How I Learned to Stop Caring and Delete My MySpace Account (Hopefully)

Usually I hold a considerable amount of contempt for individuals who like to apply a scorched-earth policy to their personal histories, regarding everything even the most recent past as a blunder or mistake or ill-conceived trend of the times. And why not? Without the trial and error of life, everything would have this fantastical, cinematic quality about it that would smack of implausibility, recalling little else than an episode of Grey's Anatomy. You know, the one where they play that Snow Patrol song at the end. Wait, that's every episode of Grey's Anatomy.

Every.

last.

episode.

But you know, there are those occasions, those minor swatches in the tapestry of time that sometimes don't warrant forgiveness on our parts, allowing us to scream "THIS IS SPAAAARRMYYYYEARRRFFGGGHHHHH!!!1111!1111ONEONONE!!111!11" as we kick them down a greenscreen pit.

MySpace.

"But it's so great!"

"It really helps me stay connected with my friends."

"I never update my account. I just keep it to stalk people about once a month."

I've heard it all, and two weeks ago, I decided to put the old profile to rest. Why? MySpace is really like the mall in your hometown. It's full of people you don't want to see and pray to every last deity on the books that you can avoid for the rest of your natural life. However, old habits are hard to kick, and you still log on to MySpace just like you make that trip to the mall, warts and all. But couldn't you pick up that hoodie somewhere else? Did you really need to slog through all that rabble to get a fresh pair of steps? Shopping shouldn't eviscerate your soul, and neither should using the Internet or specifically a social networking site. I never want to see some of these people again. It's really nothing personal. But somehow it completely personal. I respect your privacy though. I sought to delete my account to stop stalking you and your boyfriend/husband/mom/pet/favorite post pop punk hardcore electro duo band from your high school. Only because you stopped stalking my favorite post-hardcore acoustic dub sextet from my high school.

I had grown tired of the nauseating format of MySpace, with the endless permutations of colors and fonts and Panic! at the Cartel American Rejects Like Girls songs that invaded your audio space with every hesitant click of the mouse. As if MySpace had become Russian Roulette for mall punk bands. Do I want to read this person's profile that bad? Do I really want to be forced to listen to what they're listening to, even for a few fleeting moments? Does the site lag on purpose so I have to listen to this garbage? Should using a social networking site really feel like hiding from the monsters under your bed?

What's worse is that the monsters kept multiplying. Constantly, my inbox would be flooded with a deluge of friend requests, comments, and other such wasteful bits and bytes, littering the Internet like styrofoam coffee cups and weathered Doritos bags from back when Doritos had one flavor. Perhaps you recall. In any case, it got a little bit too much. You know how you can only stuff so many marshmallows in your mouth before you turn into an oral Gatling gun. KAPOW KAPOW KAPOW KAPOW KAPOW.

I thought of these things and decided to delete my account.

That was two weeks ago.

And then, I stopped getting emails. Suddenly, my computer ran smoothly. Attractive women started smiling at me at work and on the street. I was informed I no longer owed any money for student loans, and Publisher's Clearing House gave my mom ten million dollars though she never did any of those sweepstakes things to begin with, so I was now able to get that rhinoplasty I'd always wanted. Last week, life was great.

Until I started getting more emails.

Friend invite. Message. Group invite. Friend invite. Message. Group invite.

I thought I had deleted my account.

No, I will not accept your friend request, amateur porn stars and former childhood neighbors. I deleted my account. MySpace is worthless. Follow my lead.

Yet they kept coming. So today, I decided to revisit MySpace and see what the trouble was, and it turns out, I didn't delete my account after all.

I blame myself for a lack of good judgment and follow-through. I trolled down to my profile, like the police did looking for Bruce Willis in the Fifth Element and discovered my profile page to be riddled with adds and chain messages and all the trash of pre-Giuliani New York City. Just not that cool. So this time, I meant business, and went through the motion to delete my account. I received this message:

Account Cancellation Scheduled

The account registered to the following email address has been scheduled for cancellation:

roliver@rmc.edu

NOTE: Please allow 48 hours for cancellation to take effect. Thank you.

You'll never let this end, will you, Tom?