I really, really love those people who can physically demonstrate what they perceive to be their personal space.

“You see my hand in front of me? That is where my personal space begins.”

Then they give you a stern expression to indicate that they are SERIOUS and you will EVAPORATE if you trespass into their aura.

I don’t really have much in the way of personal space. I think that comes from a) working with children, who have little concept of personal anything; and b) the fact that people don’t really freak me out.

I’ve done enough working in camps and hospitals and shelters and Starbucks locations to have come into contact with pretty much every kind of freak on the planet.

You name it, and I’ve served/helped/clothed/thrown coffee at it.

However, on the Internet? I feel somewhat differently. Here, I am putting my hand out to point firmly at my boundaries.

Now, I’ve must say that I’ve come to adore some of my fellow internetters as dear friends. In fact, I’ve met one or two.

They’ve come alongside me and encouraged me, and allowed me to do the same for them. And it’s AWESOME. It really is. I’m so honoured. There are some awesome people — LOTS of them — who write and read and talk and develop and invent and code and make things happen online.

But beyond that terrific spheres of goodness, there is, of course, the Rest of The Internet.

And to be honest? Kinda creepy.

There are the truly odd fetishists (furries, anyone?), the evangelical eBayers, the “Forum People” with opinions on everything, the YouTube video makers, and the… well. The MySpace people.

Really, all you need to do is surf it to cringe at it.

You’ll see more teenage skin than a dermatologist.

Let me say at this point that I don’t think it is MySpace that is actually the problem, beyond the reality of it being a massive, unpoliced, unhinged, hormone-drenched piece of web real estate.

If there were no MySpace, there would be SomeOtherSpace for kids and pedophiles to interact amongst really tragic HTML. And I will admit that my pretty damned innocent blog has inspired a few men to send me snaps of their… well… twigs and berries.

When all is said and done, Parents DO need to actually parent. Kids DO need to be better educated on risks. Some girls DO need more clothing. And some boys DO need to be beaten about the head for asking them to remove it.

But, regardless, there IS a MySpace and it DOES creep me out and I DO wish it would somehow just die in a massive server crash.

Even if you’ve spent the last year collecting 2,000 “friends.”

So here, for you, my ode to MySpace, to the tune of “My Favourite Things.”

Boob shots and lip gloss

And LOLs full of chuckles

Six packs and gang signs

And giant belt buckles

Photos that show more ass and less face

This is why people, they love their MySpace

***

Four million friends

That you plan on meeting

JPEGS so icky

You can’t view them while eating

Make a few dates, but don’t forget to bring mace

This is why every girl wants her MySpace

***

When I’m horny

When I’m moody

When I’m feeling sad

I simply sign on with my convict of choice

And then I don’t feel so bad….

***

I love my body because I am strong. I can lift heavy things and do the kind of work that fragility wouldn’t allow.

I love my body because I can dance. I love to let music travel up my spine and translate rhythms into closed eyes and moving hips.

I love my body because I can get out of bed every morning, and walk out of my home. This body takes me where I need to go.

And I love my body because it is the map of my 32 years, from scar to scar to freckle to every curve born of muscle or laziness.

But.

I hate that I don’t understand what goes on inside my body.

I hate that I don’t see beauty in my body, but a set of flaws I need to address.

I hate that I listened to the wrong voices when I was putting my physical self-image in place.

I hate that I cannot give my body what it aches for, what I believe will complete me somehow.

But.

I love that my body’s journey is not over yet.

I love that I can accept pain as a part of my life — but not as the defining element.

I love that someday I will give this body to someone who loves me more than the stars.

And I love that for all the hurt and frustration I bear, I still have the will to keep moving.

It’s a tenuous balance at times, but it’s what I have. And what I intend to keep.