“Shut the fuck up, BabyJesusUpchuck,” Shady Dave chides him, lovingly—sort of.

BabyJesusUpchuck rolls his eyes and returns to scouring public photo streams. Like many digital media curators at the world’s most popular search engine, BabyJesusUpchuck goes by his internet handle rather than his real name. Also like many others, BabyJesusUpchuck has trouble making ends meet and thus has a side gig. He hunts for user-generated advertising on behalf of corporations and is always copy/pasting comments such as, “TENDERS™ would like to use this heartwarming picture of your baby to promote our eco-friendly, biodegradable diaper brand. Please reply #BABYOK if you agree.” Someone with the username Cunty does online reputation management for convicted sex offenders and those who jokingly flipped off the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier but would like to have a job. The woman is the odd man out both in that she doesn’t have a side gig and also in that she is a woman.

The woman doesn’t “follow” the rapist on social media, but she does follow him in real life. Maybe because she spent the day repeatedly burying the same double homicide, she finds herself in front of the headquarters of the rapist’s seed fund and waits on a relatively clandestine bench until she sees him take off. He talks animatedly with some fellow douchebags and actually gives one of them a high five before sallying forth into the sunset for the Caltrain. As surreptitiously as possible for a woman who is a ninja at the world’s most popular search engine but not a real ninja, she tails him onto the Caltrain, then onto the BART at Millbrae. When he departs at the Mission, which is where he lives, she does, too. The rapist jogs into his building and comes back out with his dog. The woman is still annoyed that a rapist is the owner of such a sweet dog. Shouldn’t the dog of a rapist always be marking its territory on said rapist’s bed or something?

He walks his dog, pausing to pick up its poop, then ties up the dog to the rusted corpse of a bicycle so he can have a brew. While imbibing his refreshing beer and swiping at his phone, the rapist occasionally catches its eyes and smiles. At each smile, the dog raises its haunches and wags its tail. The woman observes this adorable interlude from a street corner with disgust while pretending to be engrossed in her phone. Upon finishing his beverage, he unties his dog, only to retie the dog outside a grocery store. She sneaks behind him through the aisles, composing a mental shopping list of what the rapist places in his basket: an onion, long-grain rice, shredded cheddar cheese, ground beef, extra-virgin olive oil. The rapist gropes bell peppers, thick-skinned and red. Buying the same items the rapist bought at the store, the woman muses, These are the bell peppers that the rapist rejected.

Another installment of the newsletter has been sent out, and she reads it on her return trip. “Dear Internet Diary,” he begins. The rapist begins each newsletter as if he were scribbling in a private diary although it’s a public newsletter. “Today, I learned the statistic that more people have died this year from taking selfies than shark attacks. These include a man who was gored to death while running from the bulls in Spain, two guys who blew themselves up grinning with a grenade in the Ural Mountains, and a Singaporean tourist who fell off a cliffside in Bali.” He continues in the next paragraph, “The reason why I don’t take selfies is the reason why I refuse to use fitness trackers. If you’re fixated on monitoring your heart rate, you forget to listen to the beating of your heart. Let’s stop storing images on our cloud’s memory and start storing them in our biological memories. Until we lose our minds in old age, that is, but hopefully by then there will be a medical solution or an app that disrupts dementia. Death to the Selfie.”