Once mummy and daddy disown you, you will have to make do with Ellos or Haléns, plastic boy. Any day now, they'll wake up and see what a useless creature their son actually is because there is a limit to parental love. When you're asleep, surrounded by your Japanese games, the monkey suits and the Nip/Tuck posters, they'll talk about the options available to them; what's the most human choice? Should they just put a bullet in your head and tell the authorities that you ran away--Japan, probably--or should they throw you out, prererably in late November. In the best of worlds they'll end up telling you that you were adopted, and you'll find yourself on that street, crying "Working Class Hero" between your plastic lips, looking every bit as ridiculous as Michael Jackson after death softened what remained of his facial features.
And the sad part is that you won't understand what went wrong. It's conceivable that you won't even understand that something did, in fact, go wrong.