Time Capsule: “Myspace Breakup”

“I just don’t trust you with my life stories anymore.”


Sure, I should be more responsible.

I should be reading Shakespeare’s Hamlet right now for my Introduction to Graduate Studies course.

should have begun reading it on Saturday afternoon, but I made some different choices.

And here I am again, making some choices I may regret later. Guess we’ll see when the time comes.

Moving on: I enjoyed reading Alpha’s Journal. I enjoyed formulating my own opinions on the anonymous subject matter.

And a thought occurred to me while I was doing it: I could do this to my own writing.


Back in the Spring of 2015, back when I graduated from Bryan College with a B. S. in Theatre Arts (and a minor in Counseling Psychology), I was on – let’s call it – an emotional high, a manic episode, recovering from an extreme emotional low, a depressive state.

No, I’m not confessing that I suffer from bipolar disorder. I’m just saying that in the heat of the moment I decided to, well, heat things up in more than one way.

One night late May, I said to my mom, “Hey, can I make a bonfire in your back yard and burn all my papers from my sophomore year of high school until now?”

I have always been extremely organized when it comes to paperwork (and I’m a Collector), so I gathered together all my notes from Spanish classes, Creative Writing classes, Theatre classes, Music classes, Journalism classes, and Psychology classes – about 18 notebooks in all and at least four journals. But it didn’t stop there.

The pyromaniac in me needed to burn old cards, letters, mementos, memory after memory. Everything I had collected over the years went up in smoke.

Today I sat in my Stage Management class, regretting the decision to burn all my notes. But I guess the lesson is, “You live and you learn.” I’m someone who has to learn the hard way.


Luckily for all of us, I saved my blog posts from previous blogs on my dad’s hard drive at his place, and I brought them with me to Louisiana.

So, I can write notes to my past.

Please enjoy this rendition of “Myspace Breakup,” circa 2009. It’s a brief, satirical love poem addressed to technology, and if you happen to remember my third attempt at vlogging, you’ll probably remember the time I read this in front of the camera.


This is what happens when I force myself to stay up so late, but I have no reason to wake up at a certain time tomorrow. I actually posted this on Myspace. It holds all my true feelings about Myspace in it:

“I don’t like to blog on Myspace. It doesn’t feel completely right. Actually, nothing feels right with Myspace anymore. I’m sorry, Myspace, but I’ve found others that love me for who I am: Facebook, Blogspot, YouTube, and Twitter. You’re just too immature for me, now. We can stay friends, but I just don’t trust you with my life stories anymore. Blogspot gets me. She understands. . . It might actually be a he, but I don’t mind, really. I can tell Blogspot everything. Granted, I don’t talk to Blogspot much these days, but I’m trying. With Facebook, I feel the happiest, way happier than I was with you. I update her, or him, at least seven times a day. We like the same things, and we have the same friends. Facebook makes things much simpler. I know that we have all of those memories – my pictures – but I could just as easily save them on my Flash Drive. I named it, but I forgot the name. Anyways, with YouTube I can be more outgoing, and things are more public without me feeling like I’m being stalked. Twitter has all the qualities of a wonderful listener. You just don’t. I wish I could make things the way they used to be, but I can feel the strain on our relationship. I hope you understand.

It’s over with love,
Justin M. Jones

P.S. If you don’t change, I’m afraid that I’ll have to take my things and leave for good. There will be no friendship at all.”


free verse

Sun shines through the spring leaves,

Landing on a damp slab of concrete.

The remnant of a cigarette butt

Falls to that same gray slab.


And the ash burns.

The smoke flies, blown by the wind

Of the self-focused passersby.


Meaningless, utterly meaningless

Is the life of fearful expectation –

A man who outrages the Spirit of grace.