As one friend observed, “If the people in my life need to know what is happening in my life every 20 seconds, there is something very wrong, either with them, or with me.”
Facebook gives you a fighting chance. If you’re not the brightest bulb, not the sharpest tack, you can still hang out and find your posse. Addictive as it is (Facecrack, Crackbook), one can skip a daily dose and still pick up pretty much where one left off. Yes, Andrea is still in a relationship, heart heart. Yes, Gayle’s pictures from her trip are online now. No, you have not been Superpoked by Etienne, but Tim wants you to join his mob.
Brain. Can. Process. Yes.
Twitter is Facebook as played by Lindsay Lohan on Red Bull minus her daily Ritalin. It’s Racebook, run by people who are tethered to their Blackberrys and iPhones, pithy, clever people who always have a good line. I watch them in amazement. They make bathroom stops hilarious. They multitask with a vengeance. Sparks fly out of my computer when I log into Twitter.
I tweeted, briefly. I was a twit at tweeting. #? @? Er???
I do not have the passion it takes to be a tweeting, blogging, Facebegging mother of two. Something had to give. My occupation, my breasts and my thighs have already given up the ghost (RIP, darlings) and Twitter was the next logical thing to go.
I can be funny. I can’t be funny THAT FAST AND THAT REGULARLY. I have nothing to market. I have nothing to tweet. I am tweetless.
So tell me: are you a Twitterer or a Facebooker? Both? Neither? Do you blog too? Are you aware that we bloggers are in danger of becoming obsolete? Soon, there will be a site where people will type one character, say, an ‘R’ or a ’3′, and everyone will type back, ‘*’, which will convey that they found the ‘R’ or ’3” sidesplittingly funny.
This is seriously odd. We are approaching the Age of Absurdius. And you were (are) there.
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