This was purposly written to be really bad cyberpunk. ACtually I took some guy's sad story of singledom from alt.personals and transformed it into cyberjunk! David THE ADVENTURES OF  SINBAD THE SINGLE SAILOR IN THE SEA OF SINGLES 2110 Intro:         The 1990s version of this story was written by Anon2011 as we all know. We discussed it and I offered to give it a cyberpunk edge. Seeing as I thought it was on its way there anyway.  Now, for those of you who don't know what cyberpunk is, I'll explain that in a minute. First let me say that it is not my intention here to write good cyberpunk. It would take years of practice to begin to do that. Therefore I will not attempt to do so.  Instead of trying to write good or bad cyberpunk, I thought I could pull it off if I write cyberpunk satire.  We'll see...         Cyberpunk is a genre of science fiction popularized in the 1980s.   The premiere writer of this genre, Wiliam Gibson,  whose work is considered to fully embody its ideals wrote the award winning book called Neuromancer.  That was followed by Count Zero and Mona Lisa Overdrive. Gibson also has a compelling book of short stories called Burning Chrome.  Also interesting is Bruce Sterling who wrote Islands in the Net. Sterling edited an anthology of cyberpunk called Mirrorshades. This is a great book because it gives you a taste of the scope of cyberpunk from different writers .  The gist of cyberpunk is high tech and low life, the double edged sword of technology, it uses benefits and pitfalls, the amazing speed with which information can be delivered and the vast quantity of it that can overwhelm, virtual reality aka cyberspace, etc.  Gibson said The street finds its own uses for things. or something like that.   THE ADVENTURES OF SINBAD THE SINGLE SAILOR IN THE SEA OF SINGLES 2110 9:30 P.M. Standing over the sink, running razor sharp blades over my face (whoever invented this social habit had a masochistic streak in him!), I stare blankly into the mirror, its chrome edges glinting in the glare of the neon-flourescents against the dark edges of the tiny bathroom.  Little drops of blood slide down my chin and neck. Shaving is such a male dilemma (wish you wouldn't have to but glad you do!).  The backround blare of the Xerolux vidstim announces the latest casualties from a war fought on the streets for I don't know how long.  I hardly notice it. My head aches from the Zippers I took to keep going at work.  Run cold water over my face.  It drips down and mixes with the drops of blood on my neck.  A few more splashes and I look almost as good as new. Brush my hair. Apply a multitude of aromatic powders, sprays, creams and liquids over my body each intended for a purpose (I bet if I twirled around I would smell as close to a nasal keliedescope as one could get). Ah yes, preparation for another enchanted evening in vibestim body- shake establishements around town.  Walk over to the kitchen, still naked (living alone has its advantages!). Get the bottle of antique vodka out of the fridge (ice-cold syruppy consistancy, just right).  The stuff is as ancient as a 95 thunderbird and damn hard to get. But there's always someone or some thing on the blipnet that can get it for you. For a price. My granddaddy loved it and spoke of it much. He couldn't get into the synthehol or designer chemicals. Down two shots (need to get in the mood early or the charming side of my brain (huh?) will never get rolling).  Its good but I could use an added edge to do the trick for what I need for tonight.  I take out a small cartridge of blue bubble shaped capsules. Blue Meanies.  I pop two and pocket the rest for later along with a six pack of pink starbursts.  Walk over to the closet.  Four pairs of black slacks, eight black shirts.   Hmmm, what color should I wear tonight?  Black is always a good choice.  Not exactly metro chic these days but I'm somewhat old fashioned. I don't quite get feel right about deep flourescent gold and pinkish red floating auras activated from _embed_ded impants set off by the new polymerfilament clothing worn by many now.   I grab my pocket deck and check all local distributed and remote functions. I have access to the surrounding area and a lock-in to advanced features via the car deck.  I pocket the deck and spin out. 10:30 P.M.  Walking out the apartment.  Reality has already started to loose its sharp edges. The meanies are starting to kick in. The world takes on a cool, crystal clear edge but with a serenity that gives the night soft fuzzies. I'm in a dream and I feel charming (yeah right!).  Where to go tonight? Somewhere decent where I might meet somebody nice, get to know her, go out on a few dates, gradually get romantic, fool around, loose interest,break up, and have two people feeling scummy for a month, or someplace sleazy where I will probably get lucky, fool around, wake up the next morning to the sight of smeared cheap makeup and the smell of cheap perfume and feel scummy for a day?  Smirnof has dampened the meanines and passed control to lower body extremities. Sleeze building here I come! 11:00 P.M. The street outside the vsjoint is dirty and littered with debris from a sometime carnage as a victim of the street wars. Neonflourescent grafitti yells to everyone who passes half hanging in the air floating in the way as you walk past. I blend in to the darkness and avoid the few grimy pushers and dealers hanging out near the club. It hits me as I enter. Vibrostim waves assaulting my neurons with jolts to the sensory awareness and pleasure centers.  The floor takes a dip and I'm walking sideways  as the air glints into a misty green haze and the music seems to slow down to a hypnotic murmer. I order a drink and discreetly pop a pink starburst. Its neural action binds with the meanies bonding to hydrogen and phosphate protein reactions to clear out some of the vibestim but not enough so I'm still cooking. Standing around a smoke filled room (yuck! what is the connection between the drinking and smoking?  The smell is vile), music is beating a path down my ear.  Some senseless mumbo-jumbo intermixed with a good beat. A lot of references to chests, thighs, butts, sex, ecstasy, etc.   I guess its some sort of not-so-subliminal message the D.J. is expressing.  Same usual crowd of not-so-good-looking men and women striking poses to present themeselves as better than they are.  What a pathetic life I lead.  2 drinks later.  Boy these women look good tonight! You gotta admire sybthohol.What would humanity do without it!  (the physical equalizer in the game of reproduction). There, accross the room, dressed in a tight miniskirt beaded in a _b_link__ing pinkish aura, breasts bulging up and outward.  She must be five years older than I.  She smiles. I smile and staggar accross the room.  Up close.  She must be ten years older than I!  (How low will I sink? Even lower!) I strike a pose, give her a look, Hi Hi (Now be different) Accross a desert of empty souls, I seek a rose. Behold the beauty before my eyes. (I told you I would sink even lower!) She smiles.  Will this be the begining of another somewhat wonderfull evening of somewhat ecstasy with a somewhat beautiful women?  For the answer to this gripping question (yeah, right) tune in next time for the continuing adventure of  THE ADVENTURES OF  SINBAD THE SINGLE SAILOR   IN THE SEA OF SINGLES 2110