New story! And it's not about Collins or Angel. *gasp* It's true. The 1000th Kiss is writing a story outside of her comfort zone . . . and she's scared it won't be good. *holds arms out for hug*
I own nothing. The Almighty Larson owns it all.
If you ask anybody about me, they'd probably tell you that drugs are my life. Well, those people aren't completely right and I'm here to set the record straight. Drugs are only half of my life. Memories of how I got to where I am today are the other half. I can sum it up for you: I sell drugs for a reason.
No, I'm not dirt poor and selling drugs is my last resort. No, I didn't just wake up one day and say, "Hey. I think I'm gonna sell smack for the rest of my life so I can pay off all my debt." I don't even have any debt to pay. I sell because I have to, not because I want to. Hell, if it were up to me, my old man wouldn't have been using in the first place.
It's his fault. His and only his. His fault I almost flunked out of middle school. His fault I didn't finish high school. His fault I started using. His fault I have AIDS. It's all his fault. He started everything and because of him, I'm stuck selling. Because of him, I'm in this shit for life! I hate that bastard!
The fucker sold everything for smack! First it was little things like the radio or the toasted. Then he moved on to the t.v., the couch, his bed, my bed. He ran out of stuff to sell and started letting his dealers (yes, he had more than one) take members of his family to abandoned warehouses and crack houses to "have a little fun" with them. I, unfortunately, was the favorite . . . but I won't get into that right now. So basically a few things about me are I hate my father, my life is a pile of dog shit, I'm dying, and I have nobody around that cares about me.
My name is Timothy Mann and this is my story.
That was a very short first chapter/introduction thing, but it's done.