Check the slips...

Thinking about starting a collection of these. I've always wanted to, but never had many disposable monies, but I do now so...yeah gonna start on that. Every check, get a new color, style; just don't know where I'm going to put all of them yet...

Intrigued by Jesstastic, I'm currently embarking on a quest to access my old Myspace accounts from back in the day, and get those old pictures back. I used to be quite a scene whore in me younger days, and as a recovering Myspace addict I can definitely say it's not worth it...Facebook is where it's at. A few years ago, before preteens were starting on the Book, Myspace was a fascinating place. A gateway drug, where each friend request, each picture comment, each w4w bulletin, was like a rush of cocaine, and that mythical cyber bastard know only as "Tom" was your dealer. You wanted more. And more. And more. Pretty soon an empire of over 50,000 or more was at your fingertips, and you probably only knew about 20 to 30 of them personally if that, perhaps much less. You didn't care, you were somebody. Ridiculous looking crazy kids like you were stopping you in the mall, "Hey, I know you from Myspace!" they would say. You were a celebrity, and all you did was take melodramatic, highly staged pictures of yourself and your fellow addicts. Every outing became a Myspace photo shoot, you spent the night at each others' houses, staying up conversing with your adoring public.

Then you hit about 18 years old, maybe 20. Myspace becomes a little ridiculous to your newly wizened adult self. The spark is gone, and the drug of pseudo-celebrity has worn off. You discover and gentler and simpler world called Facebook, and you start to make fun of these foofy haired, scrunchy faced, leg warmer wearing, fluorescent colored preteen psychopaths and their little "Myspace". You feel you've ascended, but there's always that part of you. That part of you that misses that rush of friend requests, and whore trains, and saucy picture comments. That part of you that misses those 30 question bulletins, like anyone cared who you were missing, what color socks you were wearing at the time, or if you'd ever passed out in an elevator. They did care, your fans cared. It was just Myspace, but to you it was an interview in Rolling Stone.

I remember those days, and I remember them fondly. Then I see the pictures...and laugh at that stupid kid with the hair in her face.