this is the part where you smile, hand me a slip of paper with your myspace url [since you know it by heart by now of course], and slowly walk away. all the while i'm crinkling your link in my back pocket with eight other pages of our newly transformed telephone numbers. since, you know that is all myspace is, the new version of your telephone number. your identity tags along with my red bandana and blood stained napkins for a warm ride on my ass while gang members yell, 'sup blood.' and you know you wish that was your hand. but that's the part that's for scene boys, cute transvestites, and personal friends only.