My dominatrix

There comes a time in everyone's life they must submit to the dominating leathered hand of the mistress known as MySpace. And here I am, the pasty, bootlicking submissive that I am, kneeling, with ball gag in place, at the foot of my mistress. But like all good sexual fetishes, not only is it one of fierce, intense love followed by self-hatred and uncomfortable underwear adjusting, but one that is nothing like a "normal" experience for it will last even less than a regular endeavor. You know what they say, right? The candle that burns twice as hot, lasts half as long. I could easily add people as my friends by clicking the appropriate gender-neutral icon or pressing the inoffensive gray button. Or I could call you. Or I could send you an e-mail because i actually have your e-mail address. Or I will see you at a bar later in the evening or at a movie. But NO! I am choosing to use this...this...this...this TOOL of modern technology that we call "MY SPACE." To be totally honest, this feels less like Space than say, a giant, disgusting, dangerous skyscraper that teeters and shudders back and forth with the wind. Each day, more and more people are just stapling their tacky cubicles (built with Thomas' MySpace Editor V.2.345.43) onto the top heavy pinnacle of everything that has been built before us. What no one realizes, is that this entire monstrosity was built ON TOP of the building known as Friendster, which happens to be a hollowed out shell, with everyone having evacuated for the shiny, glossy, future that is MySpace. See, MySpace is capitalizing on the Popeil brand of COMBINATION. MySpace is a photo album, it's a bulletin board for you and your friends. It's a Blog! It's a dating service! It's research for high school reunions! It's hip! It's cool! It's customizable! It's everything you want and need from the internet in one cool, sleek, whizzy package! To put it quite simply, MySpace has driven me completely insane. That's right- I've completely lost touch with reality and answer only to Harvey the Rabbit(Or a less obscure Jimmy Stewart reference). I'm totally batty cakes, because if there is one thing that I've learned from the three days i've been using this "service" it's that human beings are intent on describing themselves according to likes and dislikes and Zodiac symbols and bands and movies and blurbs and slogans and captions. Why have we reduced our human experiences to camera phone pictures and captions?! what are we thinking?! Does anyone miss human interaction? and buying each other drinks during happy hour? have we forsaken a firm handshake and a hearty hug? what has the internet done to love letters and fan clubs? But don't mistake this essay as hatred! It's not. It's totally and completely obsessive, fetish adoration for MySpace. I am hopelessly addicted to this beautiful, intoxicating vixen of wasting time. I love MySpace because of the pain that she gives to me. And then I take a deep breath and ask for more. And more. I want her to hurt me to the point that I will cry and suffer and cower. But I know, within my wonderful agony, is the longing for more attention and humiliation from my mistress. Please. Please. Give me more. If anything, this is written purely out of fear; fear of submitting completely to MySpace, to her dominating grip of power and control. Killing me softly... Either way, Mistress MySpace, I'll see you soon. Your willing slave, Jeffrey Crocker