We sat out back as the sun went down behind the house and decided to play chase-the-worm while we talked.
When you get to be a "certain age", drinking conversations change somewhat. Reliving the old days, well not so much. Solving the worlds problems after 10 shots of tequilla, easy. We're talking about world events when out of my mouth comes the words "Yeah, one of my twitter-buddies said....." "You tweet?" she asks.
Maybe it was the tequila, but suddenly I began to feel disoriented. "You tweet?" sounded like "You fuck goats?" And then she asks "What's it like?"
"What?" "Fucking goats." "I don't fuck goats." I hear myself shout from down the rabbit-hole. I am in a weird place now and anything I say now will only make things worse. You see, in my real life, there are no tweeters. My husband doesn't tweet, my friends don't tweet, my kids don't tweet. Christ, no one in my village seems to tweet.
I am a lone tweeter. And I'm faced with that question that only a non-tweeter dares ask "Why do you tweet?" Do I give her the usual spiel about how difficult it is to distill a complex thought down to 140 characters?
Or do I tell her the truth? As I'm already fairly well pissed, I
blurt out/opt for the truth.
It's fun, play in the mud fun. There's talking cats and bunnies and badgers and dogs. And they all cuss. Cussing animals, fuck who doesn't love that. And then there's all the other make-believe characters with different personas and avi's. Shit, it's like walking into a James Thurber novel I tell her. By the end of the night, I had caught the worm....
I named him Harry.
Now don't ya wish you were a tweeter?
All photographs have my signature embedded and are source located directly to my camera. Copy, crop, paste and I'll have Harry lay some larvae in yer hair.