In my twitching early-morning compulsion to connect on Social Media, as has been recommended by the swami-hat marketing gurus, I’d decided to look at Twitter again. I never did quite figure it out, and even the name, ‘Twitter’, I find distracting, as it conjures images of restless, squabbling blue birds with no eyes, fluttering out of the the fly-opening in my Spongebob pajamas. I don’t know why that image comes to mind, and I don’t know how the little blue birds, blind as they are, got in there anyway. I just pray they never find a worm and fly off with it.
I have about 1200 Twitter followers, although I have no idea why they follow me, nor I suspect, do they have any idea why they follow me, in most cases. I follow most of them back, and I even look at what they have “Tweeted” once in a while. I can’t figure out most of that either. Much of it seems to be encrypted in a code of some sort, using strange abbreviations which only deeply-immersed undercover-agent double-identity Twitter people can decipher. I’m at a loss. I’m just an idiot with a WordPress blog.
Today, I’d noticed a section of the new Twitter page which invited me to connect with others which Twitter had recommended. “Sure thing.” I thought. I can never connect with enough people with whom I will never actually meet, and who speak in strange internet dialects which, being over forty, I am unlikely to ever understand. I clicked, despite the second thoughts.
There they were. Thousands of them. Millions, perhaps. The list was primarily authors. Twitter had decided that I might enjoy “Twittering” other writers. I suppose that might be true; a writer’s life can be a lonesome one sometimes. Though I have a predisposition for “Twittering” redheads, and I didn’t see any immediately apparent on the list. Besides, it was much too public a forum for such things. I read their short blurbs about themselves. Each and every one was world-renowned, or a best-selling something or other. I’d never heard of any of them, of course, but that means nothing. I’d only just recently heard of Dean Koontz, who actually is a best-selling something or other. Perhaps all these Twitter people really were best-selling something or others, and they had taken to Twitter’s virtual anonymity to hide from the screaming crowds of fans. I can’t say I fault them for that.
Still, I feel left out. I feel like the source of the odd smell which wafts from the bottom of one’s shoes after a walk in the park. I need to be a best-selling something or other. I need to learn their language, and learn to promote in tongues. But first, I have to get rid of these damned blue birds pecking at me in inside my Spongebob pajamas.
That is not a worm, dammit!
..Also saved from the ashes of an old blog. Time hasn’t helped. I still don’t understand twitter.