Prologue
I vaguely recall this spring day, my then 9 year old son comes into the kitchen and asks if he can start a Twitter account. At that moment I am in the process of making dinner, answering an important email and making sure my neighbor sees me watching him through the window as he obviously debates picking up the steaming present his dog just left in our yard. "Sure, honey," I reply and he runs off happily. I'm fairly certain if he asked me if he could set my hair on fire, he would have received a similar response.
Day 1
A few weeks ago my son casually mentions tweeting about his day. "What?! Since when do you tweet?" I ask, completely confused. My son gives me a partial eyeroll (he's still too young and too sweet to do a full one), and explains to me that a Twitter account is for tweeting and since he has one he tweets. Horrified that faceless predators are cyberstalking my baby, I rush online to set up my own Twitter account so I can follow his tweets and keep away evil with my mere presence.
I quickly create a cutesy name for myself and enter Twitterland. I spend the first five minutes laughing about the fact that my son's Twitter name includes the word "kill" while in his bio he describes himself as someone who loves all cats and kittens and all things fuzzy.
Being a big fan of the show The Office, I decide to follow Mindy Kaling, Rainn Wilson and Ricky Gervais.
I finish up by sending a quick "I'm here world" tweet into the ether.
Day 2
I receive an email that I have 2 new Twitter followers - Pamela and Victoria. Excited that 2 strangers are interested enough to want to follow me, I log on to check them out. Their photographs show 2 attractive women. On closer inspection, it becomes clear that Pam and Vicky are a little too perfect and airbrushed and seductive and are both fronts for hard working, enterprising porn sites.
Rainn Wilson tweets about an anal fissure.
Day 3
Vicky sends me a message telling me she loves Pinocchio and would love to lock him in a room with her and order him to lie to her.
Raine Wilson and Mindy Kaling don't seem to tweet more than once a day or so, Ricky Gervais, on the other hand, appears to need to share each time he ties his shoes, talks to anyone, puts anything in his mouth or relieves himself.
Day 4
I acquire a new follower name Robert. He seems normal at first, but in his bio he writes that he's a "lover of surgical blades" and knows which type of blade works best on which body part. I start researching how to get rid of your followers.
Day 5
Vicky tweets she's not sure if death has any meaning and wonders if life is passing her by.
Ricky Gervais tweets that he can beat his wife in a game of "Knob or Bullocks." I try to figure out if there's an American version of that game and how one wins in it and if one should ever actually strive to win in this game. I'm still pondering what it means that Mr. Gervais is able to beat his wife.
Day 6
Robert decides I'm too boring and and stops following me on his own. I sigh with relief.
Day 7
I call my friend. "I don't get this Twitter thing," I whine. "I'm followed by porn stars and serial killers. I now know way too much about people I've never met and I can't get a complete thought into 140 characters. What's the point of it?"
"Tell your friends you're on there. They'll follow you and know what you're up to," she says.
"I tell them what I'm up to when I see them or they know through facebook, email, or over the phone," I reply.
"You sound like my mother," she laughs, "she's 76."
"Well, I went on there to keep an eye on my son, maybe I should stick to that."
"Yes," she agrees, "stick to that."
