I think I’ve established that I’m on the cutting edge of nothing, so it’s no surprise that I’m only now, in February of 2004, getting hooked on Friendster. I had been asked to join by someone I admire tremendously, Val, but I didn’t do much except put up what had to be the world’s grainiest, pixelated picture — black and white, no less. Having a bad picture made me want to avoid Friendster. Like having a bad haircut in high school, a bad photo in cyberspace is totally uncool.

This week I finally had a Friendster-worthy photo (if you’re a member–the site’s conceit–you can find my profile here. How pathetic is it that as a result, I’ve updated my profile? I spent not-inconsiderable time composing a choice few sentences for About Me. I even tried to get Luke to write a testimonial! (so far, he has resisted.)

Friendster is a narcissist’s biggest enabler. And for the vain, me included, a big black hole of endless invention and re-invention of the self. The other day, editing my profile, I wanted to be sexy. So I wrote about tattoos (and I sport a fake one in my photo). Then, after surfing among other profiles, I decided that I should try to be funny and snarky. That will be my next incarnation.

Friendster is the new black.