It all started with Jason. Damn you, Jason. Stage whisper: Damn you to hell...

Actually, it ain't his fault. I accepted his MySpace friendship, the responsibility is mine, as are the consequences. Unless they belong to Jason. Wait. No. Ugh... my head hurts.

So, suddenly, I'm reconnected with a bunch of people that I'd not hung out with in a few years, a decade or since high school (hola Becca!). How tragic to troll through each page and read at a glance all our collective failures (hope that bankruptcy doesn't make you lose the house, Ken -- though it's probably too late to save your marriage) and failings (Steve, I believe you're innocent of the serial-rape charges until they prove your worthless ass guilty, you sick sonofabitch).

I mean, weren't we the future? The promise of this great American civilization? The future so bright, we gotta -- heh, yeah. All that lip service disappeared once our asses got out of college and there were younger kids to wring for money in the name of a "you just gotta have it or your life is forever and irrevocably fucked" education.

Whatta rip. I mean, it's not like any of us are president, though any of us are more qualified than the present one. None of us became famous authors (unless someone did in which case fuck you!). I heard one of us went from "super dork" to "super model." Or at least a model. But you can't find her on Classmates.com, much less MySpace, much less the Internet.

Not that I've sought her out every day I've been on the Internet or anything...

Huh. I had a conclusion but I seem to have forgotten it. Maybe I'll modify this thing later if I think of it. Until then:

Damn you, Jason. Damn you to hell...