I’m a pretty tech savvy gal. I make my living on the internet. I can program a thermostat. I own a whole slew, possible two slews, of items that require AA batteries…so why do I feel like someone needs to hand me my ear trumpet and goiter ointment each time I attempt to understand Twitter?
I remember David Mitchell, the fantastic British comedian from Peep Show and a whole mess of hilarious radio panel games, explained why he didn’t like the little bluebird of chattiness: “I don’t like to give away jokes for free.”
Of course, at the moment the verified David Mitchell twitterfeed has just under 4000 tweets, but in his defense, almost none of them are funny.
Still, I understand the sentiment.
As I always say, I’m good at two things in the world, and writing’s the one I can charge for.
I don’t get paid for the @MissPlumcake Twitter account, nor do I for the MftBG Facebook page and let’s be honest here: I’ve only got so much wit and charm in me, if I use all of it without benefit of that gorgeous filthy lucre, I’m going to be living under a bridge eating the crumbs out of a homeless man’s beard and making fart jokes for a dime by the time I’m 35 because I used up all the funny 140 royalty-free characters at a time.
The protocol also confuses me.
There doesn’t seem to be an agreed-upon number of tweets a day that hits the magic spot of engaging the doofuses suggestible enough to follow me most wonderful and alluring people in the world, without turning them off via supersaturation or inanity.
I don’t want to be one of those people who only tweets for self-promotion, because those people are just Marketing Machines, and any machine that doesn’t make something cleaner, younger or less hairy when it’s done is not a machine for me.
On the other hand, there are the hyper-verbal tweeters and that results in the dreaded Live Blog. **shudder**
The Live Blog is something like Chinese Water Torture, but without the benefits of hydration, wherein someone decides to share the thrilling action of say, their cat taking a nap on the radiator AS IT UNFOLDS so when I log on to see what my pals have been doing I get three hundred posts from the same yahoo saying:
ZOMGLOL, Mister Mittens is totes sleeping on the radiator. So cute.
11:00 a.m.
Mister Mittens is the mayor of snugglebunny junction, here’s an instagram no one wants to see.
11:01 a.m.
I’m going to knit a sweater out of Mister Mittens’ ittie bittie kitteh hairs. Here’s a Ravelry pattern no self-respecting adult who has ever had sex or ever hopes to have sex in the future should ever admit to seeing, much less knowing about. Oh, and it probably has an owl. Or a moustache. Or an owl WITH a moustache. Jerks.
11:02 a.m.
MISTR MTTN STILL SLPN LOL.
11:03 a.m.
Random Stephen Fry retweet
11:04 a.m.
Viral video everyone saw two weeks ago. Probably ALSO involving kittens.
11:05 a.m.
OMFG MISTER MITTENS IS STILL ASLEEP #UKNOWURCATSASLEEPWHEN
11:06 a.m.
Sorry y’all, fail whale! Guess whoz still snorning?!
11:08 a.m.
And so on and so forth until my brain oozes out of my ears and leaves permanent stains on my brand new angora cardigan.
These people must be stopped. And the pathological retweeters, and the hot Bulgarian babes horny love for max gentlemans and dear GOD the knitters.
In conclusion, I’m going to keep tweeting, BUT I’M NOT HAPPY ABOUT IT.
…and you kids get offa my lawn!
