Twitterpated, or I'll Pay You NOT To Tell Me About It

I am firmly of the opinion that every move we make, every breath we take, every vow we break should be painstakingly sent out across the worldwide web 140 characters at a time.

Wait.

Do I really believe that? Do I really want to receive updates on whether or not someone has gone to the mall, has showered, has finally gotten the bacon just right?

I do not.

And I make no apologies, especially to Sting. That SOB still owes me $20.

I had a Twitter account for about 30 minutes before a friend of mine found out about it.

He called solely for the purposes of abusing me.

"Really? Twitter? What are you, Edward R. Murrow, reporting from the trenches?"

"Everybody's doing it," I muttered lamely.

"If everybody suddenly had a hold of the good acid, would you be doing that, too?"

"Why? What have you heard?"

He wouldn't tell me, of course.

Selfish, that's what he is.

So I never did twit. The world will have to go on without me, possibly wondering if I ever ironed out that issue with the medical insurance or whether or not I ever got off the couch the morning after the evening with the cash card and access to a taxi.

Guess I'll just have to blog it.

And that's way cooler than twitting.