Imagine getting kicked out of The Red Hot Chili Peppers for being too loaded? How about bits of your body falling off due to an abscess you've just let fester? Or getting busted selling to an undercover narc? Most folks would shy away from letting the world know all this sordid subject matter. Peligro did in his memoir Dreadnaught: King of Afropunk. That is unless you write a book that details every fucked up scary-ass moment of your entire life. If you've got the money or at least the fame you can hide away in rehab and no one will ever know. Although when we think of junkies we do tend to conjure up the homeless drug addict's image a lot quicker than a popular musician's. It doesn't matter if you're a rock star or a homeless dope fiend. The insanity of addiction fucks with all of us.
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