Dear Michael,

No one seems to mind their own business anymore. All these buggers keep badgering me about going to bloody rehab. Asking me to take a whiz in a cup, seek counseling, blah blah blah. What’s wrong with having a couple of piss ups at the pub? I need those eight drinks or so before a gig and three after to cool off. I may leave sloshed a couple of times, but I always manage to wake up after every fall. The one time I didn’t I made it to the hospital safely.

Just because someone snorts a little fun on stage to deal with the pain doesn’t make them an addict.

And I’m so tired of people asking me about my weight. I used to be a little anorexic, a little bulimic, but that’s all water off the duck’s back. I eat a bit more regularly now. How else do you think I hold all the bourbon?

The only one who doesn’t seem to think I’m crackers is my Blake. My Blake says there’s nothing wrong with spending enough time at the pub to the point where you could make it your second mailing address. My Blake loves me and I love him unconditionally. My Blake seems to be the only person I can trust. I love cooking for Blake, cleaning for him --- I’m the perfect little housewife. My Blake makes me feel whole, like an unopened bottle of wine. Blake makes me feel loved, like the perfect martini. My Blake is the best thing since vodka.

But if you read the papers, they’ll make it seem as if Blake and I are frickin’ rebel rousers. I’m sure you saw the pictures of my Blake and I a bit ruffled. Yes, I saw him using with a hooker so I went bonkers and attacked him. I did so out of love, I swear. He said I wasn’t good enough for him. Do you know how terrible that made me feel? I had to prove to him that I was his soul mate. We got a bit carried away, but what couple doesn’t have their share of knife fights?

I had to cancel my tour because those bastards at the last gig started to boo me. Maybe I slurred my words a bit, and I gather I did forget some of the words completely. But if they’re at my show, then they probably knew the words before they got there, so what are they whining for? I let them know that if my husband weren’t incarcerated he’d be bashing the lot of them for their rudeness.

So know the label, my management, me mum and dad, are all talking about me going back to rehab again. They say my behaviour is out of control. Rubbish. They needed to get their heads of their arses, right?

---

Dear Amy,

I think you might want to stop and go get a drink before you finish this letter. This may take a while.

No, Amy. Put that back and go grab something else.

Much better. Don't go try switching that out for Grey Goose either.

Quit being a baby. You’ll live --- that is, if all the damage you’ve done to yourself is reversible. Sorry dear, but it’s not my fault your last name now describes your liver.

Anyway, before I get into this, let me just say, I’m a huge fan. I even purchased your album. That’s right, I didn’t use the two click discount for your album – I went and bought it.

I love Frank, but I have to give it to you, Back to Black is brilliant. It’s the album Christina Aguilera thought she was going to make. You are such a gifted songwriter, and that voice – wow.

Sorry, I had to compliment you before I get into this. I want to be clear this comes from love. But let me hurry: I’m sure you’re looking forward to last call.

Amy, has it ever occurred to you that maybe, just maybe, that you might be a little too dependent on alcohol?

Like, I don’t know, maybe someone shouldn’t be guzzling all that booze when their voice is their bread and butter --- and you know, that whole needing a functioning liver to live thing.

As for those drug rumors that won’t go away, well:

You have what I like to call crack mouth. It’s like yuck mouth, only the reason you have missing teeth isn’t so much that you don’t use your tooth brush; it’s more so that you use your pipe a whole lot more.

Oh, no, don’t cry. I forgot you’re British. That could be it. Then again, that looks like coke in your left nostril.

I get the whole, “They try to make me go to rehab, but I say no, no, no” thing. It’s catchy. But don’t you think if you actually went this time you’d get a hot remix out of it? Think about it.

I say this because addiction is not cool.

Has Jesse Spanno taught us nothing? Don’t even try to play me, Amy: Saved by the Bell aired all over the world, so I know you saw that episode!

I see you winning loads of awards in America next year. It would be great if you were alive to accept most of them.

Now, here comes the hard part. We have to talk about this Blake.

Get rid out of him.

Put the blade away and hear me out. Besides, you don’t want none.

In your eyes, you’re like the new version of Ozzy and Sharon, but to everyone else, you two are nothing more than Britain’s answer to Bobby and Whitney.

Those aren’t love stabs and scratches, that’s domestic violence. If you think a drug-induced fight to the death is a sign of love, then you must consider What’s Love Got To Do It with the new Romeo and Juliet.

You shouldn’t give anyone that much power, particularly if they look like they bathe in piss.

If you don’t pull yourself together you’re going to end up in a cage or in a casket. Neither option will compliment your hairstyle.

Oh and about that weight thing:

If you think looking like Mr. Burns and Elvira’s lovechild is sexy, do you, Amy. Do you.

Tell you what, go enjoy one more happy hour (or day, but no week!) before you check in. But get help.

I know it's hard, but you can do it, Amy. Now keep walking towards rehab. Don't worry about your shirt. They'll have one there waiting for you.

I’ll holla,

Michael

Labels: help me