You welcomed me into your bed with open arms. Your soft grey lines, your understated fashion, so chic, so ultra PoMo, so trendy minimalism meets sprockets. And so submissive. I'd click your buttons and you'd show me things I'd never dreamed. You'd invite people into our relationship. You were never jealous. The more the merrier. And those you invited were always beautiful. We had luminous ego sex that would melt your face off.

But then one day you started inviting less savory types into our love nest. Midtown finance managers. Grocery store managers. Accountants. Our harem, once a bastion of self gratification and masturbatory egoism, turned into a den of monotonous drivel. And the more fucktards you invited, the fatter and slower you became. You trollop. No longer responsive to my tender entreaties, you had other suitors to please with your largess. I didn't need that many people in our bed, Friendster. No man needs a network of 500,000 lovers.

And then one day I called you up, and you ignored me. No answering machine, just a 404 error. What the hell does 404 mean, Friendster? Is that some secret code you share with your other fuck buddies?

Well Friendster, I've had it. You hussy, you strumpet, you slow-witted jezebel, goodbye.