ｔｒａｓｈｍｏｕｔｈ if you're nasty. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sloppybitch) wrote2019-11-12 06:15 pm
sloppybitch) wrote2019-11-12 06:15 pm
dumpsterfire boi.
[He hit the height of his fame when he was 32 and with a fresh face and a new industry he did just about everything he could to ride the acclaim as far as it would take him. There were interviews, talk show hosts applauded his creativity, even though it wasn't his at all, to begin with. LA couldn't get enough of him, and they dressed him, toted him around, threw him on stage with a drink in his hand to do their bidding.
For the first time in a long time, Richie felt heard. Sure, they weren't his words. Not entirely, and it wasn't always his fashion but he was successful, he was appreciated and respected. His life was taking off and the shift from Maine to California was finally made worth it. The financial expenses balanced out.
Then came the partying, the cocaine, the drinking and the countless bodies around him. He stayed out all night, up with energy his body couldn't naturally supply and then bottomed out somewhere around late morning and was out for the rest of the day until the next gig, and unless he didn't show his business manager didn't even really care.
Richie was quickly making a name for himself as Hollywood's life of the party and pictures of him drinking from four different bottles of alcohol and standing on tables were soon thereafter published in whatever magazines and papers would take them. There were some in which he looked strung out, taken by the paparazzi when he was mostly sober. Of course, they exaggerated everything but in this case, it wasn't far from the truth. Pictures of him almost unconscious on club sofas, the things of media acclaim and someone watching you wherever you went. Richie was chasing a feeling of exhilaration and belonging that he didn't know he'd ever had.
The bad press played directly into the attendance of his shows and when he moved from clubs to amphitheaters his problems got worse. He moved from psychotropics to cocaine, mixed medicine, and so more photos surfaced and the slew of Trashmouth fanatics and naysayers grew and doubled with each unfortunate event.]
For the first time in a long time, Richie felt heard. Sure, they weren't his words. Not entirely, and it wasn't always his fashion but he was successful, he was appreciated and respected. His life was taking off and the shift from Maine to California was finally made worth it. The financial expenses balanced out.
Then came the partying, the cocaine, the drinking and the countless bodies around him. He stayed out all night, up with energy his body couldn't naturally supply and then bottomed out somewhere around late morning and was out for the rest of the day until the next gig, and unless he didn't show his business manager didn't even really care.
Richie was quickly making a name for himself as Hollywood's life of the party and pictures of him drinking from four different bottles of alcohol and standing on tables were soon thereafter published in whatever magazines and papers would take them. There were some in which he looked strung out, taken by the paparazzi when he was mostly sober. Of course, they exaggerated everything but in this case, it wasn't far from the truth. Pictures of him almost unconscious on club sofas, the things of media acclaim and someone watching you wherever you went. Richie was chasing a feeling of exhilaration and belonging that he didn't know he'd ever had.
The bad press played directly into the attendance of his shows and when he moved from clubs to amphitheaters his problems got worse. He moved from psychotropics to cocaine, mixed medicine, and so more photos surfaced and the slew of Trashmouth fanatics and naysayers grew and doubled with each unfortunate event.]
no subject
Eddie, what the fuck happened to-
[Richie's trying to get up, but he's not quite steady and it takes him a minute. He has nothing left to give, and he almost collapses after he's up but manages to make it to the wall for support.]
I can't remember shit. I can't remember.
[Richie doesn't get it, and he can't really blame Eddie if he gets upset with him but his hands find the rag on the back of his neck and linger there. He looks marginally wounded like a child stricken. What he knows absolutely, is that he'd fucking put it all down for him but it's all still rattled around and disorganized in his skull.]
You and me? Eddie, I'm not gonna lie to you - I'm really past the point of playing doctor, even though you're the most qualified guy I know. I don't want you to see me like this.