I need to complain for a hot second. Fuck the dirty old man who blatantly and creepily checked out my ass this morning. I’m wearing my pre-laundry jeans that every neighborhood tomboy owns. While I do realize my ass looks fantastic all the time, this morning really wasn’t the optimal time to stare at it blatantly with that creepy smile plastered across your damn face.
I’m all for checking out strangers, but for the love of god let’s be suave about it.
So, we signed up for twitter. We tweet now. Actually, we try to tweet now.
You should follows us, then we’ll follow you and we’ll all be best friends forever.
Happy Friday
Okay, so I’m pretty sure twitter is taking over the world.
Everyone in my office beams like a seven year old on Christmas morning at the slightest mention of the word. I’d imagine the fervor my coworkers feel about twitter is similar to that warm feeling I get when I see the bar tender mixing top-shelf gin with my tonic.
News organizations recently dedicated serious air time to the new found phenomenon of celebrity ghost writers for twitter. Why does this shock people? I’m not surprised, just like I wouldn’t be surprised if you told me Lindsay Lohan uses a different name when checking into a hotel. I guess people feel lied to because they think it’s really
50 Cent deciding between fabric softeners in 140 characters or less.
I’m torn. I really am. Half of me thinks anyone who twits, twats, twitters, is secretly dying for attention and desperately needs a hug. On the other hand, I feel like I’m just bitter that I didn’t come up with it and I probably could rock the crap out of twitter.
Several people have encouraged me to sign up. I twitter in my head all day long, the only difference is that only occasionally people hear my twats. Not to be a cocky son of a bitch, but one of my coworkers thinks I need a tv show, and another is currently writing me into one of their scripts.
It may only be in a small circle, but I’m pretty famous already. My twitter account could go through the roof. Write about that one, New York Times.
I have friends who twot and sometime they will drone on and on about which celebrities they are following. Okay, the term “followers,” it’s a little too put-on-the-maroon-sweatsuit-and-drink-the-kool-aid for me. If there’s one thing being American has taught me, it’s that we love our euphemisms. Take Facebook for example. On Facebook we are not stalkers nor stalkees, we are friends. Truth be told? I don’t talk to most of my “friends” on Facebook.
- I’d make a pretty awesome rappers wife.
- Incorrect peanut butter to jelly ratio in sandwich will ruin everything.
- Appropriate tip percentage for bikini wax? 0%. Waxer should be so lucky to be down there.
- My breasts look fantastic in this shirt.
- Coworker eats like he’s a lion feeding on a dead animal, gross.
- R&B bodies gone awry: D’angelo
- Jonathan Rhys Meyers sitting on a throne of..people? wtf, come on showtime.
yeah...
