I Need MySpace
Before ya'll go hating on me, let me say that it is largely for my own good that I have resisted—not (much) out of judgment. I basically worried I would turn into an obsessed freak about the whole ordeal.
Currently, we're at about a Level 3 Freak Out, but the gauge is slowly rising. I am at grips with the fact that for someone who's only been registered for 24 hours, having 20 friends is pretty good. Right? Isn't it? Right, guys? That's pretty good, huh?
Okay, deep breath.
But, my pretties, what if in 2009 I still only have 20 friends? (Not that I don't lurve the 20 of you very, very much because I do. Please don't leave my MySpace page naked, please! Think of the children!)
See, on here, I'm fairly anonymous, so if you don't know me in the blog world, that's okay with me. I like who I like, and I presume you like me or you wouldn't be here right now.
But in Deep MySpace 9, it's a whole other dog-eat-dog universe, where there are, like, actual figures and stats of how many people love you and how much. Plus, you know, people could probably find a lot more pictures of my boobs by trolling around MySpace.
(Not really, Dad. Heh, it's a little joke I have with them. Don't worry. I'm pretty sure there aren't any sex tapes floating around out there, unlike others who will not be mentioned.)
However, I am in a strange creative flux where I've got some music stuff that people seem to like but I still only get up the courage to do open mike nights or bust out the geetar in front of real, live human beans about once a milliennia, usually thanks to the sacrifice of a bottle or so of Beam. I don't want anymore innocent whiskey to suffer for my art.
I put together a "real" Web site a few months, but it's a bit more static than it should be and everyone always said, "Why didn't you just use MySpace?"
So in this in-between time while I'm not quite locked behind closet doors but not quite ready for the stage, MySpace is my venue.
The interesting and inevitable outcome has been "running" into folks I haven't seen in years on the old MySpace highway. Like the kid whose shin broke my toe.
And a kid I sat next to in Algebra class in ninth grade who heard me sing "I wish I was an Oscar Meyer wiener, that is what I truly want to be…" in front of the class after Coach Something-or-Other/Algebra teacher devised that particular punishment for my tardiness. You remember that, T?
Side story: Years later, when I was a bridesmaid in my lovely Kirstin's wedding, Coach Something-or-Other and his wife were the photographers. Coach left that high school shortly after I moved away. He did, in fact, remember making me sing that song, and was not the least bit sorry.
I made the mistake of giving him my contact info at the reception (white wine, you devil, you) and he spent six weeks trying to sign me up for some pyramid scheme.
Anyhoo, just goes to show that you never know WHO you're going to run into, and now with this MySpace dealy, I am more poised for the nutjobs than ever. None so far, though.
Wait. What if I'm the nutjob? Oh God. I'm that creepy MySpace girl who no one wants to "friend." I think we've hit Level 4 Freak Out. Someone get me a paper bag. With a 40 in it.
In the Comments section, in the Halloween spirit, tell me about something scary you've done lately.