A Rock Opera.
The Jesus of Suburbia
I'm the son of rage and love...
The Jesus of Suburbia...
Why is everyone around me so deluded, so idiotic, so fucking hypocritical? Why must they constantly make stupid remarks, continue to be superficial...continue to judge every living thing?
Name's Ryan. Except I fucking hate my name. Not because its a dumb name, but because my alcoholic for a mother chose it. I prefer to be known as Jesus. My friends nicknamed me that. I have my own religion - known as 'this town is a shithole'.
So yeah, I fucking hate my town. Full of the types of people I mentioned before. Bitches, bastards, fuckheads, assholes, superficial motherfuckers...you name it. Yeah, I like to swear alot. And if you don't fucking like it, you can fucking go to hell where you fucking came from.
I live in downtown suburbia, with my mum and my stepdad. My older sister died from drug overdose. Everyone in my family is undereducated, watch TV too much, smoke, drink and swear. My mum tries to act like everything's normal. Even if it isn't. Even if my stepdad never came home from the bar and never ate his TV dinner she set out for him. Even if she gets calls from school saying I haven't been there in the last two weeks.
Me? I hang out at the 7-11. I usually wag off school. I have my own view of life - teachers are fuckers. They can't tell us what to believe, what to think, how to act in society. My school's pretty small. Has a population of about 200 people. Most of which, I hate in some way or considered picking a fight with. I'm usually pretty quiet in class. Yeah, I know. I'm quiet. Except when disagreeing with the teachers.
I get called emo sometimes. Sure, my hairs black, I like showing my anger through violent clothes and I listen to music alot. But I'm not depressed. I'm just angry alot. So stop calling me a fucking emo. I prefer being called punk. Even though most people in this piece of shit of a town don't know the difference between emos, punks and goths. Then again, I hate labelling people. Its too superficial.
I don't do drugs, smoke or drink. I did a couple of times, but stopped. I wasn't going to be like my parents in anyway.
Oh yeah - I'm 15 years old.
And this is the story of my life.
--
As I woke up that morning, I could hear shouting from the kitchen. I closed my eyes tightly as I heard the tinkling of smashing glass. This was a pretty average morning. On average, we went through fifty glasses a week just by breaking them. Violence was pretty common in my family.
Thank god it was a Saturday. I could be outside all day and fantasize about escape, how I'm gonna get some money and move far far away...and find my place in this world.
I dragged myself out of bed and into my tiny bathroom next to my room. Looking at my appearance in the mirror, I ran my fingers through my hair, attempting to mess it up a bit more. My bright green eyes, lined with thick black eyeliner, stared back at me.
I changed into some different clothes, dumping my previous change of clothes by the laundry. As if they'd ever get washed. Our family was way too disorganised.
I walked out into the kitchen, straight past my mum who was sitting on a stool by the bench, leaving the broken glass on the floor. She gave me a filthy look on seeing I was about to go out. Her make up around her eyes was smudged, her perfume way too strong.
"Where are you going?" she asked sharply.
"The same thing could be asked for where your boyfriend has gone," I snapped back. I headed out through the front door and out onto the street. Our front yard was very dishevelled - overgrown plants in one corner, rubbish from the trash can littered all over the place and the grass desperately needing a trim.
"Don't think you can just leave, young man!" I heard her scream behind me.
I shoved my hands deep in my pockets, rolling my eyes to myself. I stepped onto my skateboard and began to make my way down the street, happily humming to myself. Ah, I hated my mother so much. Such a pleasant woman she was, too.
Soon enough I was outside the 7-11. My familiar gang was already there - there was Al, Tim, Ed and Samantha. We called her Sam. She was sort of my girlfriend. I didn't especially like her, she didn't really like me. We were more like distant sort of friends.
"Mum being a bitch again?" Tim hollered. I nicknamed him Ciggy, after the amount of cigarettes he'd smoke. Sure enough he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and inhaled deeply.
"Obviously," I said, stopping my skateboard and picking it up. "Brad left the house again. Probably to go have sex with some hookers. I dunno. I don't know what she sees in that bastard. But they do make a perfect couple."
My gang sniggered. They came from pretty disadvantaged families too. We all knew what the other people were going through. We all hated this town so much...but I was the only one who seriously considered leaving.
"Come on," Al said, getting up from where he was sitting on the gutter. "Let's go burn stuff."
I smiled, putting my skateboard back down and following them. One of our favourite pastimes was burning stuff...whether it be grass, petrol, fences of the nicer looking houses...we just liked making trouble. We also enjoyed bullying little kids, robbing the 7-11 and throwing rocks at windows.
But not once had I felt like I was truly happy.
The Jesus of Suburbia...
Why is everyone around me so deluded, so idiotic, so fucking hypocritical? Why must they constantly make stupid remarks, continue to be superficial...continue to judge every living thing?
Name's Ryan. Except I fucking hate my name. Not because its a dumb name, but because my alcoholic for a mother chose it. I prefer to be known as Jesus. My friends nicknamed me that. I have my own religion - known as 'this town is a shithole'.
So yeah, I fucking hate my town. Full of the types of people I mentioned before. Bitches, bastards, fuckheads, assholes, superficial motherfuckers...you name it. Yeah, I like to swear alot. And if you don't fucking like it, you can fucking go to hell where you fucking came from.
I live in downtown suburbia, with my mum and my stepdad. My older sister died from drug overdose. Everyone in my family is undereducated, watch TV too much, smoke, drink and swear. My mum tries to act like everything's normal. Even if it isn't. Even if my stepdad never came home from the bar and never ate his TV dinner she set out for him. Even if she gets calls from school saying I haven't been there in the last two weeks.
Me? I hang out at the 7-11. I usually wag off school. I have my own view of life - teachers are fuckers. They can't tell us what to believe, what to think, how to act in society. My school's pretty small. Has a population of about 200 people. Most of which, I hate in some way or considered picking a fight with. I'm usually pretty quiet in class. Yeah, I know. I'm quiet. Except when disagreeing with the teachers.
I get called emo sometimes. Sure, my hairs black, I like showing my anger through violent clothes and I listen to music alot. But I'm not depressed. I'm just angry alot. So stop calling me a fucking emo. I prefer being called punk. Even though most people in this piece of shit of a town don't know the difference between emos, punks and goths. Then again, I hate labelling people. Its too superficial.
I don't do drugs, smoke or drink. I did a couple of times, but stopped. I wasn't going to be like my parents in anyway.
Oh yeah - I'm 15 years old.
And this is the story of my life.
--
As I woke up that morning, I could hear shouting from the kitchen. I closed my eyes tightly as I heard the tinkling of smashing glass. This was a pretty average morning. On average, we went through fifty glasses a week just by breaking them. Violence was pretty common in my family.
Thank god it was a Saturday. I could be outside all day and fantasize about escape, how I'm gonna get some money and move far far away...and find my place in this world.
I dragged myself out of bed and into my tiny bathroom next to my room. Looking at my appearance in the mirror, I ran my fingers through my hair, attempting to mess it up a bit more. My bright green eyes, lined with thick black eyeliner, stared back at me.
I changed into some different clothes, dumping my previous change of clothes by the laundry. As if they'd ever get washed. Our family was way too disorganised.
I walked out into the kitchen, straight past my mum who was sitting on a stool by the bench, leaving the broken glass on the floor. She gave me a filthy look on seeing I was about to go out. Her make up around her eyes was smudged, her perfume way too strong.
"Where are you going?" she asked sharply.
"The same thing could be asked for where your boyfriend has gone," I snapped back. I headed out through the front door and out onto the street. Our front yard was very dishevelled - overgrown plants in one corner, rubbish from the trash can littered all over the place and the grass desperately needing a trim.
"Don't think you can just leave, young man!" I heard her scream behind me.
I shoved my hands deep in my pockets, rolling my eyes to myself. I stepped onto my skateboard and began to make my way down the street, happily humming to myself. Ah, I hated my mother so much. Such a pleasant woman she was, too.
Soon enough I was outside the 7-11. My familiar gang was already there - there was Al, Tim, Ed and Samantha. We called her Sam. She was sort of my girlfriend. I didn't especially like her, she didn't really like me. We were more like distant sort of friends.
"Mum being a bitch again?" Tim hollered. I nicknamed him Ciggy, after the amount of cigarettes he'd smoke. Sure enough he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and inhaled deeply.
"Obviously," I said, stopping my skateboard and picking it up. "Brad left the house again. Probably to go have sex with some hookers. I dunno. I don't know what she sees in that bastard. But they do make a perfect couple."
My gang sniggered. They came from pretty disadvantaged families too. We all knew what the other people were going through. We all hated this town so much...but I was the only one who seriously considered leaving.
"Come on," Al said, getting up from where he was sitting on the gutter. "Let's go burn stuff."
I smiled, putting my skateboard back down and following them. One of our favourite pastimes was burning stuff...whether it be grass, petrol, fences of the nicer looking houses...we just liked making trouble. We also enjoyed bullying little kids, robbing the 7-11 and throwing rocks at windows.
But not once had I felt like I was truly happy.