Let's face it, ladies and gentlemen, when I enter an online chatroom, I steal the cyber-spotlight. My inter-friends virtually reach out to me; they type in all caps in an effort to cry out for me to "stop playing cyber-God! These are people's online lives that you're toying with! Get a hold of yourself, man." To hell with them, I say. A popular man was never without enemies. When I sign on as my internet-persona, I literally spring to life—my fingers pluck at the keyboard at practically the speed of light, and my online-abbreviations are so accurate and so timely, that even the co-founder of America Online once asked to shake my hand … in part to congratulate me for the contributions I had made to the online world of Greco-Roman conversationalism, and in part, to feel me just so that he could convince himself that I am really human. Has any mortal ever reached the level of my cyber-wisdom and stamina? Dare I say, I have yet to meet him.

For the few precious moments of dialing after I log into my chat-account, I still feel myself the meek voice of the wiry, doubt-plagued, greasy and Cheetos-filled youth of America. As the ever-sweet and releasing moment arrives for me to enter the chatroom, however, I feel as though I have majestically entered into the electromagnetic beam of blue computer light. The same blue computer light that guides me as I develop my egalitarian cyber-philosophy. The same blue computer light that radiates off of my pale, pale skin as I type and send such cyber-witticism that I have an entire room LOLing and ROFLing for minutes and minutes on end. I am a regular Raymond Romano in the cyber-social grounds. And as CBS market research data suggests, everybody loves Raymond … Everybody who matters, that is.

The online chatroom is a strictly black-tie event. While I can lounge in North-Canadian Fleece and Scottish Loafers in the privacy of my own home, I show up to a planned e-discourse dressed and ready for business. If I am to demand respect, I must dress as if I do. That's why, to my online community, I am strictly a "Men's Warehouse" kind of guy. My cybron-companions are fully aware that I have been guaranteed the satisfaction of knowing that "I'm gonna like the way I look." They know, because they've seen the commercials. And, in contrast to the foes that I've met in the "real" world, in my online sphere, I know full-well that the people I encounter in the chatroom won't look at me with judgment for watching nine hours of television on average, because they know full well that they do it themselves. So really, I beg the question, what could be more attractive than a man draped in the gowns of his own self-confidence? I present to you, the methods of Don Juan. Evidently, I have unlocked the same secrets that this legendary lady-killer did some forty years ago. One might say that I downloaded a recipe for romantic success. Download, complete.

I have flirted with disaster, and I have come back to talk about it. I live vicariously through my computer keyboard, just as a lonely mother might live vicariously though the daughter she lost to the world of competitive gymnastics … ironically, the only Olympic event she ever loved enough to call a sport, a passion, and a life-long friend. I am a world-renowned chatter, yes. And it is true that my mother's home proudly holds four online-debating trophies—that I won, of course. But was it really the broken home I came from that left me starving for attention only to play the role of glutton in the Internet chatroom? No, it was my attraction to the world of micro-technology and macro-fun, not to mention my raging unpopularity throughout all three stages of schooling that had me glued to the Dell flat-screen. Welcome to the fast-paced world of e-fraternization.

Indeed, I rushed and I pledged. The fourth chapter of Cyber-Sigma Neutron proudly and willingly found a place in their 23 person, filled-to-capacity, chatroom. My inter-frat days were spend hacking into cyber-sorority e-houses, participating in e-panty raids and pretending to binge drink and bump and grind at our much-acclaimed cyber-frat parties every weekend. If my high school peers only knew that I was hanging out with 50-year-old pedophiles pretending to be college kids, they would rue the day that they wrapped me in a warm, wet carpet in the locker room … 6th period on Tuesday, the eighteenth of February in 1993 and left me to the cruel unravelings of the bloodthirsty locker-room janitor. I was little more than a "pig-in-a-blanket" to them. But, to my sad and lonely online friends, I was the cyber-keg king. And nobody, not even Jeffery Kalgrinson, the most handsome and talented senior at South High, can take that away from me.