The Fuck Journal

Chapter Eight

Duff

I've got some bad news, little journal. Man, I fuckin' hate bad news, but I figured I'd record it anyway. Shit has officially hit the fuckin' fan, scattered everywhere like all the shit I busted to pieces in my hotel room after our fight. And after everything was said and done I honestly wasn't sure if he was coming back. I guess I should explain how all this happened, huh?

So, we had jetted off to the UK and somehow still managed to keep things between us on the down low, but we definitely did have a few near misses...some really close scrapes that set us on edge. People were starting to ask questions. Not directly, but their little insinuations and remarks had started to get beneath our skin...mainly Slash's. From everyone...bandmates, managers, hangers-on. Fuck, things were getting tense.

For Slash's sake, since he was the one with the fuckin' problem (Which you'll learn about later. I didn't give a shit what people said, fuck 'em), we decided to stagger the nights we spent in each other's rooms, stop hanging out together so much at after parties, all for the sake of laying low and letting the rumors dissipate. But they didn't. And we couldn't do it anymore after some attempts at trying. You know how alcohol is, yeah? Take that and combine it with not being able to relax and get your fuckin' rocks off and be with someone who makes you happy and see what happens when that liquid liquor fuel is added to that already intense, strained fire. We were a fuckin' mess.

Anyway, the turning point was in England. At the venue. Right before we were about to go on. Locked in a supply closet. I know, funny, right? Not so much.

We were both hammered out of our fuckin' gourds. Slash because, well, he's Slash, and me because my anxieties were starting to eat at me bad. I could usually compose myself enough for the gig, but this time I may've gone a little sloppy. I hated all this hiding, all this stress that keeping this shit secret was putting on us. We said we were going to do this, and I didn't really see any reason to shove it in a corner, ya know? Been there, done that, got the t-shirt, also got my ass kicked multiple times for it, even though there never was a relationship before Slash. "Punk rock faggot!" was an insult I knew very well.

I may have been agitated about the whole thing, but I never really bought up anything besides the fact that I hated it. Slash was a different story. Constantly on edge, constantly gibbering to me about how he was worried about people getting suspicious. And I understood, I really did! I tried to be patient and cool about the whole thing and how he felt, but I was tired of fuckin' hearing about it every five goddamn minutes when we were actually able to get together without people seeing.

It usually went like this:

Me: "Slash! Would you shut the fuck up and spend some time with me! I've fuckin' missed you, man."

Slash: "Okay, okay, fine. But...but what if they know? What if they're fucking lingering and lurking and talking shit?"

Me: "Who the fuck cares?!"

Slash: "I do! I don't want them spreading bullshit about us!"

Me: "It's fuckin' true! We're together! What the hell are you so afraid of?!"

Slash never answered that question for me, but I think I knew what the fuck was eating him. He just fuckin' sulked and brooded and left me bereft and lonely and dealing with a hellacious case of blue balls half the time because he was so distracted by it.

I fuckin' hated it. I hated going to bed without him, not waking up beside him, feeling like I wasn't able to joke around and have fun because of his fuckin' rampant paranoia. I knew that he still cared because the times we were able to get together and he actually let his fears go it was amazing. Just like our days in L.A. Then we'd get around other people and he'd suddenly clam up.