TWO THOUSAND AND LATE: The slow-loading bombardment of ads: one of many things we won't miss.
Breaking up with MySpace means never having to say goodbye
By Sara Bir
Hey, MySpace. Thanks for coming to chat with me. I know you've sensed something is up, and you're right. I think maybe we should take some time off from each other. Really. I need my space. Oh, sorry—did you take that the wrong way? I didn't intend to be mean.
But lately I've been feeling that I am not getting out of this relationship what I put into it. We spend a lot of time together, you know? And I don't sense that you understand anything much about me as a person besides the surface stuff, like the movies I watch and what music I like and that I'm an Aries. We're, like, not connecting on a deeper level.
It was so fun at first, yes. The possibilities were endless, and I was a bit giddy. You were always around to keep me entertained when no one else was there, and I love how you and I could sit together for hours, and there'd always be something new, and you'd never run out of people you thought I might like to meet.
But then all of those loser friends of yours came around, and they wouldn't leave me alone. Like, how can anyone know so many crappy bands or slutty girls named Kaylee and Mayghan? And the cool famous musicians you introduced me to only cared about jamming my bulletin box with messages wanting me to be on their street team.
So maybe I thought that you were something you were not. What? No, that Facebook thing was just a casual flirtation, I swear. All I did was create a profile that one time I got back from the bar and was restless—truly! I forgot my password the next day! I haven't been back since! Don't be jealous.
To be honest, I have had fantasies wondering what it might be like to be with Facebook. My friends keep telling me you're not good enough, that Facebook will treat me better. There are more people my age there, after all. The more time I spend with you, the older you make me feel, with those dumb videos I never want to watch, or ads for bunny rabbit emoticons and heart-themed pimped profiles. Do you think I'm 13? Because I am not. Is that what you want? A 13-year-old?
Sorry. That was harsh. It's been a week since we saw each other, and I miss you, especially when I have a deadline to meet or when it's late and I finish off a bottle of wine. And I like blogging with you, though I suspect you lie to me about how many hits I've had. Like once I put up a new blog post and like two seconds later you told me three people had already looked at it. Dude, is that even possible? Do you think I'm some kind of schmuck? Well, I'm not. I'm a grown woman, and I still care about you.
Remember when we first got together? I do, but not very well, because I was drunk—I thought we were going to be a one-night stand, ha ha! And look how long we've been seeing each other. I had no idea how intense it would get. And I have to be blunt here: the intensity is gone. I come to you for comfort, and a little bit out of habit. So maybe if I don't come around for a month or so I'll get a serious look at what life without you is like. It's just . . . everyone you have around you is so superficial.
What? I am, too? Oh, fine. That's it. I'm outta here! No, not to Facebook! What? No, not to Twitter, either. I don't even know what the hell that is. You make me feel old, remember? Watch me, I'll go out and meet a real person out on the street the way they used to back in olden times. Or I'll write some goddamn letter to a true human friend. Yeah, letters, you know what those are? Prolly not, you uncultured imbecile! Fine, be that way. I know you'll take me back in a second. 'Cause you will, right?
Send a letter to the editor about this story.