One writer
dissects the lure of MySpace and develops a deep love of
voyeurism.
At first i was
flattered that someone was impersonating me on MySpace
with a fake Alec Mapa page. Then it just got creepy.
Particularly when the ersatz Gaysian began posting
comments on other people’s pages like
“You’re hot!” or “Let’s
get together!” or my favorite, “Pee on
me!” While those sound like things I’d
actually say, I didn’t write them. So I
narc’d on the imposter, posted a genuine page of my
own, and I was immediately sucked into the gay vortex
that is MySpace.
I am by nature an
extremely nosy person. MySpace is like a gigantic
international queer medicine cabinet I can snoop through for
hours. I click on your profile, look at pictures of
you and your boyfriend in Mykonos, read your blogs and
comments, click on your friends’ profiles,
lather, rinse, repeat. I fall down the MySpace rabbit hole
for hours, logging off only when the red-hot glare of
my infuriated and neglected husband burns through my
skin. I’m the opposite of a celebrity stalker. I
don’t care if Brad ever leaves Angie for Jen or if
Britney ever finds her panties. I am, however, dying
to know which guys from King of Prussia, Pa., slept
with each other at Gay Days in Orlando. I eavesdrop on
conversations. I’ll read a comment on
someone’s page like “It was so great
seeing you too. It’s been too long. Don’t be a
stranger” and then click on the person’s
profile to see what prompted the exchange in the first
place: “Thanks for not stealing anything. I like you
so much better since you’ve stopped doing
crystal.” I even write people who write me.
Then giggle when they think I’m an impersonator.
It’s the perfect pastime for an insomniac.
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