I discovered the Internet nine years ago. It was quite magical. This is still the case. The instant information and feeling of connection made me feel almost famous. I created my first Facebook profile when I was 12 years old. The most exciting part was the customization. Personalization is what I live for. I created my account and filled out all my information as quickly as possible. There are a billion photos of me on my dad's computer, so I chose the one of me skating with my brother. Birthday? January 19**. Parents? I typed in my father's name. Siblings? Then my brother. Religious opinions? School? Hometown? Movies Spouse School AddressEmailWorkplace... It felt so good to express myself without much effort. Who has time to write a song or paint a portrait anyway? It felt so good to be… connected. And of course, when you were a kid, you sat through a bunch of boring lectures over the years while the principal's voice droned on about sharing your personal information on such dangerous, even deadly, kidnapping sites. Everyone around you was saying how bad it was on their phone. But if everyone posts their "personal" information, there's very little chance I'll get kidnapped, so why bother? Everyone does it. They are all still here and breathing so I think everything will be fine. Anyway, I was too old to be kidnapped. Remember, your phone number is not “personal information.” Your social security number is, and I'm smart enough not to post it. Say no to plagiarism. Get a tailor-made essay on “Why Violent Video Games Should Not Be Banned”? Get the original essay It's been a long time since 2009. Huh. What do you know. After all, I wasn't kidnapped. I've never known anyone who was either, and I'm already in high school. Posting contact details is not really a big deal as parents and teachers claim. I don't really post things on Facebook anymore anyway. I mean, if you click on "my photos" you'll still see 22 albums of trips to church camp, the second half of junior year, and photos of my brother, but the only reason I still uses Facebook to find the date of the next youth fair, car wash or work on the group project scheduled for next Tuesday on the symbolism of the color white in The Scarlet Letter. Harmless. Then I got the phone call. I pulled into Ryan's driveway and parked the car. After I took off my seat belt, a techno pop beat blared from the cup holder to my right. “Go inside, I’ll meet you in there.” “Are you sure?” "Yeah, no, I have a phone call apparently." "See you inside." "Number unknown." I wonder who I know who keeps their caller ID private now. Hmm. It's maybe a wrong number. It's probably a wrong number. I press the green image of a phone. "Hello?" "Emily, this is-" He didn't need to finish. knew from the first syllable. My tongue fell into my throat. My brain felt heavy. No warning or anything, how unfair. His deep voice was both sad and relieved. looked more inside my father's 2011 Honda Fit I saw in front of me the walls of my second address, which now has up to 8 people. I was in the first floor living room, on a train. to color while he watched television. Then he changed the light bulb and smoked a cigarette. There are a lot of memories that I haven't thought about.for a long time. That was seven houses ago. It was a few drug busts and an unrelated prison sentence ago. I haven't seen Uncle Mike in a long, long time. What connections do we still have? What was I supposed to do? How was I supposed to tell my own uncle that I wasn't interested in talking to him? He told me about his work. He works at a small bike shop where we lived. I think I might remember that one. It was on the main street that ran through Hampton Bays. It's nice, I guess. He even had a little dog: Bandit. He said it was the only thing he lived for. That, and me. But you know, no pressure, right? I remember how Uncle Mikeil would get up with me in the morning before school to make me breakfast because he was the only one who did it. These were probably the best eggs I have ever eaten. I'm pretty sure he also built the old swing set outside Beachdale. I spent a lot of time on this swing. Uncle Mike has done many good things for me that I will never be able to repay. Even if we talked again, I wouldn't be able to give him what he gave me. Then I remembered the maggots in the fridge after he reluctantly left years later. They were all in the same kitchen we were eating in. I remember when we found a bag of white powder behind the couch. I remember the restraining order (no longer in effect) against my mother and I because he and my mother were not the best of friends. I especially remember him coming back from prison to live in the woods across the street from where we shop. He still had an almost intact room waiting for him. He was happier living with a group of “friends” in the woods than in my grandmother’s house. Maybe he was just avoiding conflict. Maybe he wanted to carry out his illegal activities in peace, who knows? The question remained. How did he find me? Where did he get my number from? He doesn't have Facebook. He doesn't even know what Facebook is. But he has friends who do it. Friends who were once also my friends and who are still in the eternal world that lives online. How incredibly stupid could I be by displaying my phone number for the world to see? And you know, if I never got that call, it would still be here to this day, guaranteed. I just got out of this family mess, I can't go back now. I mean, don't get me wrong. all these experiences made me who I am today and all that good shit, but I know it has to be over now. So my dad had a long talk with Uncle Mike. I sat at the kitchen table and heard the telephone conversation taking place in a bedroom not far away. Then we changed my phone number. It took a few months before everyone knew about it again. A week before, I would have said to look him up on Facebook. This would have solved everything in a few hours. Anyway, I then deleted every Facebook post I ever made and made myself impossible to find on social media. It wasn't until that time, in 10th grade, that I realized that all these lectures, lectures and assemblies weren't just about perverts and online predators. And it doesn't matter how old you are for something to go wrong on the Internet. Ugh, it was such a cheesy after school special but so much more important because it's TV and it's real life and TV shows can't always change who you are like reality can . How many episodes of Law and..