They were always so predictable, so similar, “Hey babe, wanna chat?”, “Eight inches here, want to play?”, or “OMG Sexy, I love your picture....It made me hard.” It reminded me so much of the bar scene in college–just what I dislike, drunken twenty-somethings trying to jump my bones before they puke or pass out from the beer. This night, however, I felt particularly lonely and wanted to talk to someone even if he was a stranger. I picked Paul, he didn’t have a personal avatar and he was almost. ”“Jeez, what a slime ball! What did you do?”“Jumped out of his car and tried to hitch another ride. He was after me immediately and tried to talk me into going back. That’s when you pulled in and he saw your car. He said I didn’t have to do anything but smile at you, and he’d give me a hundred bucks.”“So it was a car-jacking he was after?”“You mean ... yes, I guess. Sorry. I’m not used to this.”“What sort of car is he driving?”“Some old, beat-up Mercedes. It’s got this horrible baby-blue paint. More

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