Teenhood_1

Where to start? It's what I've always struggled with most, more so than endings, I like endings, with those you know what you're getting. Beginnings are much tricker, and much more misleading. There's always a guy, a problem, a twist, and a happy ending. My brain doesn't work like that. Well, it does, but not in the sense of I can jolt down an entire coherent story. It's one or the other with me, I can either come up with a great concept but can't get fuck all dialogue down, or vice versa. What gives? Maybe it's from taking too much inspiration from fictional interviews, there's not exactly much you can work with within that format besides joke sprinkled expository


What is this anyhow? I dunno. But if you're reading it that means I actually finished it, in which case that's great. What's the general consensus? I'm getting ahead of myself...


My name's Curbston, or just Curb for short. Or... Kerb I suppose. Not my real name obviously, but it's what we're going with. Odd name right? Suits my odd shaped head. See, it's a nickname I picked up after getting, ahem, curbstomped. Not like ACTUAL curbstomping though, moreso getting my head stomped on while I happened to be laid with my head on a curb... or kerb. I'm sure you're thinking 'there's probably an interesting story around that' right? Well not really. It was over a girl, I was probably 16, maybe a little younger. Hard to remember. Shit happens eh? I'm still trying to figure out what the point of all this is. Maybe a collection of life stories with valuable lessons to be learned? Nah, that's a bit too cbeebies for my liking. Actually, you know what? Let's just rewind.


I was born in the primordial filth hole that you landwalkers refer to as 'Middlesbrough', grew up near Tollesby which all things considered is one of the nicer parts of that shithole. Strangely enough nobody knew my parents. Not a peep across the land. Apparently I just rocked up to some old bird's house in one of those little sailor outfits and a ginormous lollipop. Honestly. I still have the stick actually. Use it as a cane. The crone took me in and called me James, as in James Cook. Yeah. That went down a treat when I finally moved down south. Colonial Cook they called me. Then Cock. Then Cuck. It's a long list, these nicknames, none of which I personally find that creative or entertaining. That's probably why they're where they are and I'm here. Scribbling away about what they said. I'll be having the last laugh I can assure you. Cunts. Utter cunts the kids I grew up round. Your usual types y'know? Kicking balls, nicking mars bars, shagging girls and cracking cans. It's all very nostalgic for me in a way. Shame they're all locked up nowadays. Not for the girls though mind you. They got off lucky. We spent most of our evenings shitting on each other's music taste really, that and seeing who could hold their breath the longest after sparking a shotty. We used to hang out inside this abandoned petrol station with all the pigeons, I remember when we first found the place actually, it was during a snowstorm. We're talking full-on himalayan blizzard. Couldn't see tits. Took a wrong turn trying to meet our dealer Shaggy and there it was. A safe haven from the storm. We called it the Hellhole, like the Hell gas station in the first silent hill game. Conveniently it was an old shell building so one night we went up there with a crowbar we traded for a gram of molly and yanked the S off. Home sweet home. That place was anything we wanted it to be, besides warm. And it fucking stank of pigeon shit too. The S made an interesting bench though, that was until Steven drunkenly crawled onto it when trying to give a bottle of gordons to the pigeons above us. Steven was an irredeemable asshole,and ironically the only one of the bunch of us who I actually liked. Truly lacked any good qualities besides charisma. He was a jealous angry drunk and I loved him like a brother. Maybe it was because he was so unapologetically truthful, or at least what my undeveloped baked hormone whizzing tinker believed to be 'the truth'. In reality he was just another sad far right menace the system at hand produced. When he had his moments of clarity, I mean just the two of us, the fire, couple pigeons. He was beautiful. I really mean it, such a tender twisted kid with such passion for poetry that really shaped how I interpret art to this day. I don't think he really meant any of the blatantly hate filled shit he spewed, just another kid who never really learned how to properly convey his emotions, his... trauma. The Hellhole's gone now, knocked down and turned into condos I should think. I miss the ol' gaff. Still visit it in my head sometimes, my 'mind palace' if you will, and a shit one at that...