I like to think that I am an intelligent human being and at least more technically savvy than my father who just recently figured out what texting was (not that he can actually do it in under 20 minutes). But, Twitter? It totally fucking confuses me.
Isn't tweeting just like making a status on Facebook? With lots of confusing @ and # symbols? I can figure out the @ thing. Hello, I'm not fucking...um, someone really dumb. But the pound thingy? Nope, totally don't get it. It's like a tagging thing, right?
#whatthefuckdoesthisevenmean??!?!?!?!
And why do I need another medium to make a drunk fool of myself? How many times a week can I really tell the Interwebz that it's the freakin' weekend (on a Monday) and am sooooo drnrkkkkk. Probably a lot.
And the whole following thing? That's a lot of pressure. I don't have that many friends, y'all. And interacting with celebs like the cool tweeters? Crap my pants right now. I doubt any of my 3 friends (or are they just followers? friends=Facebook only?) would create an army to defend me against William Shatner. So, basically, what's the point?
So, when I sign up for Twitter tomorrow and William Shatner blocks me and I don't have any friends/followers and make a complete ass of myself after a $5 liquor pitcher, I blame Lindsay Lohan and the fact that I really just want to be able to see her coke binged rants about her dad. When she gets out of rehab, of course.
Oh, and if anyone can actually coherently explain this whole Twitter businezz, I'll totally S your D*. Or at least send you a cookie and some nudie photos.
*Did I just make this up or have other people heard this before too? I feel like saying BJ is just so last week. I'm the only one? Go figure.
Showing posts with label #whatthefuckdoesthisevenmean. Show all posts
Showing posts with label #whatthefuckdoesthisevenmean. Show all posts
Monday, August 9, 2010
Why being an adult can totally suck my ballz
You know what's completely fucking overrated? Being a self-sufficient, independent, and responsible adult. Yeah, I said it.
Sometimes I like to give the illusion that I'm a respectable and upstanding adult. But seriously, who the hell am I kidding? I can't even call and order pizza without getting all jittery.
My parents like to tell me that I've always been mature and a responsible. Which is actually very sweet (read: stupid) considering that they're the ones that are always yelling at me to get over it and order the pizza already because everyone's freaking starving. I suppose I have been responsible. I made good grades in high school, stayed out of trouble and the drama, got into a well respected journalism school for college, and have had a handful of jobs in which I've always been on time and worked hard at. But capital-A-Adult things like balancing my checkbook and watching the news and being completely financially independent? Yeah, not so much.
In ten months I will have officially graduated college (finger crossies) and then? It's the Real World. And not the booze fest in which 7 strangers share a ridonculous house in some awesome city. Like the move-the-rest-of-my-crap-out-of-my-parents'-house-get-a-big-girl-job-figure-out-how-taxes-and-oil-changes-work kind of real world. Also: bills, bills, bills. Like more than what I have already. Gross.
And isn't it like a rule of the universe that being an adult means that you're supposed to make meals that don't solely come out of a box or get black-out drunk on a Tuesday and sleep all day Wednesday or wear the same pair of jeans for three weeks straight instead of just doing laundry already?
No thanks. I can't hack it. Count me out.
My brain is practically exploding right now, so excuse me while I go do a shot of tequila to ease the pain of the knowledge that four years of college has absolutely prepared me for nothing except how to use APA style and get drunk on a Tuesday. I'm so fucked.
But seriously, this topic will be brought up again and again so hopefully the next one will be less of me complaining complaining complaining and more about what the hell all of this really means. No promises, though.
Sometimes I like to give the illusion that I'm a respectable and upstanding adult. But seriously, who the hell am I kidding? I can't even call and order pizza without getting all jittery.
My parents like to tell me that I've always been mature and a responsible. Which is actually very sweet (read: stupid) considering that they're the ones that are always yelling at me to get over it and order the pizza already because everyone's freaking starving. I suppose I have been responsible. I made good grades in high school, stayed out of trouble and the drama, got into a well respected journalism school for college, and have had a handful of jobs in which I've always been on time and worked hard at. But capital-A-Adult things like balancing my checkbook and watching the news and being completely financially independent? Yeah, not so much.
In ten months I will have officially graduated college (finger crossies) and then? It's the Real World. And not the booze fest in which 7 strangers share a ridonculous house in some awesome city. Like the move-the-rest-of-my-crap-out-of-my-parents'-house-get-a-big-girl-job-figure-out-how-taxes-and-oil-changes-work kind of real world. Also: bills, bills, bills. Like more than what I have already. Gross.
And isn't it like a rule of the universe that being an adult means that you're supposed to make meals that don't solely come out of a box or get black-out drunk on a Tuesday and sleep all day Wednesday or wear the same pair of jeans for three weeks straight instead of just doing laundry already?
No thanks. I can't hack it. Count me out.
My brain is practically exploding right now, so excuse me while I go do a shot of tequila to ease the pain of the knowledge that four years of college has absolutely prepared me for nothing except how to use APA style and get drunk on a Tuesday. I'm so fucked.
But seriously, this topic will be brought up again and again so hopefully the next one will be less of me complaining complaining complaining and more about what the hell all of this really means. No promises, though.
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