Wednesday, January 4, 2012

In which I become a Twit

Today I began my journey on Twitter. The frenzied whisperings of friends on the benefits of this, the one and only world worth inhabiting, has finally pushed me to setting my fear of the unknown aside and giving this damned Twitter thing a try.
I set up a profile, cute picture and all, clicked “follow” on an number of names, pressed my enter key and waited. Words in a language similar to Elfish appeared on my screen; mystical texts beyond my recognition spurting forth on a never-ending feed. Helen Zille said @something to something underscroll someone.
I am a copywriting graduate, am fluent in English, I passed matric, read books of consequence, hold eloquent conversation with other humans, and yet can't for the life of me understand how the degenerates of society are more capable of understanding Twitter than I. Britney Spears has over 12 million followers for Christ's sake!
I'm strongly reminded of the days I spent behind the steering wheel of my first car, my dad purple in the face yelling “If the bloody taxi drivers can control their clutch, why the fuck can't you?”
The horror, the embarrassment of knowing that everyone else can do something you can't. It burns a hole in my heart just to the right of the damaged artery left from the strife I suffered with my violin when I was six. (An instrument, I might add, that my mum swiftly removed from my possession shortly after buying me something called “The Squawky Parrot Violin Book.” Go figure.)
Yet now as an adult I see children the size of their own instrument, merrily belching out Mozart as though it were a undigested sandwich.
This, I'd hoped, this one piece of technology, will not fail me. I will navigate my way through Twitter like a pro, bearing insight and judgement down upon the lesser beings of the web. My words will crack like whips, followers would flock to me, begging for an audience and pleading for further wisdom. Writing jobs would fall into my lap, and job offers would be flicked off my shoulder like the piece of dust hip hop dancers always seem to find mid-hop.
Alas, it was not to be. Not today at least, and not, it would seem, for a very long time.
My biggest issue with this whole lark is that I staved off Twitter for so long, trying uselessly to convince people that it was a soul-destroying social media-bullshit excuse to prohibit actual human-to-human contact. “It dampens the brain!” I cried. “Let's go back to texting! And phone calls and emails, the way it used to be. The way it ought to be!” I should have known better.
So after years and months of internal battling, I finally did it, and look where I am now; 8 followers and not a growing brain cell to celebrate with.


  1. If you can't beat em, join em! And once you've joined them..beat the shit out of them!

    Nice blog piece. Keep it up smartie pants.

  2. Why thank you, Squire! I'll do my very best... and then a little more just to be safe. Good to know that there's someone out there actually reading this. Makes me feel ever so slightly more cool than before. (That makes it sound like i felt cool before. Let's go with it.)