The social media Mecca can be an amazing tool for business, or getting together with your friends for that under water basket weaving class you’ve been meaning to take. Or simply, to get a laugh out of the old lady-selfie that your Twitter-buddy posted making fun of her mom jeans. It was mean, but funny. But, he was using her photo as a catalyst for using her as a punching bag. Let’s face it, it’s tough to keep your keyboard clicking eyeballs off the screen. I can do it. Click. Click. Enter. Backspace. Shit. And while it’s great for networking, blogging, making friends, finding boyfriends… Wait, no… No, no, no… Don’t try that last one. You could be one Craigslist post shy of a victim. It’s appeal and fun time max character postings, can be quite entertaining.
The thing is, I can randomly think of goofy one liners all day long. It’s innate. And my immediate reactional need is to twat it, share it with my social mediates bringing joy to at least one person who sees it… But then, I find myself flippantly skipping around the house singing The Smurfs theme song, and I end up deciding against it. Why? Uh, because… skipping is fun. Duh. No… Well, yes it is fun, but really the truth is, I want to elaborate on it. Add my corny commentary. My witty verbiage. You can hold your applause. And, no, readers… “Reactional” is not a word. I made it up. I’m a trendsetter. Applaud frantically… now.
My problem is Twitter actually bores the s*** out of me. Sorry Twitter inventor people. My love/hate relationship for it, is a conundrum I can never seem to get past. People tend to either be blissfully happy, me… extremely angry, sometimes me… undeniably bitter, not really me… or ethereally spiritual, oh, totally me. My God, how many times can I hear someone say “he ain’t shit. I ain’t shit. She ain’t shit.” Ugh. And the bad grammar. I die inside every time I see someone, purposely, misspell a palabra. That’s spanish for the word, “word.” yeah, I’m a one word bilingual genius. Acronyms, even modern day slang -sup dawg- are one thing… but to deliberately write like a dumbass who points at a book and says, very slowwwwly… corrrrrrn flaaaaake. Stop it. You aint shit neanderthal.
Granted, on Twitter, there are a lot of facades that don’t lineup to real life. For instance, the so-called wanna-be beat makers that claim their work is so bomb and next thing you know you’re receiving an email with something sounding more like loud freight train combined with the Tele-tubbies theme song. Toss your shitty beats player. Everybody makes beats…. Oh yeah, and so does my dead grandfather in his heavenly tomato garden in the sky… FOH. Oh look, acronym. Did you use a 1980s tape player to make that piece of shit beat? Maybe a gopher helped you during mastering? I used to get them in my email but when I got one busted ass beat after another? I passed along that pain to my manager. And that chick? Oh, way harsher than me. Everybody makes beats and so does my dead grandfather in his heavenly tomato garden in the sky… FOH. Oh look, an acronym.
What about the artificial bodies perpetrating on cats whom they plan to spam or hack? Purely out there to prey on twatters accounts. Chopping and slicing up accounts since its birth. But then again, not even Miley Cyrus is immune to the fact that, even 30% of HER followers, are estimated to be fake accounts. Yes, friends, GOOGLE it. Not even EmergenC can save you. Even celebrities can’t escape the bogus Twitter embodiment. And, it’s not entirely Twitter’s fault. Even if they tried, they couldn’t manage that.
The twitter-sphere reminds me a lot like sleezy car lots. Full of mostly shit salesmen with mouths full of samples and a dash of clam bake hospitality. Moral of the story, stop taking it so seriously. You should be more concerned about you’re morning coffee and where it comes from instead. And it doesn’t change the fact that my Twitter struggle is real.