I want to see the Intervention that tears someone away from their Twitter addiction. I want to compare the life of this forlorn, introvert to my own secret closet obsession. I want to giggle nervously as the tweeter tells unaccustomed family members about star fucking while wringing their hands in gleeful anticipation of their next encounter.

See, that's why I struggle with Twitter. I am one giant run-on sentence.

Twitter.

It's a hobby gone bad. It's a demented popularity contest hosted by satan's minions. It's my insomnia, my alarm clock, my bad posture, my chaffed nipples.

My day is filled with attempts to put the mundane into humorous 140 character diamonds. Grocery shopping? So much of the produce department would fit perfectly in my vagina. Laundry? I divorced my husband for my Maytag's spin cycle. My mind is corrupted. I am Pavlov's wife. Something happens, I tweet. Something doesn't happen, I tweet.

In a year or two, there will be a syndrome or illness directly related to Twitter. Like porn addicts and shopaholics, we will join the ranks of the sham artists, standing at weekly meetings cracking jokes about dipping penises in the shitty coffee. I will use my real name.