There are over thirty million registered users on Myspace, which allows me the opportunity to avoid explaining what it is for an entire paragraph. A paltry website launched two years ago as a launching pad for bands to promote themselves has managed to plant the sedentary asses of the world comfortably in to their Staples bought office furniture. The odor of perspiration soaked pleather and pressboard has become a universal pheromone, sort of like a 21st century Drakkar found to be a standard in slacker shacks housing relaxation hounds such as yours truly, Shane Kinney. I’m on Myspace. Find me. Send me a message. Add me. Read my blog. Holla back.

I registered in June. I wanted to plug my comedy and music. I didn’t know much about it, other than that it was a site for bands to show their three chords to thirty million other bands. I’m not knocking the three chord slingers, because if were six chord virtuosos, then they would have no friends on Myspace. And that is uncool. But I was wrong. Everybody is on MySpace. My Father is on Myspace, when he isn’t at a Kiwanis meeting.

The reason I throw such journalism school terms like “uncool” around, because upon registering, I felt like I was walking down a virtual high school hallway. The upside of it is that there is no division of cliques there; it is a celebration of individuality. Everyone is allowed to be him or herself on there, which, in some people’s case, being them selves is trying to be like everyone else. And that is cool if you are at the age where you still count your pubic hairs, but to a hardened single cynic, it’s about as fun as counting those aforementioned hairs. Note to the younger set: Counting pubes gets old. Trust me.

Tobacco companies have been slipping subliminal advertising into Television and film for eons, but technology has gotten the best of us, for it has allowed them to shoot nicotine out of it’s poisoned system and into mine. MySpace has single-handedly become the most addictive substance I have ever seen. And it’s only getting bigger. And that is cool, because I could use more friends.

Smokers have patches, Heroin addicts have methadone, and losers have college. Where does a Myspace addict go? This is a serious epidemic people. I find myself feeling like I have been saddled by kryptonite if my friend request quota has not been met. I feel rejected if cute girls don’t message me. I am completely dependent on this damn website, and if I were to wean myself off, what would I do? Face the real world? Incomprehensible. Can’t do it. Put me in my cyber hallway. Let me walk around, with my bloodshot internet eyes so I can make new friends, have more blog readers, and harvest more comments from people starved for attention as badly as I am. This is the false reality I am stuck in, and it’s a good place to be. It prevents me from the non-virtual. If only I could buy my groceries there. Emailing a frozen dinner isn’t such a bad idea. It would probably taste better than the crap I’ve been cramming down my neck.

What is a Myspace addiction you ask? Well, let me put it this way. My columns tend to be completed in thirty to forty minutes with good behavior. This one, I’m ninety minutes in, responded to two messages, lamented at the fact that there weren’t three, I posted comments on two other profiles, and I’ve reviewed and revised this two ply self absorbent literary paper, only to realize it falls short to other peoples blogs. If only I could be like them. If I could have the friends they have, and reaped that many comments. That would be cool. Holla back.