by Rachel Lynch in

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"I've been work, work, workin on my shit," sings Kris Kidd over the Iggy Azalea track blasting out of his garage. He's dropping it low in a real fur coat (none of that vegan shit) as he repeats every word by heart, and we're on our third bottle of champagne.

And "workin' on his shit," he has certainly been doing. This month marks the release of his first book, "I Can't Feel My Face."

"Walk a mile in these Louboutins. I'm not hatin', I'm just tellin you, tryna let you know know what the fuck that I've been through," he screams more lyrics as her pours champagne out onto the sidewalk in the middle of his neighborhood in Norwalk, California.

His book is some sort of attempt at gathering together the pieces that have been his life for the past 6-7 years, getting fucked up in Hollywood before he could even legally drive himself there to do so.

And there's something special about this book, maybe it's because he's been showing us his ribcage since the myspace days, but these words are more than just a look inside a mind. This book is a look into one of the internet's favorite characters, stark and naked, exposed by his words on the page.

His writing is harsh, straight-forward, and piercing with each hallow recollection it reveals.

It's a Friday night in LA and Kris has just drove the 20 miles to come pick me up for the night. He lives in Norwalk and rarely comes to Hollywood anymore. He's two redbulls in, and we immediately start talking about writing, fashion, drinking, drugs and eating disorders. We've seen it all and we're barley 21. We stop in a CVS, where I have to grab a basket and fill it with four champagne bottles (Kris still can't legally buy alcohol), and I get recognized by some tween girls in line as he waits in the car.

We spend the night in his garage, where he spends all his time. It's here that he write, drinks and smokes to his heart's content. (Not weed, Kris HATES weed.)

"It's the fat people drug," he says. I had the pleasure of hearing him read his work out-loud and once we make it to our third glass of champagne, we do a little writing workshop. I'm manically writing about my childhood in LA as he furiously types of his teenage adventures in New York.

We wrote for maybe an hour, or at least the duration of one whole Interpol album. After that we switch up the mood, and do what we do best. We take photos, pose like Terry Richardson's malnourished children and twerk in our matching Brian Lichtenberg tanks.

You see, Kris could be jaded, but he's not. And there's something refreshingly surprising about that. You think someone that's been through as much as him would be depressed or suicidal, but he's none of the above. He seems ready for a good time, ready for more words and ready for what life has to throw at him next.

"I Can't Feel My Face" by Kris Kidd