I always live life to the fullest, or at least I try. Though the outcome of my philosophy has brought me great fortune; family, friends, and somewhat happiness.

As a kid, I never exactly took most things seriously. All I would do was play PlayStation or watch TV. But ever since my family got a computer, I instantly fell in-love with it and was amazed of the things it could do.

I, then and now, love anything to do with advanced technology, so in middle school I took a tech class. The work was hard, but then again, it's not supposed to be easy.

Another thing I favored while growing up was bike riding. It was more or less a small hobby for me. I would go fast down a big hill nearby my house. The wind blowing in my face as it made its way reaching the tips of my hair gave a rush that made it worthwhile. My Mom would tell me to slow down or I'll crash. I never listened. I was incredibly good with the handles, as if I was one with the bike.

More of a reason to ignore her, I was too good a rider. I hardly ever crashed, almost never. If I did, it would go around the neighborhood like "Oh, that kid crashed his bike! Can you believe it?!"

I've met most of my friends through bike riding, and we would have secret meetings to brag about our bikes. We hid behind a hill near a small creak. The grassy and leaf covered area with tall oak trees casting shadows was practically my second home. We built a shed out of thick branches to keep tools for any repairs or modifications we could make on the bikes.

If I wasn't riding, I was at the computer. If I wasn't at the computer, I was riding. If I wasn't doing either, I would be sitting down bored out of my mind.

Riding came with me into high school, when I officially declared it as my "Preferred" transportation. One day, during junior year, while pedaling home on my route, some husky guy pushed me off the sidewalk, ejecting me off my bike. I wasn't hurt, but when I looked, there he went with my bike. It was a nice bike too.

It could act as an all-terrain, and a smooth riding cycle. It had 7 speed shifts, a black frame, and bright blue rims that could glow in the dark. I had gotten the idea from Tron: Legacy. Although I got fined for it once, I got a lot of attention for that bike.

Usually, on my trips home, I would speed through parking lots to arrive faster. But on that day, I noticed something. Something that rarely even came to my attention: The downtown district.

Walking through the unappealing debris that was civilization, it wasn't pretty. In fact, it was depressing. Looking at the crumbling walls with graffiti all over like it was dipped in the world's largest bucket of bad paint, was just sad.

The images of skulls, guns, and blood on sides of buildings made my skin crawl. Other structures had already gave weigh. I was acquainted with the modern styles but with this, I wanted to look down the entire walk, but I had to keep my guard up. I had heard stories of countless crime that goes on here, even though this was considered a ghost town.

The sidewalks were nearly overgrown with tall weeds and small bushes due to the uneven and old concrete. It looked more like aquatic life, with the plants dancing in the wind like sea weed sways with the current of the sea.

My heart sunk as I realized that there were people actually living here, here in this somewhat wasteland. I saw children running around their front lawn that was surrounded with a 3 foot chained fence. They rolled around on the ground, clouds of dirt clearly floating around them.

"What is this place that I'm seeing", I asked myself, but unfortunately I didn't have an answer. Where I lived didn't even seem like a place where you would find a dying city such as this. But my house was just a couple of miles from it.

It was a quiet neighborhood with kind people and beautiful homes that reminds you of how neighbors should act and how the world should be. But every so often, at least every two months, some sort of mishap would take place. Either it was a shooting, a robbery, a car chase, or just someone playing music too loud.

I told my parents what had happened, after I took an unexpected walk through the city. They called the cops, and a report was filed. They never found that guy, nor did they find my bike.

After the event of my bike being stolen, my parents insisted on buying me a new one. I told them they didn't have to, and that I would use my brother's old bike.

It was the second year since my brother moved out. I suppose you could say we were close, even though we never like to admit it. Our age difference is 2 and a half years. Sure, he's taller, but I'm more masculine. He, in fact, is the one who taught me how to ride a bike. That's something I give him great respect for, to give me the experience.

His dingy old bike wasn't exactly in good shape. More or less, it needed work. I did the best I could to revive it to its original state. Several weeks, some small cuts, and $253 dollars out of pocket later, I did it.

I felt as though I had helped an injured bird, or in this case, a low-rider with wide handlebars and a ground low frame. That's what the students called me when I started riding it; The Low Rider. The name hardly fitted me, but I said nothing.

My senior year came. And for some reason, I felt the need to change my fashion. It's hard to keep up with the trends always changing. The things that caught my attention were gangster clothes.

It not what gang members did that made their clothes appealing, it’s just what I was into at the time. I had already told myself that I wouldn't act like a thug, I was only going to dress like one. I always said no to drugs, alcohol, tobacco, and bullying. And I didn't intend to quit on my conscience now.

In my head, I drew an imaginary line, one I wouldn't dare cross. The other side was full of evil and darkness, and I vowed to stay on the good and light side. So that was it. I changed my 12 year old style to gangster.

I went to my local thrift store and bought some 2XL T-shirts, basketball shorts, and two "Lids" as they were called. While I was at it, I bought a belt. I didn't want to look like an idiot if my shorts would fall down because they were loose. I'd seen that happen to people.

The teens still called me Low Rider, but they didn't mock me anymore. Perhaps this new style made me look good. My friends complimented me on my "swag", or whatever the heck I had.

My parents didn't have much to say about this. Even though I explained I wasn't doing any changes to my attitude. I can tell they didn't fully approve of my choice of style, but never told me their opinion upfront.