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Amy Winehouse drank herself to death with vodka while watching videos of herself on Youtube. That fact, a fairly simple and sad demise labeled as a “misadventure” by the British coroner, came out two years after her death. Before the official report was released there was a lot of speculation about what transpired on Amy’s last night on Earth, and which drug, or drugs, was the one that took her away from us. Most of us, her parents included, didn’t want to believe that it was alcohol, the legal, highly marketed toxin most adults imbibe fairly regularly. We wanted it to be a “harder” drug, something more complicated and difficult to procure. Her parents seemed to want to deflect, to deny that it was anything at all, to say Amy had been doing well. Despite their will to believe otherwise, her public appearances shortly before her death seem to point to the fact that Amy was doing worse than ever. Her only drug at the time may have been alcohol via episodic binges, but that’s more than enough. If her parents couldn’t truly see her, how could she expect anyone to?

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“How do you cope with life?” he asked me. I could smell him before I heard him. It was the smell of the streets, the miasma of a kind of life I feared. It was a life that was waiting just around the corner for me. Some people, people I’ve known who didn’t truly know what they were talking about, thought it was a more honest life, a noble life. I just wanted to always have blank beige walls to come home to, no matter what. I wanted soft, warm covers to envelope me and a glass of water at my bedside. I lived a comfortable horror, and I could not imagine attempting my life without these slight and simple amenities.

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We forget that the subjects of our myths are humans. Whether we ridicule or exalt them, idols of the American Dream (or Global Dream) float like symbols through our consciousness. We hear their voices, see their faces, and absentmindedly play through a narrative of their lives we’ve heard, an anecdote, a quote. They are embedded in us, but when we try to pick apart what they mean to us and why they mean it, we see a shivering person there, not an untouchable god or monster at all.

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“She’s not autistic,” Caleb says to billionaire mad scientist Nathan, who’s asking him to evaluate the artificial humanity of his robot Ava. That’s an interesting comment for him to make, and runs through the heart of all the questions this film asks. While we’re trying to figure out if we can create electronic, artificial conscious and emotional beings, some of the humans these simulations are supposed to emulate don’t pass all the tests. As programmable and predictable as we humans are, we are still a bit beyond our own understanding, and maybe we really can’t replicate ourselves until we better understand ourselves.

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Harold and Maude, now streaming on Netflix and Amazon Prime, deals with a timeless issue: the crushing morbidity of precocious young people. When our brains are getting used to being alive, we can’t help but confront some of the hypocrisy and misery we see around us. If you’re sensitive and dramatic as well, everything can seem wonderful and horrible and you can’t imagine how anyone does this life thing.

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If you haven’t watched A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night on Netflix yet, you’re missing out. It’s an elegant mashup pastiche of everything from spaghetti westerns to Fellini. The backdrop is a nowhere U.S. western town where everyone speaks Farsi and a girl vampire can hide under a batlike chador.

The shots are breathtaking, the music is intoxicating, but the cat, played by the film’s producer’s cat Masuka, steals the show, charging a bewitching energy through the entire movie.

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When I was 18-20, success to me was just surviving. I honestly didn’t have a lot of hope for even that. I didn’t know if I could get or keep a job. I had a passion for writing, but knew that the potential for money or even slight recognition for that was against me. Besides, I didn’t really have anything to say. I didn’t know anything except dread and fear, which are great topics in themselves, but they still need a little focus.

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Randi tried to be nice to people, but it backfired. Like a spy, she would stealthily listen to what other people said to each other, but then when she said those same things, Randi got a different reaction.

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Robert came up with a theory of time in his notebook. He knew there were others, scientists, who were better qualified for this. But, still. It felt like a breakthrough. He had always had a sense that he was at the verge of getting at something, but it was so hard to communicate what that was. His girlfriend Sara used to laugh at him sometimes, and that laugh, so bitter and red, was fuel to him now. He tried to have compassion for Sara now that she was somewhere else with some cretin, the two of them slouching towards the grave with nothing but silly pleasures for their empty heads. She just didn’t have the capacity to understand his brilliance.

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From my ask.fm:
i’m a girl and i like my friend but he is bisexual. and i get pissed whenever he flirts with guys that sometimes it makes him thinks that I don’t accept his sexuality and that i’m close minded. but the truth is, i just can’t accept that he can’t like me the way i like him. what should i do? i’m hurt