MY DEATH

archivals...March 19, 2007

well well well ...titty well well.
lets see.
When i was seventeen,i was sitting in the foyer of Lionel Ritchie's tri-level belle aire estate with his adopted daughter, u may have heard of her, nicole ritchie.  She very aggressively grabbed my arm and pulled my hand to her. 

Nikki: here.  lemme see.  u know, I read palms.  i can read the future.  lemme see here.

NOX: oh ok. ok. u can read the future. ok. yer like 13 years old.

nikki: fuckin shut up ok?  i can!  look.  hmmmm...let's see here...

(she studied my palm very intently, very professionally like a doctor of some sort)

nikki: ah, i see...wow...shit that's somethin...

NOX: ah, whatever
(I smiled that winning sexy smile.  her mother and my manager Mel walked by looking on and talking business.  the singer tamia, then not famous in anyway, my age and possibly harboring a short lived crush, walks by as well ushering her little brothers toward the lower level to swim.  i glanced over.  we made eye contact.  she smiled.  i felt it in my jeans)

nikki: shut up!  ok..ok..whoah. ok.  says here..are you listening?

NOX: (laughing a bit) yeah. yea, i'm listening.

nikki: shut the fuck up.  do u want to hear this or not?

NOX: cmon already.  jesus, yer dragging this out.

nikki: ok.  u die young.  well i mean, not really young but young.  in your early thirties.

NOX: uh, ok.

nikki: listen, u suffer a lot between now and then and u die in your thirties. 

NOX: hmmmm.  that sux. oh well. what are we ordering for dinner?  i feel a strong lust for rock shrimp.

nikki: fuckin shut up.

sidenote: girls named NIKKI are usually total sluts. u don't believe me ask anyone.
recently i've been dating a real estate investor/counter girl at the fashion show mall, who called me one day frantic.

liz: o god.

gabe (no longer NOX: too mature in this art environment): what?

liz: nothin.

gabe: no. no, what?

liz: well u know how I have these prophetic dreams?

gabe: right.

liz: i had a dream last night u died.

gabe: cmon.

liz: really.  u know, i told u i've had these dreams before and they are usually true.

gabe: alright yeah. so what happens in the dream?

liz: i can't

gabe: well, what the fuck did you bring it up for then?

liz: it's bad

gabe: cmon.  i'm a big boy.  hit me.

liz:  i can't

Saturday night, at the bar code, i'm selling my art and she shows up and leans in on me.

liz: do you want to know?  i'm ready to tell you now.

gabe: what the fuck are we talking about?

liz: the dream.

gabe: o. o yeah. tell me.

liz: ok..listen.  next year sometime around your 32nd birthday, u are asked to board a private plane to fly to new york.  u decline because of a lifetime's trauma at the hands of film and media when it comes to small plane crashes.  so u attempt to book a commercial flight ticket, but its too late.  so, u rent a car and try to drive to new york.

gabe: new york?  what's with new york?

liz: u are on your way to your gallery opening in new york.

gabe: wow. cool. i open in new york finally, that's hot.  and i die on the way?  that's so romantic.  hahaha

liz: u insist on driving and you're in your cell arguing with someone in ny cause of your tardiness and their
lack of organization with the event.  i saw it as a passenger until the impact and saw some of the after effects.  there is an accident and u die in the wreck.  almost instantly.  no seat belt.  no time.  but the good news is, i sensed the success of your death.  your art blows up.  the art's success lead ts them to your music which leads them to all of your affiliates and friends and u go down in history as this generation's van gough.  tragic, beautiful, confused.  and lots and lots of money u never see but it is divided amongst your twins and everyone u dealt with profits.  its insane the spiraling after that.

gabe: woah.  that's pretty trippy, am i texting when it happens?  i love driving and texting hahaha

liz: shut up douche bag

gabe: hahaha- is it in the malibu?  i knew i shouldn't have bought american. haha

liz: shut the fuck up.  anyway, i told you it's a rental douche

gabe: i bet it's a ford.

on the way home that night, several fatal accidents blocked our path to my place.  the first, just outside of bar code, involved a car that looked almost identical to my new ride.  what a trip. 

when i was 20, extremely overweight, miserable, living in a motel on ft.lauderdale beach, my rap career faded--the ritchies and foxx's a distant memory, i turn on the shitty little box in the room and a tamia video with prince, babyface and quincy jones chakka khan gladys knight and about a hundred other people i looked up to growing up comes on and i throw up in the sink.  later that night, i swallowed every pill i could find and downed the wide assortment with a bottle of vod.  i'd blown my ride and i wanted out.

God said no.

i drove the same little toyota for the last nine years and never got into an accident in my life.  i'd been driving since i was 12.  i've been an artist forever and until recently never made a dime off my talents.
in the last few months, i've been selling my prints and originals and making a living.  i just bought a new car and i'm moving into a  two story townhouse in the lakes.  i turn 31 on march 31st.

my mother called me sunday night in a chaotic frenzy. 

mom: gabriel..i had a dream.  a horrible dream.

she was sobbing and u could hear the snot bubbles gloppin about..lol

gabe: mom, i know

mom: no u don't know..o god, gabriel...

gabe: mom, it's gonna b alright...

Directly after my move, i have an interview set up with Damon Hodge of the Las Vegas weekly which by the way is like our local rolling stone mag.  in the article i'll tell my story and lead up 2 my plans.  hopefully, damon'll throw a review of my new music and heartwarming story together.  then, i'll drive to Venice Beach with some groovy chick, who, if i luck out, will go down on me en route without me having to beg, plead, and ultimately threaten.

in los angeles my art will sell like it never has.  fast and furious.  before i leave, some sweet piece of douche ass will swear by the moons of planet zog, she can put me in new york with heavy hitters.  i'll smile that same smile now almost 15 years older, but still somehow equally potent and blow it off because i just spent the last 5 years listening to the locals and their empty promises.  i drive back to my townhouse smoke some rreealllyy good freshly acquired pot and pass out.  within a year i die en route to my first big opening in new york.  i'm hailed as one of the few true renaissance artists of our time, unrecognized in life and tortured by it's cruelty.  my family and friends fight for three to five years over my assets and estate and more people make money off me then i ever saw in y life...even those i can't stand like certain locals who are so full of shit they should just lay down and join me.  money money money money money all day.

epilogue
my twins alexander and michael are usually greeted by the same line everywhere they go.
"your father was a bad motherfucker..what can I do for YOU??--anything u need, you got it..."
and so, in the end, all the pain, all the suffering is justified.  and as much as i'd sang about worthless attempt, truth b told, it was all planned and not truly ALL IN VEIN.  and so on and so forth and so it goes....so say good bye--and i say best wishes.
ALL MY LOVE
GABRIEL ALBERRO

epilogue to the epilogue: UPDATE: I'm 35 now and about to release first animation and about to have my first gallery show in NYC. still breathing, still surviving and ABOUT TO go do gallery shows, one major in New York. 35. Ny.

told u all girls named Nikki are huge retard whores.