I have a new rule. I don’t tweet unless I’ve had a shower.
So, if you follow me on Twitter and really feel like you are missing out on something relevant and engaging when I’m not constantly updating you on what I’m drinking (coffee); what I’m eating (varies); who I’m angry with, in love with, irritated with (usually my husband, but not always)…then chances are, it’s because I haven’t showered. And, in addition to missing out on the exciting daily happenings of my thoughtage (don’t look that up or judge me, I just made that up and I don’t care) also know that you are also missing out on my smell. It’s something of baby breath (actual breath not the flower), puppy, hamster, coffee, and washing machine detergent (which just got fixed today by the way).
There are many other reasons I will take a break from tweeting besides the absence of hygiene. It doesn’t happen often, as it has become a part of my daily life. When I do take a break, it’s short lived. My brain gets too full of thoughts, I laugh outloud at myself continuously throughout the day, and I feel a little lonely. Very few people will really “get” why or how it’s become as natural as breathing, and those same people are the people I am tweeting with. I can’t remember when I crossed over into the very small (relatively) percentage of people that use Twitter daily, hourly, minutely (I mean by the minute, not small….er….ly). I think it was the very first time twitter failed on me. Not just failed with the cute little fail whale page but failed like the only thing I could see was my own tweets. Panic set in as I realized 1) something was not working correctly 2) how was I going to find all of these people I was talking to ever again 3) why would anyone want to read the incessant gibberish that I tweet (reading only my stream sent a wave of shame through me…not only am I boring, I’m way more honest than I need to be sometimes). After this fateful night, I slowly but surely decided that I would become more than friends or followers to the people I actually had conversations with. I had developed a weird codependent relationship with my “followers” (an expert might tell you that this is the how a cult begins, but I bet that expert doesn’t know the warm fuzzy goodness of RT). I decided that I would *gasp* ask for more information from them in the event of another catastrophic fail whale event.
Nine months later, and I now have a healthy (or not so healthy) list of emails, mobile numbers, Ping ID’s, MSN chat handles, Skype names, and/or Facebook profiles of every person I tweet with on a daily basis. Now you are thinking one of two or possibly, three things. One of those three things include the words WHAT, THE, and either a word that rhymes with fuck or hell (don’t stop reading if the word fuck offends you, I don’t use it again in the rest of this effin post).
When I am not tweeting (because I have not showered, not paid my phone bill, am having such a bad day I can’t even complain about it, because my battery has died and I don’t have a charger, am on a plane, at a doctor appointment or one of my kids is very, very sick) at least three people on that list will contact me through one of those methods of communication to find out if I am okay.
I don’t expect anyone to understand why this means a lot to me. If you know me in real life, you would be surprised to know that that is true. I rarely socialize with people, and although I was voted friendliest my senior year in high school, I have no doubt that that is the last word that many people might use to describe me today. I am not shy; I am not a snob; I have been through lots and I am careful with my time. I do not keep many friends in real life (on purpose and on accident).
The circle of friends I have made on Twitter are real and imperfect. They know my dogs names, when and why I am upset, share my excitement when my kids do well, and pat my back *virtually* when they do not do so well. I have coffay with them on most mornings, share the intimate details of my biggest mistakes, and occasionally share a drunken night. I have even had the pleasure of meeting a few in real life. (I’m not a complete freak, I do like real people and leave my house sometimes).
I’m not on Twitter to find a date. Please don’t tweet at me “hey ma you’re so fine”. I appreciate it, but….I will block you. My avatar is the only picture of me in existence where my hair is brushed, my teeth are clean, my lipstick is perfect, my mascara is not smudged or I don’t have any food around my mouth. Just because it’s an attractive picture does not mean I’m on Twitter to date you.
I’m not on Twitter because I hate my life and want to complain about it. I once followed a woman who complained all day long about the darkness that engulfed her. I felt bad for her. But she made me sad, (like really, really sad) so after a few attempts at finding out what the hell was wrong with her, I unfollowed her. I don’t think she wanted help. I bet she was a clown in real life and was just sick of being happy all the time so needed an outlet.
I’m not on Twitter to sell anything, buy anything, or do any research about anything. There is absolutely no monetary value for me in any way, although I am slightly curious about the people who make thousands a week. (Where are you and what are you doing for fun later?)
I’m also not on Twitter to share how smart, popular, funny, or interesting I am. I am only one of those things at a time on most days a week, and consider myself lucky when I don’t forget to pick up a child somewhere. Really? Really.
If you are still reading, you are die hard *pounds chest, fist up, peace sign*…. you mah ride or die (I don’t know what that means but it sounds good) and you are thinking I’m going to end this rant with some thoughtful summary and or maybe a lesson or a point. I’m not. I made a rule about not tweeting until I had a shower, but I didn’t say anything about blogging.