I'm writing this from the depths of hell, literally and figuratively. My name is Angel Dust, and I'm a hot mess express, always ready to derail at any moment.
So, I've been feeling like crap for the past few days. I mean, I'm no stranger to hangovers and withdrawal symptoms, but this was different. It started with a weird pain in my lower right side, like someone was stabbing me with a dull knife. I tried to shrug it off as just another side effect of my beloved drugs, but deep down, I knew something was off.
I was on set, shooting a film for Valentino's latest "artistic" project. I use quotes because let's be real, the guy has no talent and thinks he's a genius just because he's got a few connections in the industry. Anyway, I was lying on this stupid bed, trying to remember my lines, when suddenly, I felt this wave of nausea wash over me. Next thing I know, I'm vomiting all over the edge of the bed, and the actress I was supposed to be "romancing" is staring at me like I'm about to keel over.
I tried to play it cool, told her I was fine, just a little...ahem...overwhelmed by the intensity of the scene. But she wasn't buying it. She started fussing over me, asking if I needed to take a break or get some fresh air. I was mortified. I mean, I'm Angel Dust, the toughest guy in Hell. I don't get sick. I don't show weakness. But there I was, puking my guts out like some kind of amateur.
They ended up calling off the shoot for the day, and I stumbled back to my apartment, feeling like I'd been hit by a truck. I think I might have cried a little, but don't tell anyone. I collapsed on my couch, surrounded by empty bottles and crumpled up cigarette packs. It was like my own personal apocalypse.
The next few hours are a blur. I think I dozed off for a bit, but the pain kept waking me up. I was sweating like a pig, and my body ached all over. I tried to reach for my trusty stash of pills, but even the thought of taking something made me want to vomit again.
Eventually, I dragged myself to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. I looked like hell. Literally. My eyes were sunken, my skin was pale, and my hair was a mess. I looked like I'd been through a war. Which, let's be real, I have.
I ended up calling Valentino, begging him to send someone over with some meds or something. He answered on the first ring, his voice all smooth and condescending. "Angel, baby, what's wrong? You sound like you're dying." I hate how he talks to me, like I'm some kind of pet or something.
I told him about the pain and the vomiting, and he just laughed. "Oh, Angel, you're just hungover. Take a few pills and you'll be fine." Like I haven't tried that already, dude. I hung up on him, feeling like I was going to lose it.
I ended up crashing on the couch for the rest of the day, surrounded by my vices and my demons. It was a long, dark night, let me tell you.
The thing is, I know I'm not just sick. I'm tired. I'm tired of the fighting, tired of the parties, tired of the endless cycle of addiction and abuse. I'm tired of being Angel Dust, the guy who can take anything and keep on going. Because the truth is, I'm not that guy. I'm just a scared, broken kid who's trying to survive in a world that doesn't care about him.
But I won't show it. I won't let them see the real me, the vulnerable me. I'll keep on fighting, keep on partying, and keep on pretending like everything is okay. Because that's what Angel Dust does.