It’s so fucking obvious you were all raised in the “positive reinforcement” period of public education. By comparison, I got my knuckles and ass whacked.
Today, while I was actually thinking about and working on paying projects (it happens), I click over to check my stream only to find myself blindsided by some very weird, snark-ass comments.
Let me make a few things clear so you can decide whether to keep following me or not in full(ish) possession of the facts:
o I am not now nor have I ever been a “Favstar insider,” or a part of what a friend so brilliantly dubbed “the original Homecoming Court.” The members of that changeless Mount Rushmore you see in the top row, far left, on the “Popular Tweeters” page do not follow me; we do not share the Secret Handshake and decide your fate. Those individuals have barely if ever acknowledged my existence and that’s okay because I’m not competing with them and guess what? Some of them may be just a wee bit funnier than you OR me. Get used to it. And more on that later.
o Fielding a low jab from a long time co-follow or two suggesting my inclusion in WitStream is evidence of elitism on my part was nearly, but not quite, as hurtful as the implication is childish. I’d be happy for and proud of you if you showed up there. As it is I’m now considering breaking camp on Twitter and posting on WitStream exclusively. Too many of you want to be recognized for being something that, frankly, you’re not. I’M not tall, good-looking or rich. If YOU happen to not be terribly amusing or insightful in the brutal constraints of 140 or less, show us pics of your dinner or get the fuck over to Facebook where you’ll be more comfortable. And speaking of Facebook mentalities…
o If I don’t follow you it’s no more an insult than my not watching EVERY FUCKING TV PROGRAM AVAILABLE. It doesn’t mean you suck, but it likely means you don’t grab my heart or brain in any definitive way and I have neither the time nor the attention span to keep an attentive eye on all of you. If I follow you, it’s sincere. If I unfollow you, it is with a heavy heart. The latter informs my caution with the former.
o You hate Favstar? Opt out. It’s that simple. From what I understand, if you paid for the extra features (for the record, I never did) your money will even be refunded. Go elsewhere for your “approval aggregation.” But is changing the test until you pass any real comfort?
I don’t care if it’s a “Fav” or a “Star” or a “Nod” or an @ with a smiley face, I enjoy knowing when I’ve helped in some tiny, forgettable way to make this day on earth, your day, one or two seconds more fun. That’s it.
This place has been rank with petty bitterness lately.
Shut up and dance.
Or just shut up.
September 2010
4 posts
Creating accounts solely to RT the tweets you star? Are you fucking kidding me? Did you miss the point?
Your precious leaderboards have sucked balls for several months because every lame lazy joke goes up there because you star all of them.
The required RT quota was made so that only tweets…
Dear Marvelous People of Twitter,
I haven’t written much about Favstar, and there’s a few reasons for it. I try always to couch my comments by keeping in mind that it’s a private concern, designed and redesigned by a private person who has his own reasons for doing things. He’s paid his own…
I will never forget /the almost orderly columns of dirty smoke in the stunned blue sky/the brilliant hush/the burly man softly weeping beside me the woman who couldn’t stop talking and me nodding/numb and holding her hand and we hundreds/we Hundreds mutely stumbling the train tracks to the next platform to get out/just get out/the cell phones useless/the cops and conductors saying We Don’t Know/We Don’t Know/the air just stench of melting plastic the long patchwork lawless journey home/the kids asking why daddy was here so early/why daddy was crying/our 8 year-old bleating God Bless America into his school band saxophone at sundown while the whole street held hands/heads down/a funeral.
A funeral.
And me saying Fuck/Fuck Fuck Fuck to my parents for the very first time when they finally got a call though late that night/so late and so fearing so knowing Judy Who Worked There was gone/And Adriane/And Mark/And didn’t John have a meeting there today and where the fuck is David by now these guys should be home by now and hating myself/Hating myself for being back/home/safe/Hating myself for being alive.
I will never forget holding my children as if the slightest wind might blow them away.
I will never forget the surreal sweeping beams of low loud military helicopters slicing the black streets and yards/all night/All night/And the cars/the cars/the silent cars of neighbors at the station parking lot that were never driven home
not ever again.
