*All names changed to protect innocent readers from knowing who my alarming friends are.
The First Mistake
I made a grievous error in judgment this past summer. An error that I certainly did not expect to come back to haunt me like in a bad teen movie. I Know What You Did Last Summer had almost this exact plot—I made a Twitter account in order to stalk 1 vs. 100, but soon found that I couldn’t run from my past.
I awkwardly navigated my way through “tweeting” in order to send a couple messages to 1 vs. 100. Soon after that, as my loyal readers know (read: my parents), 1 vs. 100 was canceled and forever removed from Xbox live primetime, which only included 1 vs. 100 in the first place. With no other reason to tweet, Twitter quickly faded to the back of my mind like the Super Bowl or poverty.
Until this past week, I have cared about Twitter less than I cared about the Kardashians and keeping up with them. Are the two sisters that aren’t Kim invading Saudi Arabia now and opening a spa? Or is it a bakery in Miami? I simply don’t know. Anyway, a group of my friends got together this past Saturday night, and instead of being productive members of society and drinking themselves into oblivion, they began a passionate love affair with Twitter.
My Second Mistake
I left my room Saturday night with a roommate who used # signs appropriately, and came back to one who abuses them mercilessly. Baffled and perplexed, when she asked me if I had a Twitter, I thoughtlessly mentioned what I believed to be my screen name. The memory was foggy, distant and wholly insignificant. I thought nothing of offhandedly giving her that piece of information.
Moments later her laughter alerted me that she was up to no good. I can easily identify her laugh of mischief and that was most certainly it. A facebook alert popped up on my computer. She had discovered the only two tweets I had ever made and had excitedly posted one to facebook. Both were of course about 1 vs. 100, but this one was especially amusing to my roommate:
The Twitter Nazi
If you aren’t blessed enough to have people in your life who take nothing and make it The Biggest Deal Ever, then you are more than welcome to share Carl, Ralph*, Preston* and Ronald* with me. Or you can just have them.
The nothing that became The Biggest Deal Ever is, of course, Twitter. These guys all live together, which means that most of the time they seem to share one brain and speak in a near incomprehensible language of catch phrases. This means that if one member of the pack diverts, he will be punished. In this case it is Preston, or “buzzkillington”, as they have so eloquently named him. Preston has failed to get on the Twitter-train and for that he must be punished.
I fear that soon Preston may have to move out. I’m not entirely sure that the other three communicate outside of Twitter anymore. A perfect example would be the other night when Carl transformed into the Twitter Nazi and forced everyone to communicate via twitter until Boy Meets World was over. “Don’t ask to pass the cheese cubes, tweet it!”
Any time anything remotely interesting happened on screen, The Twitter Nazi would declare, “Yo, tweet that shit!!” His bio says simply, “Tweet or die.” I was unsurprised to say the least. It’s exactly the sort of thing a Twitter Nazi would say.
Preston had no way of asking for the cheese cubes to be passed or of stating his feelings about remarkable actions taking place on screen. Any speaking resulted in terrifying looks from the Twitter Nazi. I only pray that Preston can make it through this time with his head held high until the other boys move on to their next obsession like baking homemade bread or creating greeting cards together.
I’m a smart cookie. I know an opportunity when I see one. I realized early on that their constant presence on Twitter created ample opportunities for me to be obnoxious. I fucking love being obnoxious. It’s almost on par with how much I love new episodes of 30 Rock and bacon and (gasp) 1 vs. 100.
Lately I’ve been playing a lot of sporcle, which is a site where you can trivia until your heart’s content. While I was editing my account, I saw there was an option to link my Twitter and Sporcle accounts and, get this, post all my results automatically. Friends, the amount of joy I got from this discovery was simply astounding. It was as though I’d discovered a cure for cancer that involved dancing with puppies, drinking copious amounts of hot chocolate, and shaving off Justin Bieber’s hair. I checked the box, made this official, and began non-stop sporcle-ing, all the while waiting patiently until the moment they got super pissed off. Sure enough, as soon as I walked in their room the next night, Carl and Preston threatened to stop following me, lamented my incessant posts, and gave me all the satisfaction I’d craved. They’d unknowingly been sporcled.
Side note: Sporcle has now become a noun/verb/adjective combo much like “smurf” did for the Smurfs.
You may be wondering why being this way gives me so much pleasure. In general, who knows. But in this specific case, Carl and Preston are wildly hilarious when they are frustrated—in fact, I know writing this, if they ever see this post, they’ll have something to say about their aliases. Maybe this time, though, instead of bitching to me about it, they’ll just tweet it.