On the internet, I am Snoink. That is, I am Snoink, the loveable (well, mostly) teenager who is rather eccentric and likes pigs. Did I mention I was a teenager girl?
Well, that’s all a lie. To be honest, if you look at my appearance now, I am balding. Horribly. I used to have thick dark curls running from my head, and I kept my hair long, since it seemed to be a hit with the girls. Now I find myself having to comb my hair over the shiny top of my head to make it look like I have some hair. My hair, once long and gorgeous, is rapidly going fast. And it’s short now. My girlfriend didn’t like it long.
My pride is my beard. It’s long and wispy. A little gray, mind you, but I would rather have it gray than to have it all gone. Sometimes, if I want to flirt with the girls, I twirl my fingers around my beard. My girlfriend says I resemble a monkey when I do that. She’s just jealous.
This may come as a surprise to you – or not. On TYWC, where I first appeared, they thought I was a man at first. “Snoink” would always be called a “he” and there was no stopping it. This was appalling to me. After all, I was trying to act like a girl. You see, it first started with a science fiction novel I was writing. I wanted to write it from a girl’s point of view. So I decided, why not pretend to be a girl? I would have to make sure people believed me, but why wouldn’t they?
So it comes to no surprise when I was horrified that people might have “figured” out the truth. It was humiliating, to say in the least. Perhaps it was my fault. After all, I did pick the horrible name of “Snoink,” which can be taken either way. Maybe if I picked something such as “Pixyunicorn622” I would be taken as a girl. But no matter. I was determined to act my part, no matter at what cost.
Finally, after several years, I got my act down. I knew how to be a girl. But then I was hooked with the internet. After all, it’s funny having people to chat with. Especially since most of the writers are girls…
You can see my dilemma. My girlfriend was ditsy at most, manipulative at worse. While the teenagers on these sites would listen to my (always made up) problems and sympathize, she would simply get angry at me. Finally, I found myself getting closer to my online friends. They understood me.
There was one online friend who particularly interested me. Her name was Beethoven. Although she wasn’t in any particular writing activities I was in, she did like the critiques I gave her, and a couple of years later, she personally gratified me by saying that she still did like my critiques. I was happy with her, but it was only until I saw her picture was I truly smitten. She was lovely. She had short gold hair, with dark framed glasses sitting precociously on her nose, and was seated in a patch of daffodils. She was a homeschooler who had just turned 17, and she was a devout Christian, which meant she was just another sucker. Everything about her screamed, “naïve.” But she was pretty.
And only an hour away.
I arranged a meeting with her. It was quite easy. I told her that I would love to meet her, and she said she would love to meet me too. Then I offered to meet with her at a park. She would drive there, and I would wait. I told her what I looked like – brown hair that shimmered gold or red, depending how bright it was, deep blue eyes that would shine gray at times, and full luscious red lips which were naturally so from my birth. I had a full figure, but I was a little short. Even so, I was well-proportioned and well-endowed. Basically? I looked like my niece. I sent her a picture of my niece to her.
She sent a similar description of herself, telling me how much she would love to meet me.
I was determined to find out how far her “love” would go.
It took a while to drive there, but finally I was at the meeting spot. It was at a secluded park near a river. People were bustling back and forth, fishing rods in one hand, bait in the other. I laughed silently at them, looking at my watch in amusement. It was much too late in the day for them to catch anything. I thought about telling them, but I decided not to, enjoying the defeated looks on their faces as they came back. I looked at my watch again – she was late.
I sighed, perking up at every car that went past, looking for the beautiful girl in the glasses. No such luck. All of the cars seemed to have an elderly couple in it. I looked around at the playground again. A little girl was there on a dinosaur toy rocking it back and forth. “Hello,” I said, approaching her cautiously.
She looked at me doubtfully. “Hello.”
“How are you doing today?” I said this very slowly, just in case she didn’t understand me well. Her frown deepened.
“Good.”
I looked around again, not seeing the beautiful girl. The only person in the playground, where I told her to meet, was this little girl. I doubted Beethoven, the ever-so sophisticated writer, was her.
“How old are you?”
She sucked her finger. “Seven.”
She was beginning to annoy me. “Well, nice meeting you, little girl.” I stepped back into the shadows, looking around. If she were around, I would notice her. After all, she had radiated with beauty in the picture. All her writing suggested that she was a naïve little girl who needed to grow up. I had intended to help her (so to speak) growing up, but I couldn’t do it if she never came. I stamped my foot impatiently.
Then I sighed.
The reason why I had picked her, out of all my online friends, was not because she was particularly beautiful, nor was it because she was more naïve, though both of those were true enough. It was because she had read a story I had written which was a little bit more – shall we say – unorthodox. It was a brutal rape scene, and she had said that it had frightened her at first, but she liked it all the same. Which suggested her open mind and tolerance might be easily expanded to reality.
I waited impatiently. Once more I looked around, noticing a new elderly couple driving around the park. I watched them drive by.
Then I noticed something else. Someone was lurking in the shadows across the street from where I was, watching the playground and looking at his watch. He was about my age, but a lot more ragged than I was with more wild eyes. I stared at him. He looked at his watch again and then sighed. He didn’t notice me at all, but when a car drove by, I noticed his eyes hungrily look into it, until he saw the elderly occupants in it. His face fell.
My stomach dropped.
Slowly I walked over there. “Beethoven?” I asked cautiously.
He looked up, surprised.
“Snoink,” I said, giving him a weak smile. His eyes widened.
“Snoink?”
“Yes. Snoink.” I watched his face turn with interest. He repeated my name silently, his face filled with wonder and doubt.
“You’re actually--?”
“Yes.”
“Wow.”
We stared at each other for a moment. Then I began to laugh, gently at first, until it came out as a roar. He joined me. Finally, wiping the tears in my eyes, I said, “We’re just a bunch of perverts, aren’t we?”
“Yeah.”
I chuckled more. He gave a nervous laugh. I realized how awkward the situation was at once, and straightened up, a serious look on my face. “Wanna drink?”
He looked relieved. “Sure.”
“Then come on. We’ve got much to talk about. For instance, your constant use of adjectives. You know, adjectives should be used very preciously…”
We walked to the nearest bar.
