous legends: Kurt Cobain, Tupac, Biggie, Princess Di, JFK, Pope John Paul II. All notorious assholes. Please don't join that list. I can sense that beneath that veneer of pancake makeup and pockmarks lies a reasonable woman who would shun the undeserved repute that comes with an early death. Had Gerardo suffered an aneurism or Sisqo been gunned down in a drive-by at the height of their fame, I'm confident you would've denounced their addition to Mount Rushmore. (Being British, of course, you would've been told to mind your own business, you damn tea-sucking limey.) So, for the love of God, take some ginseng or something.
Eat an apple. Buy a Medic Alert bracelet. Do whatever you need to do to stay alive, because it’s much better if you fade into obscurity and end up being discovered 20 years from now living in a cardboard box in the West End, talking to a pile of feces you’ve dressed in a baby’s bonnet. Yours truly, Mark H. Harris
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