Oy! Amy Winehouse here, bangin' at you from beyond the veil, the valley of the shadow of death and all that. You'll all be joining me here sooner or later, and I look forward to meeting you judgmental twats who laughed at me in life, being all: 'Ha-ha-ha! Amy Winehouse is a junkie slag, and we're so much better than her—at least we never wound up in hospital overdosed on heroin, ecstasy, crack, ketamine, and alcohol at the same time! Ha-ha-friggin'-ha!' Well, it's not sweet to laugh at another's pain, mates.
As you voyeuristic fuckers probably know, I died of alcohol poisoning after too much vodka. And why? Because I went to rehab, lurching from high tolerance to low tolerance and then doing a bit of a backslide—chugging the amount I usta made me into a stiff. Everyone said, 'Oy, Amy, you must go to rehab or you'll die!' But it's rehab laid me low, bruvva. After all that suffering—the withdrawals, the pain, the public humiliation—I had to go and die of stupid alcohol poisoning. I gotta be honest, staying the course and falling to a quiet OD on gear might've been the sweeter way to go.