I may have to quit Twitter. It feeds my delusions too much.
Do you remember when you were a teenager, dreaming of being an actor/rock star/writer/model, and you were certain that all that was necessary was one big break? The talent scout happening upon you in front of Hot Dog on a Stick. The english teacher sending your 9th grade essay on Hamlet to her agent buddy, ’cause she was so amazed by your potential. The big time producer whose limo turned on a dime, almost of its own accord, after hearing your killer rendition of ‘Ballroom Blitz’ that your radical boyfriend managed to beam onto Big Time’s TV.
Yeah, twitter makes me feel like that. And, on a normal day, I don’t love feeling delusional. That’s really an every-other-Sunday kinda feeling.
Sure, I proclaim that it’s to keep in touch with my friends. To know what’s up with them, and let them know what’s up with me. To make them laugh with my witty, yet cutting, observations. To create an online sense of community, with those I’ve met in person, and those I’ve only met in un-real-life.
Shyeah. Right. And monkeys might fly out of my butt.
Really? It’s because I want to be discovered. It’s because I want all these quasi-or-more-than-quasi celebrities I follow to recognize my genius and follow me back. When I make my rare comments to famous strangers, I picture them curling up in laughter, checking on my twitter feed, and clicking all the way through, to this lonely little blog, to discover what a rare talent I have. Before long they will be my bestest friend, and they’ll drop my name to their agent/producer/TyraBanks, and I’ll be juggling multi-million dollar contracts.
Yeah, I know. This is why I may have to quit twitter. Because while I recognize its value in community building, and I appreciate those moments of delusion, it makes for more moments of almost mortifyingly embarrasing small-town optimism, followed by reality, shame, and unnecessary disappointment.
I have, at least, altered my expectations. Instead of hoping for instant fame, elevation from mall-shopgirl to Vogue cover-model, success, and a 3-record deal, I hope for that equally elusive daydream, the follow-back. Why do I care? I don’t, really. But I kinda do. But not really. Really.
I would say I’ll hold back my twitter use, just use it for real-life friends, but I just remembered a bee story that @neilhimself would so totally love – just one more quick post, I swear, then I’ll quit.
Oh, please don’t quit. I think that you are my favorite friend-who-I-haven’t-yet-met. I know where you’re coming from, though. But…on my birthday this year, William Gibson told me that I’m smart. In my nerd brain, that’s on par with a multi-million dollar contract. Well…close.
Okay, see, now I can’t quit. ‘Cause I met and only know you through twitter (via Mia, of course), so now my wittiness and appeal is validated, and I can continue to feed my delusions. Maybe someday William Gibson will find me and tell me… Nope, can’t top yours. That’s pretty awesome.