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Weed is a necessity at this point—who doesn’t smoke it these days? And my doctor prescribes the painkillers, so it’s not like I played God and decided I needed to cram them into my body on my own accord.
Also, I’m not going to defend my cocaine usage. But you try to live in the public eye since age seventeen and see what it does to your self-esteem. Every single mistake you’ve ever made is recorded, documented, aired on TMC, and stored—ready to be thrown in your face at any given moment.
And don’t get me started on dick pics and public breakups and Taylor Swift-like starlets who write songs about how bad in bed I am. (Let the record show that I didn’t even try with that particular chick. Eat shit, Jordan Jackson. Come to think of it, you’re probably into that BS. You were always too kinky for my taste.)
But I digress.
So, yeah, I mean, okay. I may have had my own motivation for this whole staying-in-Greece plot that doesn’t have anything to do with Sex Slave and Pissy Poet’s sexcapade.
It simply made perfect sense for my master plan.
Them keeping each other occupied = less people on my case.
Less people on my case = more time to do drugs and get drunk.
More drug and alcohol time = less time to think about how this album is never going to materialize, because I’m never going to record it, because I won’t be alive by March.
Because I have terminal cancer, you see. Stage fucking billion cancer, which has spread to every single part of my body. And here I thought I was just permanently hungover, never expecting to find out that while I was partying, my body was eating itself to death.
It is all fun and games until the fat lady—in this case my doctor—sings the sad news to me, and I choose to go out with a bang, not like a faded version of my old self—a sad, bony, shadow of myself, lying in a hospice bed staring at a pleasant, generic picture on a wall.
Yeah, that’s the money shot I won’t allow TMC to ever have: me dying in a hospital gown, looking like a corpse.
Wanna hear the best part? With the amount of drugs I’m using, people are never going to suspect I’m anything other than a twenty-seven-year-old rock star who died from an overdose. A good ol’ tragic legend who worked hard and partied even harder. I’ll slip into the Amy Winehouse and Brian Jones club with a fake ID, so to speak.
If any of the goddamn idiots surrounding me just looked closely—not even too close, just enough to smell my sick-person’s breath and see all the rotting behind my eyes—they’d have realized nothing I’ve done makes sense.
Riding cows? Traveling to Thailand? All the other Jackass shit?
I’m seizing the day, one second at a time, because I’m not counting years, or months, or days. I’m counting seconds.
Yo, Hendrix, Morrison, Cobain—I’m coming for you. Make room on the couch and put a good record on.
Over and fucking out.
Rory
I wake up trembling from the cold and immediately know Mal is not in bed. I can hear him in the corridor outside our room, talking on the phone. His hushed voice skates over my flesh even though he’s nowhere near me, causing my nipples to pucker. I jump out of bed and plaster my ear to the door, every bone in me aching for answers.
It’s not that I don’t respect Mal’s privacy; it’s that he knows everything about my life, and I know nothing about his. There’s a big gap between us, and I’d just like to build a bridge over it, bring us both into the light.
I strain my ears, but hear nothing.
The door flings open suddenly, and I get hit in the face, stumbling down on my butt. I rub my ass cheek, feeling my ears turning red.
“Oh, shit. Sorry.” Mal rushes around the door and pulls me up, frowning. “Were you eavesdropping?”
Hmm?
“No,” I groan, wiping the hair out of my face. “I was about to open the door to look for you. Why, were you talking to your secret lover?” I joke lamely.
“No, but close. Ryner,” he clips.
“Didn’t think he was your style.”
I try to lighten the mood. Anything to make him forget I did try to eavesdrop on him.
“Did you know Richards wants us to stay here for the remainder of New Year’s week? The nerve on this wanker.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Another lie in our deceit bucket, which is piling up quite nicely. I don’t even feel so bad this time, since Mal is lying through his teeth every day we spend together.
“That a problem?” I cock an eyebrow, daring him to open up.
“You know it is,” he retorts, storming into the room and shoving clothes into his open suitcase. “I agreed to two nights in Greece. Just the two. Even that was a stretch, and against my contract with Ryner. I’m done here.”
