Blood Tangent | Sarai Nissan
I didn’t bother leaving the house that morning. I told myself I had better things to do than sit around listening to half-hearted friends that I couldn’t care less about, but we all know I didn’t. I scrolled through Tumblr absentmindedly before I noticed: this happened to be the day that Amy Winehouse died.
Throughout that day, my Tumblr feed mutated to either an altar to her or a colloquium where people spewed their judgments. There were photos of her at pubs in Camden and award shows, black and white pictures of her fallen to her knees in front of her star-crossed lover and supposed downfall, with the caption “Candid photo of Lucifer and the angel he destroyed.”
The “blogosphere” was wantonly expressing judgments of her drug overdose. “Well, that’s what happens when you’re a worthless junkie,” was the main sentiment expressed. I promptly posted “It’s funny how people think it’s easy to recover from addiction.” Then posted her song “You Know I’m No Good” with the caption “Rest in peace babygirl <3”. Kind of cringey, I know, but I loved her. Perhaps I had more empathy for her as someone with an addictive personality myself, or I just felt the need to defend another broken person who wasn’t able to put themselves back together again. In the tabloids, Amy was either smiling and enchanting, still living, or tear and blood stained with that dead look in her eyes. I scrolled over to my own feed, pictures of Sid and Nancy, girls being fancy, Kurt Cobain’s Hollywood star, someone’s deep scar, David Bowie’s mug shot, “ at’s so hot.” Someone thought, bruised knees and nose-bleeds, tabloids of a 12-year- old smoking weed, cigarettes, pills, thrills, bloody knuckles as I chuckle, pictures of hospitals hallways and hotel room dog days. Death belongs in two categories: for the old and the the banal, or the glamorous and doomed. There is an amusement in playing with death. Any drug-fouled mind can tell you that. You can’t die when you feel irresistible and fictional.