Hi. My name is Tucker Foley. And I am a technology addict.

I actually am not worried about this condition, however, because it has helped me out in various situations. Rarely is there a time when technology cannot help you. I know this for a fact.

Like when I met one of my best friends, Danny. You might remember him from when he saved the world. Right before I was mayor for a few years. Oh, by the way! If you voted for me, thank you! Those years were the best! As a nerd, I expected never to be famous.

Fame is for the jocks.

Nerds, generally speaking, make lots of money when they become adults and are only known by the other members in the secret club they are in. Like my Programming Group I have right after this. Hold on; let me make sure that's scheduled in my PDA.

Okay, good. Anyway, I met my friend, Danny, (also known as Danny Phantom, but in this case I'm referring to the Fenton version), when we were in fourth grade. I had just moved to Amity Park and was new at school. However, because I was a nerd, (and still am), I didn't know where to sit in the lunch room.

This is a very common problem for nerds. Especially the ones who are new to school. They haven't found the other nerds yet.

I was walking past the "jock" table, (see, they aren't really jocks yet in fourth grade, but they grew up to be the jocks, and it's easier to call them that since that's the only thing they know how to pronounce), when one of them knocked my food tray to the floor. It was really quick and, although I had years of hand-eye coordination training in the video game realm, I didn't see who did it.

So I did what any fourth grade nerd would do. Yelped and waited for a pounding. The bullies all laughed as one grabbed me by the collar. "Hey, nerd!" He laughed, his voice already squeaky from a strange case of puberty. "Need some help eating your lunch?" He pushed my face down to see the splattered food on the floor.

My hand couldn't quite reach my cargo-pant's pocket, where my cell phone was at, so I couldn't do anything. When I was in fourth grade I had my first cell phone, which I had programmed an electric shock to come out of whenever you dialed the numbers, "882537." That's my name when you spell it in a text.

"Hey, Dash?" Another kid, a scrawny little kid with black hair and icy blue eyes, suddenly said. He was leaning against the table like this was a normal occurrence. And, actually, it probably was.

Dash sighed and relaxed his grip on me. "What, Fen-der? Can't you see I'm with a client?"

I cleared my throat and squeaked out, "He can go ahead if he wants."

The other kid grinned and held up a finger to motion hold on. "I have your homework right here, Baxter. But let go of the poor kid. He's looking a little green."

As soon as Dash let go of my shirt, with a considerable step back from any oncoming puke that I might produce, I grabbed at my cell phone. Unfortunately, it slipped out of my very sweaty hands and hit Dash like I had purposefully thrown it at him. Come to think of it, if we could have harnessed that power I might have been good at football.

Well of course he was mad then. The other kid leaped to grab the phone before it fell, broke, and left me with no way to ever be alive after my parents found out. Dash was about to tackle me, and, as I see it, beat me until my organs came out. I wheezed out through my closing throat, "Hey kid! Dial 882537 on my phone! And point the antenna at Dash!"

This, of course, was a strange request. But Danny, obviously honoring the wishes of the almost-dead, did it. Dash yelped suddenly as I wiggled away. Everyone in the lunch room was watching us by then, and at the sight of Dash Baxter rubbing his butt and nearly crying for his mommy, they all erupted in laughter.

That was when Mr. Lancer noticed us and said, "Robinson Crusoe! What is going on here? Baxter, have you already started in on this poor nerd?"

I was hiding behind Danny.

As always, Dash was let off without anything but a slap on the wrist and I was told to be more careful of where I was walking. No one bothered to tell Lancer about my power-infused technology though, so I got to slip my lovely cell phone back into its rightful place. Danny ushered me away and bought me another lunch.

"Is he always like that?" I asked weakly as we dove into out broccoli-casserole. What? I was hungry after all that!

Danny's eyes glistened. "Who? Lancer or Baxter? Because the answer to both is yes. They are always both like that." He stuffed a few fork filled bites in his mouth before saying, "By the way, I'm Danny. Fenton. Danny Fenton."

I shook his hand, feeling very grown up in my little fourth-grade body. "Tucker Foley. Nice to meet you Danny." Embarrassingly enough, I think my voice squeaked big time when I said Danny. We laughed and talked for the rest of lunch, and, well, became great friends.

Honestly, I could go on for hours like this. But like my mom always says when she's trying to shut up my grandpa, "Too much of a good thing isn't always so good." Eh, whatever.

Anyway, my PDA just beeped. I have to get to that Programmer's Group meeting. It should be fun today. We're taking apart a computer to see if we have what it takes to put it back together. Maybe I'll tell you about that someday!

Oh yeah, and if you see any chic ladies around here, let them know I'll be back soon. Or even just let me know that there are tons of hot women begging for my attention. And don't worry, you already know my number.