Because I don’t actually obsess about myself 24-7-365. Honest!
I’m fascinated with Amy Winehouse. I love her music, I dig her style, I can respect her sex-&-drugs-&-rock n’ roll rebellion (to a degree.) I’m delighted that she appears to be trying to come back, hearty and hale and ready to do … well, that remains to be seen.
And WHOA! Honey, I see ‘em, I see ‘em. You can put them back now. Or wrestle them down away from your chin. Wowza.
Now, far be it from me to condemn Amy for re-upping her puppies. Even though she’s still a little lot scrawny for them, hence, they look like two basketballs strapped onto a Tootsie Roll pop. However, it’s her make-up that’s causing me concern:
She’s starting to remind me of the “Pied Piper of Tucson,” Charles Schmid, who murdered three teenyboppers for kicks in the mid-1960s. He was prone to enhancing his height by stuffing cans, rags, and newspapers in his boots. He also knew his way around a make-up counter. I guess?
and After
Before
Smitty and Ben Nye need a pow-wow. Wow. That’s putty to change the shape of his nose, an ever-expanding beauty spot(!), eyeliner, white lipstick(!!) and possibly kohl’d eyebrows.
I’m just saying, Amy’s freckles look a little funky.
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