There’s something about voluntarily giving up tons of personal information for free and complete access within the public domain that makes me a bit uneasy.

Of course, it’s not like the FBI doesn’t have a file on the American citizenry anyway, but it’s the principle of the matter: Why make things easier for them?

They’ve got to start earning their keep. If I’m going to have a file on me somewhere, then by God, someone’s going to have to put some leg work into figuring out which illegal substances I have put in my body and just how they got there in the first place.

To that end, I’m thinking about terminating my MySpace account. The operative word here, though, is thinking. I haven’t summed up the courage just yet.

Operating along on the same lines as Facebook.com, this online database is just a little more invasive.

For instance, you can peruse blog entries and get the inner details into your friends’ lives. Of course, you could always try talking to them, but that’s just so passǸ, right?

Let’s just call it friendship the lazy way.

Then again, I think my friends aren’t all that exciting, and I’m pretty sure I don’t need a daily update on interesting things that aren’t happening to them.

Sure, people reconnect on MySpace with those friends from way back when they hadn’t hit puberty yet and college was just a thing that the old people did.

Call it a prelude to the 10-year high school reunion. But if nothing else, MySpace gets you addicted to seeing just what happened to that really hot popular kid who was so out of your league that it wasn’t even the same sport anymore.

If anything, MySpace makes stalking more gentle, done in the privacy of your own home, the way civilized people should do it.

Sometimes it turns out the years have been kind to people, and they’re still the visions they were when you sat behind them in trig class.

Or, in a more satisfying, albeit twisted, development, they went through a few rounds with the ugly stick and lost. Badly.

Maybe it’s a little petty, but it’s a guilty pleasure to see just who got ugly, fat and/or pregnant over the course of the years.

For instance, my fellow choir buddy from Catholic school found me the other week. We also were in the school band together. She played the flute, and it was only a matter of time before her expanded lung capacity and stronger-than-average cheek muscles would get her in trouble.

Anyway, she’s getting married the bumpy route, which just goes to show you that a sex-education class taught to you by a 60-year-old nun is just setting you up for disaster later in life.

I’m just hoping she can find a wedding dress that has a built-in nursing bra.

Fuck it. I’m erasing it. Maybe.