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Now That’s A Horse of A Different Color
One of my very dear friends invited me to join Twitter so that I could keep up with her life. I sent her an e-mail saying that I just didn’t think that I could take up yet another computer habit.
It’s not that I don’t want to stay in contact with my friends who Twitter. The truth is, I don’t believe that I would be a good Twittererererer. Please, if you don’t believe me, just look at one of my entries. I average 1200 words per post. The people who read me regularly must really like me or enjoy my cynicism. I don’t know how to do 150 characters or less or whatever the optimum Twitter limit is.
I can picture it now:
Twitter from James:
“Hey. What’s up?”
Response from me:
“Well, my head is exploding. The tiles are falling off the wall in the bathroom, and I’m pretty sure that there is extensive water damage. Jeez that’s going to cost a lot of money, and well, who has money right now? Eamonn is driving me up the wall, and I just found out the Ranch flavord Doritos have MSG, which is probably why they give me headaches. Why didn’t I ever notice it before? Do you /
Cut off in midstream.
I would spend a good 10 minutes yelling about how inane it is to expect anyone to be able to respond in so few words, and then I would try to pick up midstream where I left off in another Twitter, by which time, Jammi has tweeted me back about five times.
Let’s try again.
Twitter from James:
“Hey. Things are good here. How are u?”
Response from me:
“Would it have taken that much longer to type you? You type an ungodly fast speed, as fast as I do, probably faster. How are things good? What happened? Did Korb actually make it through the night two nights in a row? That’s fantastic. Boys are so much easier to potty train than girls, but you have to watch out because they get sneaky and hide behind end tables sometimes when they don’t want to take the time to go to the bathroom. I remember one time when Eam/
ARGHH!
Jammi, I love you. I miss you, and I wish that we still talked daily. I wish that you were on your way through Chick Fil ‘a, picking us a sweet tea for both of us, yours without lemon, mine with, and that we were working the floor together, just the two of us. Then we could try on clothes and pretend that we didn’t hear the pages. I miss seeing Kennedy grow. I hate that I don’t know Korb. I think that Kyle and Corey would really like each other. But sweetheart. I can’t Twitter. It’s impossible. You know that it is. I even text in complete sentences with punctuation.
I have a better idea. Why don’t you guys move back east? Then we could talk to each other face to face . . .
So, dear readers, what do you think? Am I cut out for Twittering? I mean Rachel Maddow does it. Obama did it. Demi and Ashton Twitter each other all day long (but I think that I’m just jealous because Demi still has such a rockin bod, and I don’t).
To Twitter or not to Twitter . . .
I’ll try one more time.
James:
“Hey. What snoo?”
Me:
“Nothing.”
Lying is easier than trying to be succinct. I hate that . . .
More later. Peace.
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