My life has left much to be desired. People avoid me, step over me. You know, the whole, “Don’t step on a crack or you’ll break your mother’s back.” Stupid rhyme. They see me as ugly. A sign of old disarray. A hazard. To them, I’m simply something to get rid of. They hate me. Well, I hate this! I’m lonely and do you think that sitting here all the time is anything but boring? I see people laughing, trees swaying. Even the sidewalk—who, might I add, is disgusted by me--is happy. He says I’m his problem, his flaw. As if I’d be nothing without out him. Frankly, I think it’s his attitude. But no one else notices. No one cares about me. The people will dispose of ne eventually, and say that it’s a nicer place without me. Then I won’t have to take this anymore. My life as a crack in the sidewalk will be over.