So I’ve done the unthinkable in this intravenous Internet force-fed world: I’ve quit MySpace.
It’s true. Deleted my profile, clicked the button and just walked away. And, surprise, it was easier than I thought.
Until the night sweats…
I’ll gladly admit that the main reason I bailed on the behemoth breast-fed on Murdoch’s corporate teat was twofold, and neither is terribly flattering.
First off, it was really taking over my life, pushing me to the point of constant obsessive paranoia, where the slightest decrease in friends sent me scurrying to my friends list to try and determine who the defector might be, wringing my hands wondering what I might have done to offend them.
The other, more insidious reason was the creeps.
Before I became a roller derby darling my profile suffered a steady onslaught of balding, middle-aged divorced men in acid washed jeans wanting to “talk”. Invariably they had a child, or six, and nearly all included photos that featured them proudly preening before a truck, motorcycle, or some variation of a gas-guzzling recreational vehicle.
With derby, however, the voyeurs became more interesting, and while it was flattering to find myself the object of desire of many a derby-loving dude, it quickly spiraled out of control, and I found myself perpetually on the receiving end of nonstop missives from lecherous paramours-in-waiting who seemed oblivious, or unconcerned, with the fact that I’m in a deeply committed relationship.
So, I simply walked away and headed back here, where I should have stayed from the get-go.
Granted, I’ll post a new profile on the WalMart of the Internet eventually, only this time I won’t be quite as forthcoming. That’s what I’m here for… be sure to check back. I’ll be here…