That Guy.

So recently I started a MySpace.com page, and yes I know. I am so very. very late to the game. Whatever. MySpace.com is basically a big ol' networking thing – essentially a place to find people you have long since forgotten. And as always it's a contest to see who has the most friends.

It's like Google for friends. So you search. Every name you can think of. Yes, it’s a bit of a guilty pleasure because you’re secretly hoping that all the mean girls you knew in high school have been married seven times with 8 kids, an arrest record and of course you hope they're 72 pounds heavier.

And then the inevitable happens, you don’t want to do it, but you do.

You search for an old flame.

And up pops his profile.

There he is smiling back at you, That Guy.

That Guy you dated for five months what seems like a million years ago. That Guy who made you swear off the entire male species. That Guy who broke your heart into a million pieces. That Guy who left crumpled up on your dorm floor in the fetal position bawling because he just didn’t have the time for you. Left you to be picked up, snot in all, by your best friend, who had to grab you by the shoulders and tell you that you deserved better because That Guy convinced you that you didn’t.

That Guy that made you doubt yourself. That Guy forced you to look at yourself at little deeper. That Guy kept you withdrawn and quiet.

That Guy probably wouldn’t even know how to spell your name; you were just a blip on his radar. But every time you begin a clean sweep of the proverbial baggage you carry there is That Guy.

That Guy who used you for what he wanted, and never took time to see what you needed. That Guy who turned into a needy shell of your former self. That Guy who offered you only scraps of respect and love, and yet you clung to them as proof that he cared, right?

That Guy, he sucks.

But That Guy made it possible to find You.