I like Twitter.
My Twitter feed is full of interesting and amusing people who make me laugh, teach me something or – most importantly – laugh at what I have to say. It’s a great way to waste time and an even better way for me to find out which celebrity has died before phoning my Mum to tell her. She’s all “really, how did you know?” Then I’m all, “I’m psychic” but she’s like “no, really, how did you know?” to which I restate “I’m psychic” and she’s a bit like “really?” and I say “yes” and then it’s a bit silent for a while before we talk about Coronation Street. I digress.
Sometimes, I venture outside of my cocoon of reasonably amusing people to The Dark Side. This happens for one of two reasons.
1) I click on a hashtag to see if I can amuse myself. These will be things like #WhatMaBabyMamaSays or #BlackBwoisAre and will end with things like “*kisses teeth* sort yo bump n grind out boi LOL” and “all about the pussayyyyyy AINT I RIGHT LATEHSA” and so I exit while silently judging people I don’t know and decide to make a sandwich instead, or something.
2) Because I’ve tweeted words like cock, fanny, twat, hot or desperate – not necessarily in a sexual manner – and get an instant add/@reply from a delightful young gentleman asking if I want a little summinsummin’. (NB: No. I don’t. Ever.) I’ll click through and their profile is always just full of @replies to pornstars and celebrities asking to see tits. Speaking of which, I came across this today – a gentleman giving out his Blackberry pin and asking women to add him over and over again, but with this sandwiched in the middle. Oh! It made me guffaw, for some reason:
Top Tweets are also unavoidable for those fucking annoying times when Chrome decides to log me out of Twitter and unremember my password, so I have to dick about entering a thousand different combinations of what I think it might be before I can finally log in. Top Tweets are occasionally funny, sometimes absolute nothingness about a celebrity’s day or quotes/mantras. It’s the quotes and mantras that I hate. I came across one such empowering (?) message just mere moments ago and it made me roll my eyes with wild abandon.
Firstly, as I am nothing if not pedantic, “*SINGLE*” really is a status, just like married is. Like divorced is. Like widowed is. There actually isn’t a way you can say it isn’t. When prompted to fill out a census form, what would you put? “I’m petulant and not going to answerWAAAAHH?”
Secondly, whoever wrote this Tweet is a bit of a moron. A bit of a newly dumped moron, perchance. Perhaps a fat moron. Potentially a virgin moron. Granted, there are times in life when one specifically chooses to be single. Saying that, there are also times when some bint will be all up in my face talking about independence and “havin’ a laff” being single at 7pm, but will be crying into a vodka at midnight after failing to get off with Dave from Accounts and then singing I Want To Know What Love Is by Foreigner into an ex’s answering machine.
You know what, Single McLoner? If you enjoy it, fabulous. Why wouldn’t/shouldn’t you? But you really don’t if you feel the need to tell me how much spare time you have for yourself and how much you just love microwave meals for one every ten minutes. That’s OK! Sometimes being single is just boring. You don’t have to convince yourself you aren’t desperately lonely and totally jealous of your mate Bev and her boyfriend Chris. Chin up and whack on a porno. I’m strong enough to live and enjoy life without depending on my boyfriend but, you know, I kind of like it actually. And having somebody contractually obliged to find you and your blog posts interesting is a brilliant incentive.