Now, Dance!

I have been trying to shed my MySpace self for almost a year now. I quit it completely for Lent last year, which was a start. But last month, I decided to buckle down and chuck it once and for all.

“Hello,” I wrote to Customer Service. “I would like to quit this shit, please and thank you.” [paraphrasing]

Unfortunately, this process has been made more arduous by an inactive email address that I use for logging in purposes. In attempting to wrap its virtual head around the idea of my dead email, MySpace has revealed itself to be the Web Platform of the Absurd.

“Okay, you want to quit,” responded MySpace, roughly 5 times. “You will just need to click on a link we’ve sent in an email to your inactive address, and you’ll be all set.” Hah?

“But that shit don’t work, I’ve explained this!” I said. “Get me off this boat or I’m gonna jump.”

“Okay okay okay,” said MySpace, days later. “Here’s what you do…

[not paraphrasing]

“1. Create a handwritten sign that says MySpace.com and your friend ID. Your friend ID is the number between ID= and &mytoken in your profile’s URL.

“2. Take a picture of yourself with this hand written sign and reply to this e-mail with the salute as an e-mail attachment, or as an e-mail link to where it is uploaded.

“Now, dance!” [paraphrasing]

I guess quitting MySpace is like quitting the team. You have to run some extra sprints in your underwear before they let you fly the coop, or something. Only I’m still on there, and I don’t even get no fuggin complimentary Gatorade bottle.

I Don’t Know What It Means, But I Know That I Mean It

A cryptic message, c/o a church on 17th and Sansom.
Church
[One of these days soon, I’ll throw away all the things whose significance never crystalized.]