The Paranoid Prepubescent

I’ve never wanted to be famous (currently not famous) and I know I’m more likely to get beaten to death by a spoon than actually achieve fame... But I forgot my MySpace password years ago and every now and then I get chills down my spine whenever I think about all of the selfies and weird haircuts and passive aggressive top 8 friends posts I made and it makes me want to vomit. I was also a huge bitch on MySpace and had horrible music taste. I worry that if by some sick twist of fate I do become famous, the gremlins of the internet will dig it up and ruin my life as I know it. Is MySpace still a thing? Is this something I should worry about? I know this fear is irrational... but also maybe not? I’m aware of how dramatic this seems but I swear to god every 6-9 months or so this pops into my brain and it’s as if I left the house for a long weekend and just remembered I left the stovetop on.

p.s. Did Zuckerberg grant our early 2010~ selves forgiveness and delete those fucking Facebook wall videos? Why did he think that was a good idea? He’s really always been such an asshole.

~Paranoid Prepubescent

LOL @ Paranoid Prepubescent,

There’s one thing tougher to witness than a middle-schooler struggling to define themselves on the internet, and that’s this photo of Mark Zuckerberg on an electric surfboard in Hawaii. 

I recently discovered that the Facebook account that I’d deleted in 2017 was, in fact, alive and well—receiving birthday wishes and messages from summer camp pals, ensnaring me into financial ruin vis-a-vis their MLM of choice. 

To my horror, there we were, a parade of increasingly younger, blonder, unhappier iterations of myself,  perfectly preserved in Zuckerberg early aughts amber (disgusting, sorry) for anyone to see.

I am wearing a halter top made from a bandana and chugging from a bottle of Hypnotique. I am in pale yellow chiffon, clinging to my boyfriend at the senior prom, eyes red from weeping in the bathroom when I didn’t win 2013 Prom Queen (no one was surprised but me). 

Is this a gal who would feature in my top 8? Never! No. But I see clearly now from my 30-year-old vantage point that she’s trying—really trying—in one million misguided ways to become some more likeable, loveable version of herself and I am filled, for a singular, fleeting moment, with something awfully close to compassion. Then I deactivate my Facebook account, for good this time.

In your letter, PP, I hear the language of the playground’s harshest bully, and it doesn’t suit you. Were you a “huge bitch on Myspace with horrible taste in music?”. Oh, almost certainly! 

But you don't have to be so mean about it. 

Like every try-hard middle schooler, you’re tucked here permanently in the Top 8 of my heart. We’re safe here, you and me, in the glorious, Instagrammable now. 
But, from a practical POV? We are gonna get your hands on this fucking password.

Click here for help accessing the account(provided it’s not linked to your crusty old @hotmail.com)…

143 4ever,

E.D.