Fembot: MySpace or Yours?

By Meg Eppel | Feb - April 2006

I wasn’t sure what issue I wanted to tackle first. I mean, this is my first column for “78 Magazine,” so it has to set a precedence. I have to invite my audience into what this column is all about. It’s got to be an appropriate outlet for my frustrations as a 20-something woman.

Wait! Woman? When did I become a woman? I meant 20-something girl.

Crap, that sounds so young and ditzy. Everyone’s going to think I’m so stupid…shit!

Moving on… this is the resurrection issue of “78 Magazine,” so it has to be special. I’m trying to stifle an evil laugh under my breath, because oh yes, we’ve returned with a vengeance! So how to begin… where to start… so many issues, which one should I pick?

So, I went to myspace.com to kill some time… literally time is murdered without cause on MySpace along with brain cells, rational thinking, and creativity. And then it hit me… right next to my “New Comments,” why not discuss the cruel draw of the phenomenon known as myspace.com?

I admit it, I visit MySpace frequently. I’m addicted and presently seeking rehab opportunities. Along with all my girlfriends, I keep “in touch” with old high school friends, I peruse current friend’s “spaces,” leaving comments, writing messages… blogging!

Oh yeah, I’m a trendy chick. And to think, I had my doubts. I made fun of my friends who spent their time formatting their “spaces,” counting their “friends,” and reading their comments.

Then I set up an account, as a joke of course (yeah, that sounds better). It didn’t take me long to realize the appeal of this website. It’s egotistical and self indulgent, allowing you to define, or if you like, invent your sense of self –real of fictitious, it’s all up to you. How many pictures do I really need on this page? How many quizzes can I take? And the best part is looking up people you really hated in high school to laugh at their page.

Oh yes… I said it. And I’m not ashamed because I know that’s all we really do. We go online and type in the infamous (and now corporately owned by your favorite and mine, “Fox Media”) www.myspace.com and look for new comments. Wait, there aren’t any? So, I leave some comments for friends only because I want more comments myself.

And then, I find my way to that girl I hated way back when and laugh at her page. Yeah, sometimes I even call up another friend to laugh with me. Sorry…some anonymity is required.

Really, no names are necessary, just take a moment and click on any girl’s page (including my own) and you will find something to laugh about. I know I do. It’s instant gratification.

Ok… what does this have to do with the societal expectations of a 20-something female? Hell, I can’t decide… girl, woman, lady? I don’t know what the hell I am. I’m trying to make myself (my page) look better than everyone else’s, comparing myself to all those other girls, forgetting the important events happening in the world when other pages threaten mine.

I laugh at them, make fun of them, spread rumors, and always try to be cuter. Sounds like high school, huh? That’s because it is. We never grow up. We still look at other girls and want to be as sexy, cute, professional, successful, and fun as them. And we hate them all at the same time.

Let’s face it… we’re bitches and it sucks. We are all caught up in our little worlds; some moron made myspace.com and it’s just another example of how superficial we 20-something females are in the twenty-first century.

I’m all out of words for this one, but have no fear. I have much to complain / elaborate on, question / speculate / write about. Feel free to send me your thoughts…it should be good fun. But for now, MySpace beckons.

78’s Art Director Nicholas Ivins...you guessed it -a total douche

About me: Born into the richest and most powerful family in British Columbia, then-named Nicaulus Dreuvidicus Ivanison spent the first dozen years of his life in the tender care of a large staff of hairy, large-breasted caretakers who pampered him and catered to his every need and ephemeral desire.

Being the imaginative yet feisty and spoiled child he was Nicaulus once proclaimed that for one week no one could use the letter “W,” under penalty of having to change his diaper; 13 was such a difficult age for him. Destined to lead the family’s massive drug and transsexual prostitution empire when he reached the age of manhood, Nicaulus’ impulsive, romantic heart proved to be his undoing.

Perchancing one day to glance out the balcony of his palace room onto the filthy and diseased squalor that inhabited the streets, Nicaulus’ eye was caught by the most beautiful woman he had ever seen (his taste in the opposite sex was quite keen despite having only known women with robust beards and possessing odd-numbered nipples up to that point).

At that moment, Nicaulus spurned his family and peers by actually leaving the estates and setting foot outside the palace walls in order to meet what would surely become the love of his life.

Unfortunately, what Nicaulus had seen was merely his reflection in a large mirror in the shop of a street vendor. Unable to return to the only life he had known, Nicaulus vainly attempted to exert his authority amongst the downtrodden villagers his family had spent generations tormenting economically and sexually.

Suffice it to say, that was not a fun day for the pampered prince, and his virginity was forcibly stolen from him a dozen times over in the next half hour.

Eventually he moved to America and changed his name to Nick. At times he still misses the carefree innocence he enjoyed as a pampered child, but realizes that none of that stuff probably happened, anyway. Go fig.


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