Disclaimer: Don't own em, just make them do my bidding.

I spent the first fifteen years of my life in a small town in Upstate New York. The first thing people generally think with a small town is a warm, loving family.

I sure as hell didn't have one.

I remember being five and wanting a puppy more than anything for Christmas. What I got was a beating from my drunk father.

I spent as little time at home as humanly possible, often overhearing older teens dreaming of gonig to New York City and making it big. They made it sound so glamorous and wonderful, and soon, it became my dream, too. I wasn't sure what I was going to do, but I wanted to be recognized and loved. I wanted the world to know my name.

Eventually, my parents were discovered and I was taking in by Social Services. I was shuttled from foster home to foster home until I finally received the news. I had been adopted by a family in New York City- my dream was finally about to come true.

My adoptive parents were nice, but not always around. They were both workaholic lawyers. They told me I wouldn't need them so much, that I'd make friends in no time. I was enrolled in a brand new high school with brand new clothes. I was reinventing myself and for the first time excited about life.

But no one at my new school wanted anything to do with the nerd from upstate. I dressed wrong, spoke wrong, listened to the wrong music. All I wanted was to be liked, to have someone love me, but I was all wrong.

Until one day, when I saw the popular kids on a street corner, clamoring around a guy in a hoodie. They all were really excited to see him. Whatever this guy was doing, he was doing it right, so after they all left I approached him. He asked if I wanted any smack. I had no idea what he was talking about but told him I wanted to do whatever it was he was doing. He just laughed and blew me off. Just like everyone else. I later found out he was a drug dealer. I couldn't even get a fucking drug dealer to take me seriously.

So I took to finding druggies passed out in alleyways and began stealing from them the substances that would make me popular. I bought a black zip up hoodie with lots of inside pockets. I stood on a street corner, trying to look inconspicuous, but I had no idea how to sell drugs.

I was beginning to get frustrated when a little Hispanic girl passed by me, stuffing a bag of powder in her tattered coat pocket. I stopped her, trying to seem like I wasn't begging. "I can get you smack cheaper than he can."

The woman's face brightened. By closer inspection, I realized she couldn't have been much older than I was. She nodded enthusiastically and told me she'd be by the next day.

Before long, I had dozens of clients. I finally had people wanting my attention, clamoring for me. They were the beautiful people I had always looked up to- musicians from CBGBs, gorgeous girls who worked at the mysterious Cat Scratch Club. I was needed. The whole world knew who I was.

Thats where I am now. And sometimes, I wonder- how the hell did I get here? It seems so simple, but I don't know what motivated me to push through and actually do it. I wanted people to need me, to know my name. I'm beginning to realize now that their need is superficial, and they'll never know my name. To them, I'm just "The Man", the guy who can get their sickness off.

I'm startled out of my reverie by the small Hispanic girl, my first client. The hungry look in her pretty eyes entrances me as she says in her throaty voice, "Got any C, Man?"

I grin. How could I give this up?

"I'm cool."