Wednesday, July 6, 2011

I had a blog once. 

I had a house and a husband and an office, where I would sit, roll a doobie and let my mind wander.  With NPR playing in the adjacent laundry room, I think about Juan Williams, and a guy I worked with at a car dealership named Juan, and then how much I really enjoy tamales and can't believe no one sells them door to door here. They do in Wyoming.  And poof, I'm thrust back into my new life.

Houseless.  Husbandless.  Officeless.  Feeling feelingless.

I have dabbled on many social media glue traps since the seperation, out of boredom mostly, but like many ventures in my life, I lose interest as quickly as I did on my wedding night.  My Facebook status has been "wrapping presents" for 7 months now.  Mainly because I'm trying to avoid being hired out as farm labor by my nutty neighbor.

But Twitter has changed everything. I have managed to "tweet" (Twitter talk for posting a comment in 140 characters or less) nearly every single day for months now.  I am amazed.  Now before you get all congratulatory, keep in mind most of the tweets are about my vagina, and smoking weed, and teaching my vagina to roll weed so it's more like a window to my mind than a steady gig.  Finally, every sick, twisted thought I have in line behind some stinky ass redneck mom and her nose pickin' pink eye machine at Walmart is accepted publicly, and with reward!  Followers, fans, trophies...I'm still waiting to see what the trophy unions are going to do about this virtual trophy copyright infringement.

I'm hooked.  Like a meth head, counting ounces of copper wiring, I count the stars I receive and giggle like a sugar crazed school girl.  People like me.  At least 1000 people do.  OK, a few like me. Several follow me because they don't really read my middle of the night confessions, some more follow me because someone they really like follows me, a bunch are porn bots, one is my little brother's high school friend.  So, with the art degree I have (not the mail order one, like you may have assumed) that adds up to at least 500 people that may or may not find some of the shit I say humorous.  Not humerus, though, because that shit pisses people off.

So, Twitter has given me a place to hang my hat, or my virtual zippered black leather face mask.  I feel like I belong with the freaks and weirdos.  A home where you can put your feet or your penis on the coffee table.

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