I had been at a loss as to what to write about for days, and then, mere moments ago, as I was watching Judge Judy on Larry King, I made a typo in my address bar and it made me laugh and also laugh. I was just one letter off, but those are always the best typos. What I typed was: twatter.com.
Look, I’m not proud. I’m not highbrow or Ivy League or upper crust. I realize this. I revel in this. So understand that I do not expect this twatter business to win any comedy awards. But it’s been a long day. A day I have spent converting endless, ungodly amounts of pages written in Chicago style to Associated Press style, which, despite how glamorous and sexy that sounds, is neither. In my free time, I wrote a grad school paper (hi, I’m 37, GET ME THE HELL OUT OF GRAD SCHOOL) on the intricacies of group social work with teenagers. The gist? TEENAGERS SUCK. (Though, to be fair, I think most people suck, which is why I’m considering becoming a crisis counselor for cats. Because, honestly, they’re all freakin’ drama queens, so the work would be plentiful. Their crises would be, like, “She bought me Lamb & Chicken Fancy Tasty Good Morsels, and she KNOWS I like Liver & Beef Yummy Swell Num Nums. I can’t fuckin’ stand living with that woman,” and “Every time I fall asleep against his leg, he eventually gets up. I mean, he gets ALL THE WAY UP. He sits back down, I fall asleep, and he GETS UP AGAIN AT SOME POINT. Can you write me a script for Xanax?”