Arseselves alone

It’s really not for everyone is Twitter. I’ve gone from the infrequent casual snoop, to incessantly lashing up tweets in a matter of mind-numbing months.

It’s all there: the critically retweeted news links, as if the three and a half people who might catch a glimpse of them require enlightenment from a quarter-dressed woman with a fondness for cream crackers and nutella. The blog post hawking, just incase the same folk missed it the first eleven times round. The self-satisfied ‘Exactly’s to announce a Very Important Point confirming my superior judgement on all matters irrelevant. The amateur djing with links to soundtracks blared through dodgy speakers. The fear when scanning the trending list for word of the next celebrity death. The rude interruptions. The truncated tweets typed too slowly but too quickly to avoid spelling mistakes, hurriedly dispatched to catch up with the others that make no sense. The worry that someone else is going to get in there first with my killer contribution to #MakeSongsTrump. The agony from the concentration required for #MakeFilmsFood. The propensity for class wars that turns me in Che Guevara’s Granny in a Penny’s nightdress. The inevitable descent into dribble with too much to declare when we reach talk of the Border.  The promises to quit the hit from blasting the button for the sake of it.

*refreshes page*

Happy St. Patrick’s Day

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