Tweeker. Twigger. Whatever. Little ittys has joined the social media ranks at long last. So, uh, tada. Now what?
You’re certainly welcome to follow along, but a word of caution seems in order: don’t expect much. You see, I stink at twerping. It isn’t because of the low character count or anything like that, I just don’t get it. Hashtags and retweets, @reply and @username, direct message, whoosh, right over my head.
In what language are they speaking? It sure isn’t English. I tried to figure it out, diligently. I spent weeks stalking the Help pages, straining my eyes and my brain trying to unscramble the code, but came away no smarter or savvier. I’m stumped, okay?
Tweeper is a technology whose use and purpose eludes me. I understand how people get in trouble using it, though. Like me, they don’t know what the hell they’re doing. Unlike me, they won’t admit it. Not even to themselves. And self-inflicted chaos is one short keystroke away when you’re messing with unfamiliar technology. Stabbing buttons and poking keys leads to tragic consequences.
I, however, won’t be lifting a finger. WordPress will be the ones alerting Tweezer the instant I publish a new post. Therein lies the enigma; I don’t see the point. Who are they going to tell? More precisely, who’s going to care? Prayers operate on a similar principle, I think. We send ‘em off hoping someone’s around to accept delivery. Or, in CB lingo, ‘got your ears on, good buddy?’
So there you have it: I see twitting as a search for alien life. Heck, the technology exists, so I might as well use it. There’s no reason not to. Unlikely doesn’t mean impossible, you know, not even with the zillion to one odds.
Earth to Neptune, come in Neptune … Earthling to Plutonian … Hello, Mars? …
Maybe I’m broadcasting to an empty universe or maybe just an uninterested one. Either way, the message pings and echoes and ricochets in a vast, yawning emptiness. Forever. It isn’t hurting anyone. But, wait, geez, what if something pings back? Oh, for pete’s sake, get a grip. As if.