Grade school was weird, I didn't really fit in. I thought I'd make new friends fast, but I didn't. I knew how to skate, though, and I had my friend Shayne, and we'd go down the street and we would do that every day. Summer ended and grade seven had begun. I walked into the new classroom, didn't know anyone. My grades were high but social stress were higher. I feigned others' interests; Does that make me a liar? The eighth grade was fucked though, I mean it. Socially awkward, angry, bulimic, doing breakfast like eggs, toast, and vomit. 5' 4" and 95 pounds? Come on.

The pretty girls played with my hair, braid it and shit. The dudes I called my friends called me faggot and shit. The church and my mother's love couldn't save me. "Don't listen to that music son, you're just a baby" Instead of being me I tried to be Davey but it's been ten years and now I'm looking to Jay Z for guidance and justification for why I hustle. Not hustle like coke or rap but just... hustle. Like doing the shit I gotta do just to keep being me like dropping music to do school and get a degree then ditching after year two to realize my dreams, singing "won't my mommy be so proud of me?"

I'm crushing up my dreams and brushing up on me. Won't you please be proud of me?

I've been making music for a little bit. I've been in a few bands. Well, a bunch... But I'm sick of it. I should have clued in 2008 when Ben wrote some songs that he'd grow to hate and we were balls-deep in tracking and he called me Corrigan because if he wouldn't play it, then I would. And if he wouldn't say it, then I would. I had all this vision and he fully trusted me, and even though the sound of my own voice disgusted me he told me to sing and to sing from the heart because every line in a song is a snapshot of just who you are, or were for a moment. I'm not that kid anymore.

First love's a bitch, and I loved that dude like an older brother. I remember the last night we trusted one another. It was November 6, 2008 and while sharing a toilet I asked if he'd mind if I dated Emily. And mid-stream in that moment I felt him resenting me because he felt that he owned her, two emotional punching bags that neither could quit. Maybe he knew that with me, that'd be it. We didn't talk that night. He wrote in his laptop and I wrote in my notepad and prayed it would be alright. But it wasn't. It hasn't been since. Just know I'm sorry, if you ever hear this.

I'm crushing up my dreams and brushing up on me. Won't you please be proud of me?