I’m not Amy Winehouse’s biggest fan. Not because I don’t think she’s talented—I do—I just don’t get her. I don’t get anyone who’s famous and then misses gigs and seems genuinely uninterested in the fans who gave them that fame. She’s a little too weird for me. But I figured the baby-who-hasn’t-eaten-for-weeks look and her huge hair was a thing she had cultivated for a while, a trademark. Part of her essence.

I figured wrong.

It seems like Ms. Winehouse was completely normal looking a few years ago. Buxom, smiling, basically tattoo free, and clean. She looked cute and friendly. Well fed. In no need of rehab.

Then something happened. Not being a Winehouse scholar, I have no idea what that something was. Massive amounts of drugs? A sudden urge to wear children’s shorts? A dislike of washing her hair? A midnight realization that her life would be so much better if she only looked like Nicole Richie? I don’t know. But something happened. Something drastic. It might rhyme with choke (and actually sort of be made up of the same lettering, minus an “h”), but I wouldn’t want to point fingers.

From the album Back to Black. Buy it here.