You people crack me up. I do this whole post about how I ain't never gonna Twitter, and a bunch of you go and follow me on Twitter. I'm up to 76 now. I mean, even my own husband did it, and he certainly gets more than enough of me as it is. You just can't help it, can you? Admitting that you have a problem is the first step.
When I first started reading blogs, one of the very first posts I read was all about how the author liked soup. Soup. 500 words on soup. And not even 500 inspired words on soup, but just "hey, I like soup, it sure is tasty." It was six months before I ever read another blog, because I just don't care that much about soup. And Twitter, to me, seems like a bunch of people talking about soup, but at least they can only do 140 characters instead of 500 words. Now obviously I came around on the blog thing and there must be something to Twitter than I just don't see because you all like it so much and I know you to be smart people, but I just don't get it, and I don't think I ever will.
That said, I am torn between "Twitter is boring" and "Stop following me" for my token tweet. Actually, I am torn between "Twitter is boring" and "Stop following me" and just leaving it eternally (by which I mean another eight months or so until you all get bored with it and move onto something else because Twitter was soooooo 2008) blank as some sort of protest against dedicating so much bandwidth to soup.
Hey, is consternated a word? Spell check totally says no, but spell check also doesn't recognize contractions lately so I am beginning to doubt that spell check is the infallible modern oracle I have always presumed it to me. Anyway, I am consternated that you all said I couldn't email my ex-boyfriend. Because I totally should email him, and I didn't see how you could be so smart and still so wrong. And then I realized that I left out a few highly pertinent facts. First, we dated when I was fifteen. Fifteen! There are no skeletons in this particular closet. He wrote me some poems, we watched some tv, we went to a movie or two, and then I dumped him. That and some decidedly non-strenuous kissing was the extent of the relationship. Also, Chris met him, and his wife, years ago and when I told Chris I had found this particular ex online and was so gonna email him he didn't even look up from Twitter to register even the mildest of interest. There, see? You have changed your minds.
Finally, hey! You know what I did? I decided it would be really fun to put Owen to bed all weekend with angry and ravenous wombats in his pajamas, which is the only possible explanation for why he's accepted screaming all damned night long as his personal savior. Cruel of me, really.