a small digital voice recorder. the brand is written in Arabic and appears to have old blood stains on it.
so this is my real voice...well ok....this is as close to my real voice as anyone's gonna hear ever again probably. where to begin. ok. after a convoluted fiasco of leaving harem girl behind and getting shipped to my old manager in LA, I'm now skinriding a homeless guy who was asleep outside my manager's office. I say convoluted fiasco because getting this motherfucker to believe I was me was a chore. Had to work some of my whammy on 'em. my mojo. my magic. but ok. Bert my manager now believes I'm alive. I still don't have access to any of my money, as my estate is in the hands of blah blah blah, financial bullshit. but Bert thinks I'm me. I told him I went to Tibet and became a native and shit. I told him I needed to disappear for a while and get off the H. he didn't think it would take 15 fuckin years to do, but I assured him it did. and then there's the "why do you look like you did 15 years ago" question. OH YEAH! I forgot to mention. this is hilarious! when I possessed this bum, I became me! my old self. I look exactly like I used to. it's absolutely killer. I know it won't last forever, because I feel the bum back there occasionally shufflin around and every day it feels like he gets little bit closer to the surface. but hey man, it's good for now. I can't do any of the cool shit though. so while this works for trying to get my life back in order, it ain't gonna work as a battle form. need to be free floatin in my natural state to unlock my Super Saiyan powers. which does blow, I'll admit.
the other place feels, I dunno, further away when I'm like this. the world has color again. it's not like those twisted gray hellscapes everywhere when I'm inside. no Kingdoms of Iron and these bullshit old ghosts acting like kings and emperors and shit. just your usual forms of authoritarianism. and that's the wild thing. it feels like I was only gone from the world for a day. but when I'm in that place, I feel every goddamn day of those 15 years. so in a weird way, maybe I did know time was passing. it's a weird feeling.
but yeah, anyway. I got Bert back on Team Nikki and he's looking into things. we're keeping shit real DL right now. no media, no nothing. all behind the scenes stuff. be nice to not have to get shipped everywhere in a cardboard box. but yeah. I'm here for now at the management agency. I'm sleeping in an apartment they keep upstairs for celebrities who are trying to avoid the press. so. it works. until the day there's a homeless guy sleeping in that bed instead of me. ah well. burn that bridge when we get to it.
(sounds of traffic)
so I'm in New York. or Manhattan I guess. I just call it all New York but apparently people around here get pissy if you refer to the whole fuckin city as New York. (mocking voice) "no, it's the Bronx, no it's Queens" I'm from LA and and most people in like, Santa Monica, are happy as pigs in shit if you call their town LA. not sure what these people's problem is.
(honk followed by yelling)
so I'm doing publicity shit for the new album. and why the fuck I gotta do it here, I dunno. Bert's pretty good about not making me move around too much these days. he's saavy to my situation and knows it can be pretty taxing to be, well, ME for extended periods. I did learn a cool new thing though. I'll have to try it out later when I have more time. it oughta be pretty useful considering these gigs can get pretty emotionally taxing at times. nothing like chilling out and having a jam session, play some familiar tunes and get your head on straight. next best thing to smack.
(unrecognizable yelling in the background)
(yelling away from the mic) Hey! glad you're back too! buy the new album!
but yeah. keeping it pretty DL these days. trying not to mix with a lot of the people I used to fuck with. the story about drying out in turkmenistan or wherever the fuck Bernie told the press I was is doing a good job at keeping the hounds at bay. besides, most of those people are either dead or out of the game now. fifteen years is longer than most junkies have once they start poppin veins. but still, keeping my distance with everyone. only a matter of time before people who knew my face better than I do realize I haven't aged a fuckin day since then. might need to keep a makeup artist or something on retainer. draw in some worry lines or something. that's a good fuckin idea. good job, me. note to bernie's assistant, whothefuckever, find me a makeup artist who can keep their mouth shut.
(cell phone ringing)
speaking of Bert, guess I need to take this. until next time.