No, really. Thanks. I appreciate it. Your death has, once again, reminded me that I am already too old to die at the age of 27. Not only that, since you died, I have been reflecting seriously on our lives and when I compared them, I realized:
1) Neither of my two albums ever won a Grammy.
2) I don't have a soulful command of jazz music even though I'm white and Jewish.
3) The gigantic pile of mess on my head isn't an original, eccentric beehive hairdo. I just need to brush my hair.
4) When I stumble out of a bar with my bra showing, TMZ doesn't show up and no one is fascinated by my lifestyle, it's just sad.
5) Your tattoos scream "Bad Ass Hellcat," mine say "I got this little shamrock with my sister..."
6) When I went to rehab, there were no incredibly catchy songs about it on the radio.
7) When you died, millions of people mourned talent gone too soon. When I die, tens of people will hope they can get the funeral over with soon.
So thanks again for rubbing your post-mortem superiority in my face, and if you see Heath Ledger, tell him I'm still pretty pissed about that whole "Overdose/Dark Knight" thing. That was just tasteless grandstanding, in my opinion.
Your albums won you a Moons Over My Hammy Grammy. And thanks for reminding me to brush my hair. And, Amy, I know you were petite and had an eating disorder, but I would love to have your bloody ballet slippers. Thanks.
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