Last night we watched the Amy Winehouse documentary “Amy.” Three things:

If I ever start drinking again, shoot me. Line me up in front of a firing squad, and get it over with. Put me out of my misery. Or else I’ll be dragging you all down that walk of treachery with me.

I’m glad I didn’t have a dad who cared more about himself than me. I don’t know the guy, but her dad seemed like kind of a self-serving pig who ignored the fact that his daughter was dying and could’ve used a vacation without cameras in her face.

Whenever I think rich and famous people have it easy, I change my tune when I see them acting all angry and miserable because they can’t leave their fucking house without a swarm of photographers attacking them like a bunch of sharks around a piece of meat. That’s what they are: a piece of meat. Walking prey. It’s not normal. It’s called “stalking.” I’d be pissed too.

What a sweet voice she had. Loved it.

Written by Anne Clendening
Anne Clendening was born and raised in L.A. She's a yoga teacher, a writer and occasionally slings cocktails in a Hollywood bar. She could eat chocolate cake for every meal of the day. She has a huge fear of heights and flying. And fire. She wishes she could speak French, play her guitar better and make cannoli. She's probably listening to The Dark Side Of The Moon right now, kickin’ it with her boxer dog and her hot Australian husband ★