What the **** am I supposed to tweet about?

My Own Confession: Anxiety
May 5, 2010
The Day I Met Mitch Albom
May 7, 2010

I don’t understand Twitter.

I saw a tween nearly kill himself skating uphill outside my office at 11:30. The chef at the neighborhood café had a birthday yesterday. The staff celebrated with roasted stuffed chicken. I like the breakfast burritos at Café Caliente but they’re sticky with cheese.

Is that what I’m supposed to tweet about?

Or maybe:

I had a near-death experience in my dream last night. I was naked when they found me. In the front lawn, just sitting there, sifting through leaves. They tarred me, feathered me, and strung me up by yarn in a tree. I can’t really remember who did it, but I think it was the neighbor kid and his friend, Stu. The kid’s German Shepherd barked at me as I hung there, pleading. Let me down, I said. But they couldn’t hear me over the barking. And I didn’t think to scream.

The whole thing made perfect sense. I know because I woke up and apologized to my stuffed dog. I knew I had offended him.

No? How about this:

The muffins he made were awful. Dried up nuggets of Betty Crocker shit. But I smiled just the same. I wanted to get him into bed. It was worth it for a few ash-crusted balls of gross-ness. How do you mess up that recipe anyway? Oil, eggs, water, mix. What a dumb ass.

But the sex was good. Ish. Until he tried that Kama Sutra thing. I just don’t bend, I don’t care who you are.

Or the news… again?

Huffington Post just reported the death of a baby seal in the Gulf because of the oil spill! Can you believe it?!? I’m calling my Congressman.

I give up. Who needs to read this?

I guess the same people who read my blog. Touché.

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