I am firmly of the opinion that every move we make, every breath we take, every vow we break should be painstakingly sent out across the worldwide web 140 characters at a time.
Do I really believe that? Do I really want to receive updates on whether or not someone has gone to the mall, has showered, has finally gotten the bacon just right?
Turns out I do not.
I set up a Twitter account, once, just after it became available. It was roughly 30 minutes before a friend found out about it.
He called solely for the purposes of abusing me.
"Really? Twitter? What are you, Edward R. Murrow, reporting from the trenches?"
"Everybody's doing it," I muttered lamely.
"If everybody suddenly had a hold of the good acid, would you be doing that, too?"
"Why? What have you heard?"
He wouldn't tell me, of course.
Selfish, that's what he is.
So I never did tweet; and the world was forced to go on without me, possibly wondering if I ever got over my Fresca addiction or whether or not I ever got off the couch the morning after the evening with the cash card and access to a taxi.
Sometimes a little mystery is a good thing.
Of Borders and lines
8 hours ago