I like Twitter, though I can see its myriad problems. Let’s not get into the countless witch hunts that pop up over there, or the fact that nobody can hold any kind of real discussion without it immediately degenerating thanks to the lack of ability to say anything worthwhile in just 140 characters.
Well, unless you’re me, because I am succinct and clever and good with words and never waste them and definitely never put filler in any sentences or anything ever.
But I do like Twitter. I think it’s good. I use it well enough, I think. Most people I follow do too: that’s why I follow them. But then, sometimes, you look at someone – let’s say someone you just remembered the full name of who you knew many years ago and just wanted to internet stalk a bit to see what they were doing (successful, married, naturally) and you found their Twitter account and you read it for a bit.
Let’s say that because that’s what just happened.
But then I was cheered up in that usual, dark way I am cheered up by things. Because I saw that not only was the life chronicled in this Twitter account obnoxiously boring, but it was the most routinely routine thing I have ever seen. Seriously, it was ridiculously like clockwork, filling the world (or the 20 followers) in with what inane shit they’d been doing – again – that week.
Not that I’m saying I live the most exciting life in the world, but shut up I’m funny sometimes so that means I win. Oh, and not that I’m saying I don’t live by a routine BECAUSE I DO – but shut up this is a victory I’m keeping because I think I’m ill and I need to go to bed.