A few friends and I used to laugh and joke as we regaled stories to one another of past indiscretions. Of crazy parties, fights and excessive drug use. One friend told me I should write about my past crazy antics, slap the title Swaggy B Chronicles on it, and share with the world.
For a lot of my late teens/ early twenties I existed in a state of fucked-up-ness. It is a time period I reference, from time to time, and not in a glorified way either. I penned a piece about my anger manifesting into racism. I wrote about having a gun in my face.
The problem with the Swaggy B Chronicles is as much as I will tell stories to friends over a beer, the time period didn’t hold much in the form of significance.
There was the night old friends know as the Popcorn Brawl. A massive brawl at a bonfire which started originally the previous night when I slammed someone against a car. A regular party site went from having twenty people at it grew to the size of fifty people itching to start trouble. For all the punches I threw that drunken night, I ate two or three more, ending my night with both my lips split wide open and my eyes barely able to open.
The night my friends and I left a party and thought it would be fun to “race” the car as fast as we could to the top of the parking complex. It ended with me stumbling bloody into a stranger’s house after the car lost control and careened off the road, taking out a fire hydrant and landing smashed in a grouping of small trees.
The time after a hurricane and some cocaine, I smashed a person’s face into the kitchen linoleum. As I watched the blood pool out, momentarily I thought my life was over and I had killed someone. The walls of my house streaked with blood fit for a Rob Zombie movie. The person survived, albeit with a sizable gash requiring stitches on his face.
The many times I sat there, ingesting or snorting whatever was in front of me. I say whatever since half the time I already had one too many drinks when the drugs came around and I just didn’t care about what I put in my body. And why would I care? I spent a portion of my yesteryears going couch to couch, jobless, without family, waking and drinking, throwing up and passing out. I wasn’t living. Hell, I wouldn’t even call it surviving.
I had this fuck it mentality and a dismal future. For most of my earlier years, I didn’t expect to reach the age of 25. I still haven’t reached 25. With four months between me and the marker, I feel a lot better about my odds now than I did at 17,18,19 or 20.
Not every night turned out badly. Except, every morning did. Waking up uncertain and scared, looking to fill the emptiness inside again.
I don’t talk about the parties because my life lacked substance. It had a lot of substance abuse, but no real tangibility to it. Just an angry boy doing some really self-destructive shit.
The sad thing, at least to me anyways, is- Even though I am in a much better place, a lot of angry boys are still out there doing self-destructive shit because they wake up with this need to fill the emptiness felt inside them. My life holds a meaning now it never had in the days of past.
That was the problem, wasn’t it? A lack of meaning. A life void of ANYTHING meaningful. It wasn’t so much me wanting to die, it was more that if I did, I really didn’t think anyone would care. And if there was no one there to care about my demise, why should I?
While living life with reckless abandon may be romanticized by some, I can tell you firsthand, it is fucking shit. Putting your body through hell everyday, not caring if you live or die or what it is you’re taking because you have this mindset no one else will care either. It fucking blows.
There are plenty of pictures from the “Swaggy B Chronicles”. Each picture filled with alcohol, smiles and an abundance of people. For every night spent taking dozens of party pictures, a morning was spent waking up feeling alone in the world. And where are all those people now? All those bonds of beers, I find myself in contact with maybe one or two of them nowadays. Drinking buddies, who disappeared as soon as bettering myself meant not spending every night getting fucking wrecked.
So, there are the Swaggy B Chronicles, a chapter in my life where my own death didn’t matter to me because I didn’t think I mattered to anyone. I hope I did them the justice they deserve, because just thinking about them makes me happy with how far gone they are.
Briton Underwood, better known as Punk Rock Papa, is a parent above all else. When he gets sick of being at their beck and call, he likes to escape to his page or site. He writes about any and everything he wants, but mainly about his twin boys or his newest addition- another boy. He also would like the world to know he has a beautiful wife, because the couch isn’t that comfy.