He repeats this ritual five times. Although he is not a drinker, an insidious hangover would torture him the next morning reminding him of his wasted time after long nights of Internet bingeing.
Like most addictions, the rationale for such behavior did not make any sense. Online high school behavior is just as bad as or even worse than high school itself. Online or not, gossip has no face time.
Joe barges in with his IPod plugged into his ears and loud as it could be. He is wearing black jeans, a punk-studded belt tilted to the side, and a cap that says KORN. Joe has that hyperactive, ADHD intensity of waiting to entertain.
“Alright look, I swear this is worth it. It’s unlike anything on the Web that is out there. It’s not some lame maze game where the Exorcist girl comes screeching at your screen. It’s no pop up windows full of false-hope million dollar jobs or anything like that.” Joe wears the posterity of a salesman, only he doesn’t have the matching outfit to compliment it.
Just as Oscar was about to utter his first response to Joe’s obvious bogus Science Fiction field trip, the monitor shines a bright white that permeates the screen like a soft mist. Then the screen slowly zooms into black.
Feeling spooked, Oscar felt an odd inclination to get out of there. Joe nonchalantly follows behind him. The parents weren’t home, so he couldn’t get their help. Oscar opens the door, but it is walled in with bricks. “Server Error” is chalked on the brick wall.
However, they are able to escape through a window. The neighbourhood is not the same. The apartment building looks fragile like cardboard. The street tight ropes into a singularity that Joe or Oscar can’t quite make out. Joe and Oscar walk further down and notice the sides of everything have diminished. It’s a two-dimensional world.
Oscar, in disbelief, continues to walk