I hate my life. I have no money and no place to live. And this is pretty much how it happened:

It all started on my 10th birthday, when I decided to run away from home. I had been planing this for some time, but it was still a difficult thing to do. My mother and I have never been very close, so I knew she wouldn’t care, and my asshole of a father left before I was born. Besides, I was young and wanted to have an adventure. What an ignorant little bastard I was.

Before then, my only friend was some rich prick from up the road who constantly bragged about himself and told me I would never become anything. But I had to put up with it, I reasoned, because his grandpa was pretty well-known around the neighborhood and was something of a mentor to me. And besides, my town had like nine fucking people living in it, so unless I didn’t want any friends, I really had no choice.

After that, my entire adolescence involved me moving around from place to place trying to get along with people who didn’t give a shit about me. I eventually teamed up with an Asian guy who was like in his thirties or something, and who only kept me around because he thought I could help him get laid. I didn’t mind, though, because he knew how to cook, and I was poor and hungry. But the best part was that I also got to hang out with this ginger chick. She was as flat as a pancake and could be a bitch at times, sure, but damn was she sexy.

But the bane of my existence had to be this fucking adult couple I had the displeasure of bumping into. You know, the kind that wear matching clothes and finish each other’s sentences? Total fucking creepers. Seriously, these people were always up to something suspicious. Oh, and as if it couldn’t get any stranger, they also owned a hot-air balloon and took their cat everywhere with them. I swear I thought they were stalking me because no matter where I went they somehow managed to cause me problems.

Anyway, the only thing that kept me going was my dream of becoming a Pokemon master.