MySpace
My hands become talons, flexing and malevolent. My utterances are monosyllabic expulsions of air, frustrated and ultimately benign. I am left with rage for this technological copulation of rudimentary double-speak and poor customer service. 54 million people can't be wrong, right? You'd hope...

The December and January of my life has been wasted. I have been in an emotional purgatory, neither direct or passive-aggressive. Polite. I have been polite and benign and socially emasculated for the sake of everyone involved. It hurt me, doesn't that count for something? Today, and for the rest of my life, no.

I am not MySpace. I can't care for your personal preferences. If I do I'm, ultimately, gay or a predator. Everyone says so, so it must be true. I am Frankenstein’s Social Monstrosity and I must be esoterically killed. Gather your pitchforks and we'll storm the castle. Wait, we're hunting me, aren't we?!?

Violent music makes it all feel better. There's a thirteen year-old girl in me and she wants to know your every minutia. She giggles and I check her into the boards and duct tape her mouth. Grown men don't care about these trivialities. Throw her in the closet and be done with it. All of it. Go angrily blogging into the night, all full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Where's my Bobble Head Jesus when I need him?

I'm back. All Las Vegas and full of piss and vinegar. Hanging with the boys, deprecating swagger, feeling all comfortably misplaced and all I can think is, "Screw you guys, Elvis has left the building."

Glad to be back homos...apiens.