Thursday, August 8, 2013

Maise the Twit

I had abandoned my Twitter account for about three years, feeling that I had lost interest in anyone's 140-character thoughts.  Plus, Amanda Palmer and Neil Gaiman seem to be hell-bent on killing the Internet with their INCESSANT CHATTER...OH MY GOD, SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!!!!  I admire and respect them both, but Jesus Christ almighty!!!  Do they ever just talk on the phone or have face-to-face conversations?  Do they watch TV or go to the grocery store?  Their inner monologues are just tweeted all day and all night!  The simple answer is that I should just "unfollow" them if I don't want that much exposure to them, but I kind of enjoy marveling at how they NEVER stop Tweeting.  I sort of love to hate them at this point.

Neil and Amanda, I'm a fan.  This comes out of love.  Consider creating a "mystique."  A quiet mystique behind which fans only get the tiniest glance.  When I fall in love with someone, I don't want to know EVERYTHING about that person all at once.  I want that person to be an onion of secrets, and I can gradually peel back the layers.  Not that onions are very sexy.  I just can't really think of anything else that comes off in layers like that.  Anyway.

So yesterday I was looking back at my own limited Twitter persona, and I realized, God, I'm kind of an asshole!  Especially to poor Trent Reznor.  When I have tweeted at him, look what I've written:

Good job riling up the Prince fans. Now they're starting to invade our blog. The rabid Weezer fans will be next, I suppose.

I'd like to bitch about my workload. Policing my blog for anti-you trolls doesn't help. 2 hrs of overtime and counting...

(This was around the time that Trent got engaged, and because we at Places Parallel were not permitting racist nastiness to be posted on our website about Mariqueen, Iris and I started to become the scapegoat for everyone's sexual frustration and broken dreams. So I was a little frustrated.)

I think you should go back to terse updates. Like one cryptic sentence every two weeks for everyone to agonize over.

(See? Mystique.)

Yes, it must be HORRIBLE to gallivant around Europe in the summer, being a rock star. This office-dwelling bitch feels you.

Wow, I had forgotten what it was like to be a Twitter addict. It's not quite the same without 's tantrums and troll-baiting.

And I wonder why he doesn't follow me!  But he's never told me to "fuck off," either, and he even gave Iris a hug with her L'Orangerie Stank shirt on.

So I'm a trouble-maker on the Internet.  And I probably will be until I get the cease-and-desist letter.  If I ever become creatively successful, someone may just harass me in the persona of my dead chinchilla, Rollo. That's karma, but I wouldn't mind too much. She always was sassy, with a dirty mouth.

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