Well, I’m not sure how many nitwits are on Twitter (ten, ten million?), but I appreciate the sound of those three words together. They were meant to be together, like Sonny and Cher, peanut butter and bananas, Harry Reid and Mitch McConnell.
But, seriously, am I just too old for Twitter or am I merely dumber than a nitwit and simply cannot grapple with the beauty and utility of tweeted communication?
Everyone (practically) in the self-published world says that authors should have a twitter presence. Obediently (once upon a time) I trotted over to Twitter and twigned up. I acquired followers (like a mad prophet) and became a follower (like a sheep…baaa). As my followee list grew, I began to see a stream of tweets (whenever I cared to sign on, which was and is infrequent).
“Buy revolutionary face-cream now! NOW!”
“Steamiest erotica ever! Forbidden love between hard-abbed pilates aficionados! Read NOW!”
“Lolz! R U up wit dat?”
“Best grumpy cat compilation ever.”
“Buy organic yo-yos NOW!”
Needless to say, my eyes glazed over. And still do, whenever I visit Twitter. I assume that whoever invented it has quite a taste for Ritalin.
What’s my point in all this? I can’t remember, to be honest. Spending too much time (any amount of time, in fact) on Twitter has wrecked my concentration. My short term memory has been reduced to 140 characters (or whatever the Twitter limit is–I can’t remember).
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