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LIFE & DEATH
DMX Died and Took a Piece of Me With Him
Some people were monuments. They were institutions. Eras. And losing X is losing the only other person who remembers what I remember about us.
I loved him, still. He was one of those people you could never forget, the kind you couldn’t help but check up on years after you swore you’d never talk to him again. He was loveable and wild, and he was more careful with others than he was with himself. We were lovers and friends, and when our time was over, he left me with some of the most endearing, thrilling, and unforgettable memories of my life. We fought like dogs in the halls and lobbies of posh Beverly Hills hotels, spent dusk to dawn in recording studios, and nights in the dark, dank corners of LA nightclubs. We were young, uninhibited, and destined to disengage. Then, last week, he died, and a part of me went with him.
My twenties and early thirties were like something out of a movie. There were drug lords, pimps, rappers, actors, murderers, and government officials. It was Pamela De Barres’ I’m with the Band on steroids, and I had a fucking blast. Ofcourse, there were some horrid lows, like a drug overdose and a few other near-death experiences, homelessness, and heartache, but I survived it all. Hell, more…
