My Space…

I really think (for those of u reading from the plain ole internet site checkenginelight.blogspot.com, I duplicate this stupid thing and transpose it on MySpace. Here > http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=82365535... ) Where was I? Oh yeah…

I really think My Space should be called Shared Space. My Space ain’t private, and to me the true definition of My Space should be private.. College fraternity brother would invade My Space, steal a cig, then go put it in his pack. Bastard. That’s My Space.

If I ride to lunch with this chicky who abhors smoking, I must submit to “this is my GD car, I hate cigarette smoke (WE KNOW WE KNOW!) and it’s My Space, and you ain’t smoking.” Ok. Can do. I honor your My Space.

For years, this abode I/we call home was Our Space. As the facial hairs came, as the birthdays making he of legal age to vote, then drink, and even one more birthday came - Our Space has turned into the want of My Space. Carrying it further, My House. My Space. Not Shared Space, not Our Space, My Space. I love the little dooger, and I’m in his court - I selfishly find myself wishing that court had a different zip code. You know, kinda like grandkids - u go see them, or they come to u, but then we go home... Or they go home… and we have My Space once again.

Danger danger, warning warning. NC-17 ahead. God created woman with that place. You know: My Space. For years it’s driven men crazy, attempting to conquer My Space. "That's My Space, and unless you'd like your jaw rearranged, I'd suggest you move your hand NOW." I once sat in the kitchen of a friend’s house whilst in the living room there was a bachelorette party going on in the living room. Not a drinking kinda bachelorette party, it was onea those put on by an Adult Novelty Company. Somewhere betweengst conversation, giggles, talk about “look how big that purple thing is!” and edible undies - there was talk about “just how ugly My Space is”. “Have you ever really looked?” asked the Adult Novelty Company leader lady… “No, haven’t.” So, one by one, they went into the bathroom with mirror in hand.. And viewed My Space. Again, shrieks. Giggles. Redfacedness. When one thinks of pretty pictures - views are conjured up of a tree with ice on it… an infant rolling with a puppy… a grandad holding his young granddaughter’s hand as they walk. Not “My Space.” Or the My Space of a woman. However, again, for years it’s driven men crazy, attempting to conquer My Space - and me thinks it always will.

My Space at home. WHERE’S MY FAVORITE RED-WHITE-AND-BLUE STRIPED BOXER BRIEFS? GD it, that’s My Space.

My Space at work. I can’t believe someone had the gaul to go into the company refrigerator and steal from my paper bag lunch. THAT’S My Space!

We get “into other’s business.” We violate My Space. We are known by the Government by 9 digits. GD that’s MY SPACE. The lady walking her Springer Spaniel that leaves little brown chunks on the edgea your lawn… THAT’S MY SPACE.

We stare hatefully at the car to our left at McDonalds… they ordering from the inside lane, us from the outside lane. We await the car in front to move. When it finally does, THAT’S MY SPACE. Biotch!

We see “Tom”. Tom is a My Space have to. We have no say in the matter. Should be My Space. It ain’t. We share My Space with Tom. We all do. Tom, in pig Latin, please know “it’gey, e-they, uck-fey, outta ear-hey.”

Four tables at the Laundromat to fold clothes. (Yes, I have 4 washing machines, and 3 dryers in the basement, it’s just that none of ‘em work)… So, the place is empty. I set my basket, my soap, my little dryer softener thingys, my newspaper down on the 2nd table. Lady toting three kids, the youngest of which was a real whiney butt, has three tables to choose from on where to set her purse, basket, detergent, etc, etc. So what’d she do? Nooooooooooo, she couldn’t pick onea the other tables. She took MY SPACE. GRRRRRRRRRRR! So I moved over one table, and delighted in the fact she contributed to the whiney-buttedness of the youngest by saying twelve times “NO, these quarters are for doing the clothes!” - and then proceeding to one by one give her a total of $1.50 for games and junk candy. M, is that an example of Karma?

My beloved aunt and uncle, Ima and Sandy (may they rest in peace) in a roundabout way taught me about My Space. They loved to travel - and much preferred “this is my relative, I think we’ll stay here for awhile” insteada the Holiday Inn. The only problem was, they never madea reservation, or forewarned of the when they’d be there. I think I heard the words My Space whispered under the breath of my dad in the kitchen, and this was YEARS before Al invented the internet.

Ok, time for me to get the hell outta here. I’ve dominated Your Space. I do love sharing My Space (not you Tom).. As always, thanks for dropping in. No reservations about that, and no reservations ever needed!

Love, Victurd