Hi everyone, I'll keep my real name private for now but you can call me Rodi. I make music and that is the only thing I am even somewhat close to passionate about. Music and cigarettes are the only things I can say I enjoy. The most comforting thought I have is that I won't live forever. Ask anyone what they want in life and they'll tell you, they want a good job, a wife/husband, kids, white picket fence and a dog. I want nothing more than 25 mixtapes (albums for poor people nobody gives a fuck about) and a death that won't cause my family any heart ache. I think about killing myself rather often but I know I wouldn't do it. At least not anytime soon that is. I want to leave something behind. I know people will act like they liked me after I'm dead so I may as well give them some stuff to talk about. Other than my music all that's really memorable about me is my constant depression. I have been depressed since I was about 12 or 13. I think it'd be more accurate to say that is when I was mature enough to see it. I have several problems with who I am that make being a good fit in society just will not work. I don't like being around a lot of people, I have no desire to meet new people because they always end up being nothing more than a bad memory, I do pretty much everything except carry a pointed stick to keep the girls that attempt to flirt with me away and I drink like there's a message in a bottle and enjoy my as a friend of mine calls it "fun stuff". I have been spiraling down in to a never ending hole that just seems to get colder and darker as I plummet for as long as I can remember clearly. I've never been that super cool, heart breaking guy that all my friends want to be like. I'm more of the dressed in all black in the back of the party taking swigs from my drink and smoking like a chimney that doesn't talk unless engaged. I'm some what good looking, at least I've come to that conclusion because girls hit on me in the grocery store often and I think that's odd. I'm so depressed that when I look in the mirror I only see a cage with a flicker of a candle that is the old me in the depths of my eyes. When all you see is a shell for a never ending pain it's hard to think of yourself as handsome. I'm smarter than most of my peers but at the same time all of them other than very rare occasions are miles ahead of me when it comes to math. I was a mediocre student, B and C grades I moved my freshman year and had never been to the town before. I didn't know anyone or where to go have fun. It was like a rural purgatory. My first day was nerve racking, I was engaged in conversation two times but after they realized I wasn't a jock or really outgoing they ignored me like I was a ghost. I walked through the hallways trying to find eye contact. It was like I was in some shitty indie film about the struggles of being a teen. I would ask people what they were doing after school and they would say "Hanging out with (insert name." and I just kind of knew I wasn't supposed to ask to join. Before I got to the area I was the biggest basketball enthusiast I have ever known of. I would play for 10 hours a day in the summer and I would run home from school to finish my work (or at least enough to still pass) and play more ball until I had to go home. My childhood was a sloppy mess filled with paycheck to paycheck to no lights. I was very scared that some day my family would get kicked out of out house. I used basketball as an escape and when I had the ball in my hands, I wasn't "Rodi" anymore I was "that short kid with the cross over and the jump shot that bombs on people with his black friend." I felt so alive with it in my hands. Then when I got to the new town after like a week of unpacking and getting settled I saw my ball in the closet and was shocked, it had been forever since I played (forever being a week or so) and I quickly swooped the ball up. I looked down at it between my hands feeling the bumps and black lines and I just felt a basketball. I shrugged it off as being groggy from all the moving shenanigans. I walked down to the courts not even a block away, I started dribbling when I got through the gate, I flipped it in front of me with as much back spin as I could so it would come back to me like I was catching a bounce pass from my friend and then did my patent stutter step, back step, fake rush and pull up jump shot and I watched it sail high, I thought "too much, it's going over." and then I watched it hit the very bottom of the net like someone standing on the backboard had just lightly dropped it in. I felt nothing. I didn't feel alive at all, I didn't feel stunned that I made it, I didn't snap my head around hoping someone saw it. I just looked at the ball bouncing, bouncing, bouncing. It's peak getting lower with each time it hit the ground just like my hopes for a new start. I stood there, arm and hand still extended in the flamingo shape that a jump shot leaves; just staring at the ball. About five minutes pass and I lower my arm slowly, I walk towards the ball and start to bend but then in the back of my head I think "what's the point?" and I just walk home, ball still on the court, a piece of me right next to it. When I get home I go lay on my bed, holding a piece of the asphalt from the court my best friend and I used to play on and cry. I toss it in to a bag by my dresser and gather myself. I walk in to the living room and watch some crime show with my mom and dad. Neither of them can tell how impossible it seems to adjust. It's maddening. Each day I march through the hallways with a chip on my shoulder thinking if I'm just a sarcastic prick that I'll be fine. I did such a good job convincing people I didn't give a shit that I forgot how to. I hated myself so what was the point of making something out of myself or trying to get with girls? They didn't like my weird style or how I talk like "a white guy" they didn't like shit about me. Neither did I so I had no problem with it. Almost every night I would walk down to the bridge and try to muster the courage to jump. Never could but one night, my mind was running laps like a greyhound and I knew it had to be done. I ran down to the bridge and stood on the railing leaning on a support beam near me. Right as I was doing the down from 25 count I would do I got a call from my best friend. He called just to see how I was doing and let me know that he missed me and wished he could have me around more. I stepped down and had some sort of short term epiphany and life was a big painting that I got to add to. I made music about positivity, reasons not to commit suicide and basic morals. Now I rap about getting drunk, depression, how good my rhymes are and how cold I feel. I'm pathetic. This is all probably too long but whatever nobody was going to read this anyways. What has really convinced me that life has no point and I just need to wait for death is that I met my soul mate and she didn't meet hers. What is one to do with their soul when the one that completes them will be broken if they are with them? They let them go and live in a permanent dark, icy cave that they will never leave. Unless some day she wants me back, I'll never love again, I'll never go make new friends. I'll never be that guy again. All he was good at was getting hurt. I was a really sweet guy, the breakfast in bead, buy you flowers, write you poems, love notes and love songs to prove just how much I love you but no more. I'll be that guy that hangs in the back of the party and will take just about any distraction possible, I'll twist my cigars with my favorite herbs, I'll fill my gut with alcohol, play my music loud enough to break my ear drums and take any women that wants some of me but I'm an early bird so you won't see me in the morning. Sorry, I just have to look out for this guy named "Rodi" it's painful watching him get beat up so much. Find my feelings at the bottom of a bottle, find my heart in pieces scattered through the cavern of my chest, find my soul scattered on the boulevard in front of my former lover's house. I'll never be the same. This house is as frigid as my smiles, my eyes as hallow as my laughter, my bed is empty. I look at your side of the bed and I hear the bridge tempt me. I wish I knew how to help me.