I’ve been on the computer for over two hours. I spent a lot of time on Twitter. I just signed up because I wanted to check it out. I still don’t understand the purpose of it. I can stalk the actors and musicians I’ve loved past, present and future, I guess. There’s no reason for me to tweet because there’s no one listening. And I’m not famous, so I don’t think a lot of people will be clamoring to follow me. Plus, I’m just not pithy enough for Twitter. I’m a chick. I like to talk. In the end, I just looked for people and organizations to follow. I’m up to 15. They include John Cusack, The New Yorker and two actors from BBC’s “Being Human”. I’m not sure what that says about me.
After about an hour of that, I decided to look for something to write about, so I followed a lot of links to various news items. But it’s the Sunday after the world was supposed to end, so everything at the moment is rather anti-climatic and, quite frankly, just not as interesting as Armageddon. It’s hard to search for inspiration from your dining room table.
If I wanted to get philosophical about the last two hours it would go something like this: I wanted to engage, so I went out into a universe full of strangers, checked them out and hoped for some sort of connection. They were unaware of my existence, and I was looking for a way to break the ice. I followed links in their profile, looking for anything we could talk about. In the end, no connection was made and we remained strangers.
Ten years ago, I used to do the same thing. Except, it was a club full of strangers and we would stand awkwardly avoiding eye contact. I would be standing there, hoping for some sort of connection and would try anything to break the ice. In the end, no connection was made and we remained strangers.
At least tonight I’m not trying to wash the smell of cigarette smoke out of my hair.