At first, I resisted twitter. I saw these cryptic messages come across my personal blog, and I thought… What the hell is this shit? Can’t these people relate a thought without using the “#” and “@” characters? Who the hell is RT, and why is so much of this dumbass crap about him? Jesus, are you seriously telling me what you had for breakfast?
ARGH! FUCK OFF, YOU’RE ONLY ENCOURAGING THE INTERNET TO DEVOLVE FURTHER. PRETTY SOON, WE WILL JUST BE MILLIONS OF MONKEYS POUNDING ON KEYBOARDS FOR AN INFINITE AMOUNT OF TIME AND…
Oh wait. Shit.
So, seeing that my own ranting had defeated my point, I decided to try out this silly little twitter thing. Except, I would have pride. I would type in full sentences, and never post about my bowel movements or breakfast cereal. I’d be witty, and charming, and everyone would love me, and then I’d slowly convince them all to go back to blogging, and leave twitter behind.
Maybe it always starts this way. Maybe that’s how people become drug addicts. “Oh, well… I’m not interested in opium. I should do just a tiny bit so that I can know, for certain, how lame this is.” Next thing you know, BAM — you’re sleeping in a smoky room in Shanghai next to a dragon-tattooed woman with more exposed ribs than a southern BBQ pit.
And that’s how it was. One moment, I’m posting thoughtful little nougats of mind-melting magnificence, and the next — I’m trying to come up with 50 clever answers to the hashtag game, #threewordsaftersex. I go from, “Oh, I’ll just follow my friends”, to following everyone who has ever said the first thing to me. I’m following @baconsatan and @baconjesus for crying out loud. I have poured over the wisdom of @shitmydadsays and been perplexed by the nerdy ramblings of @wilw. I’m following at least six Roller Derby leagues, even though I’ve never been to a match.
For crying out loud, I’m even following the bus that takes me to work. Yes, the BUS has a twitter feed. It tells me things like, “Yay! Time for gas!”, or “I’m a bit tired and running 10 minutes late today.”
A bus should not have feelings, should it? I should not want to hug a bus when it’s having a bad day. Ever.
So, now, I’m playing hashtag games, and being perplexed by twitter-trends. I’m tweeting with the celebs, and the wannabe-celebs. And I just know I gotta tweet more. I gotta get retweeted. I GOTTA GET RETWEETED, MAN. JUST ONCE, MAYBE TWICE. DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND? YOU’RE NOBODY WITHOUT RETWEETS. NOBODY!
I have become intimately familiar with http://bit.ly. Intimately. I… I can barely talk about it except to a councilor. But, now bit.ly and I have a whole boisterous brood of extremely short URLs, and I can barely look myself up on google without loathing any URL over 20 characters. I know. I’m ashamed of myself. But, I’m more ashamed of what I called amazon.com when I saw how long the URL was for the book I wanted. No website should ever be treated that way. *shiver*
My life dissolved into a frenzy of posting, following, retweeting, and dropping. Hell. I even followed spambots. Just in case they might go on a retweeting rampage. I follow them all. Big and small. From the president, to the twitter feed for a three-legged hamster named Jellybean. Now we all have a voice, provided we only have something REALLY FUCKING SHORT to say.
Twitter, you’ve left me cold and alone in a sea of babble. Hitchcock was way before his time with “The Birds”. Millions of birds, billions of tweets… The cacophony itself is enough to shatter your psyche. Twitter is pecking away at all of us, 140 characters at a time, a slow-growing horror that’s aimed right for our juicy eyeballs.
I, for one, will look forward to my twitter-induced blindness with bated breath.
(Six pins out of ten.)