One year ago, Linesister suggested I join Twitter.
I was reluctant, because I thought the premise was stupid.
I didn’t know why anyone would give a damn about up-to-the-minute shit I was doing with my life.
I certainly didn’t expect to give two cusses about what anyone else was doing with theirs.
But, as is oft the case, Linesister was right, and one year later I am, of course, firmly entrenched in the Twitter beast.
I prefer it to Facebook.
As a matter of fact, it is my refuge from Facebook. It is my refuge from many things that have the taint of real life upon them.
Twitter is where I go to talk to people I don’t know. There’s a quiet solace in the company of strangers that I underestimated when first I began.
And I’ve come to love it, and treasure it.
Which is precisely why I can’t understand why so many of you fuckers are mucking it up.
6 Things I need all Twitter participants to do or know:
1. Get your titties off Twitter.
Look. I don’t have a problem with titties. I can certainly appreciate that titties are a crucial staple in the lives of a significant Twitter contingent.
I’m not trying to take titties away from anyone.
You wanna show your cleavage in your avi, all the while beguiling the world with excerpts from your doctoral thesis to evidence how you are both sexy and profound— more power to you.
You wanna twitpic yourself in your I-make-bitches-hate-me dress— fine, do the damn thing.
But honestly. This is getting ridiculous. Yesterday, I saw THREE broads whose backgrounds were nothing more than pictures of them posing in bikinis.
What.the.FUCK kind of latch-key, thatch-roofed, mother-less, Southeast Asian bordello were you raised in that makes you think this is okay?
Bitch, you are naked on the internet.
And like, for free.
No one’s giving you a dime to see those free titties.
It’s not sexy.
And even it if is, the desperation of it all far outweighs any aesthetic.
Have you no one in your three-dimensional world to tell you that you look alright?
You gotta arm yourself with a swath of lycra and an iphone to achieve some tiny measure of validation in your life?
PLEASE get thee to a grandmother’s loving embrace, and entirely the fuck off my timeline before I wretch in my mouth.
2. If English is your first language, speaking it well should be a priority.
Stop getting mad when people hashtag your illiteracy.
Someone correcting your abject retardation shouldn’t upset you.
Being 35 and unable to read, while utilizing a program that specializes in communication via 140 characters or less should upset you.
I bet Twitter is frustrating as FUCK for some of you.
Maybe, instead of making my soul weep each day with your fucked up grammar (which I’ll interpret as dispositive proof of the American educational system’s failures), try developing a simpleton-friendly web program—perhaps one that makes liberal use of shapes and pictures as opposed to actual words—
Or, you know….
FUCKING SPELL CHECK.
3. Tyrese is NOT your life coach. If he is, you deserve whatever bullshit life you’ve got.
I’m not gonna lie.
Once upon a time, before I knew Tyrese could neither read nor write, or properly effectuate any semblance of deductive reasoning, I was rather keen on letting him “make me feel good on the inside.” *
But that was pre-twitter lust.
Today, Tyrese tweeted, “Atl if you’re hear…I’m on the air on V103…”
He told the world REPEATEDLY about his presence at “Barnes and NobleS.”
The man is on a BOOK TOUR and he doesn’t know a homophone from a xylophone.
He has made several appearances at the nation’s premier book retailer, and doesn’t know its name.
And he cautions us all: “As you move to the next chapter in your life remember.. You will never shine Tryna sit on somebody else SUN!!”
Someone on my timeline retweeted that. Beside it, she wrote, “Preach!”
Are you fuckin’ kidding me?
Look. I’m not gonna shit on Tyrese (anymore).
He’s rich, and successful, and I am a nobody with law school debt; he bests me in any capacity that is of value to the world in which we live.
But if you have bills like me, and retweet this man as though he’s some fount of new, Black intellectualism, you’re a low-functioning, generic battery-operated dildo.
I mean it.
If Jody motherfuckin’ Jo opens your eyes to some shit you ain’t never seen before, close them.
4. I wish I had an interactive glass of ice cold water…maybe it could quench your palpable THIRST.
Listen. I love a Twitter crush as much as the next one.
Twitter is a place where people showcase their wit in concise, delicious snippets (and show their titties), therefore making it a veritable breeding ground for crush prosperity.
So, I get it. Crush on.
That said, these outwardly expressions of wanna-fuck-you-so-bad make me uncomfortable.
And you know why they’re outwardly, don’t you?
Cause she doesn’t.wanna.fuck.you.back.
The innovators of Twitter, in their infinite wisdom, made it impossible to direct message a person not following you; a decision—I noted a few weeks ago—for which many unsuspecting people ought to be grateful (seriously, you don’t want to know how many people I’d internet woo with slam whore antics should this function become disabled).
This is my point.
She won’t follow you¸ so you can’t direct message your tom fuckery for her eyes only. Your only remaining option one of public courtship, you smear the evidence of your XY chromosomal fail across my timeline, and the tragedy of your romantic, dehydrated desperation is clear for all to see.
I’m fairly certain that if a woman won’t follow you back on Twitter, she won’t reward your Arthurian Twitter gestures of chivalry with ass.
It’s not gonna happen.
@-ing her constantly, telling her how fine she is daily, preceding your retweets of her with overly enthusiastic declarations of her awesomeness won’t make tender her heart, or otherwise incline her to do it to you.
It will, however, encourage her to make note of your IP address in the event that a bitch comes up missing.
5. ATTENTION all persons with the following words in their bios—“sexy,” “pretty,” “model,” “mogul,” “rapper”:
6. If a stranger incites within you extreme rage, compelling a series of angry tweets——Stop everything you’re doing and Dougie.
You are obviously carefree and winning at life, and as such, have elected to lose on Twitter.
For my money, a person who allows a complete stranger to get him/her Twitter-enraged is tantamount to the man who gets in a fight at the club after someone nudges him or steps on his shoes.
The shit might be annoying—hell, it might be infuriating—but odds are, it’s something that can be let go.
What the fuck do I look like letting a complete stranger—someone who doesn’t even know my real name—who is, no doubt, sitting in some darkened corner, thousands of miles away, thumb-typing ignorance on his phone at lightning speed, get me all tight in the chest over the fucking internet?
How the hell am I gonna get fiery mad over some shit this dude typed with this thumbs?
It’s not that serious.
And if it is, it sure the fuck shouldn’t be resolved over a medium whose logo is a big, periwinkle bird.
I just want us all to let Twitter be great.
*Monster’s Ball shudder-inducing Halle Berry quote.