It felt like a lifetime since my organic father had walked me out of the house, casting me into the world with nothing but resentment and a skateboard. In the years that followed, I’d changed—some for the better, but mostly for the worse. The Hollywood Dead Kennedys gig had been a turning point, an eye-opener to a life of chaos that I was diving headfirst into.
The apartment raids started to feel like a normal occurrence. Sharon’s place, a two-bedroom disaster, was crammed with over 20 teenagers on any given night. We were a powder keg waiting for a spark. The sheriff’s department eventually got wind of it. Guns drawn, they raided the place, scattering us like terrified mice. Some jumped from the second-story windows, others froze in place.
I wasn’t fast enough.
“Don’t move,” an officer barked, his voice cold and authoritative. I didn’t. By then, I knew better than to test my luck with law enforcement.
Before that raid, my time at Sharon’s apartment was already filled with turmoil. Her downstairs neighbor had come after me with a shovel after I messed around with his sister. Her little brother had cried for nights after I made the mistake of giving his kitten a tiny dose of speed. The poor animal didn’t recover, and honestly, neither did I.
My downward spiral continued when I was introduced to angel dust. A pregnant woman—her belly round and her face etched with a kind of resigned desperation—sold me a dipped Coors cigarette. She explained how she made her PCP batch in the toilet so she could flush it if the cops came.
One hit, and I was hooked. The high was unlike anything I’d felt, but it came with a price. I lost weight rapidly, my body hollowing out as sleep became an impossibility.
My mohawk, once a symbol of rebellion, was now just a shadow of its former self. I shaved the back, leaving only a long strip in the front. I wore flannel shirts and a hat to cover the mess, a reflection of the disarray I had become.
I was the walking embodiment of trouble. Parties that once welcomed me now turned me away. My reputation preceded me—a bad boy who had gone too far. Even in circles of misfits and outcasts, I was an outlier, a reminder of where their paths could lead if they weren’t careful.
Looking in the mirror, I barely recognized the person staring back. The weight of my choices, the drugs, the chaos—it was all catching up to me. The life I was living wasn’t just reckless; it was a slow-motion crash, and I was running out of road.
Still, I couldn’t stop. Something about the destruction felt inevitable, like it was the only thing I was good at. And maybe it was.
