I've joined the ranks of the Twitter legion.
> I'm now much more easily and readily connected to my friends (and famous-people-I-idolize) in real-time than before (and hey! there's actually an infinitesimal chance that famous-idol may actually read what I write! and write back! and we'll become best friends forever and eat cheese together on famous-friend dates!).
> Twitter totally satisfies and legitimizes what would otherwise be construed as stalking. (Sorry, Jon Benjamin*).
> Tweets force me to practice self-editing and brevity. 140 characters is not a lot, buddies.
> Facebook still has its charms, but there's something to be said for low-commitment one-liners that might (read: would definitely) be unappreciated cluttering up the newsfeeds of my parents' neighbors and high school acquaintances.
> Twitter is rather an audience-appropriate vehicle for my in(s)ane one-off thoughts and horrible jokes that occur to me on an at least hourly basis. I share because I care. But I don't expect all my friends to care, and that's okay on Twitter more than anywhere else in my interwebs presence.
Because I would never abuse my dear, delicate blog readers to that.
Because I am a professional.
> I feel incredibly self-serving and self-indulgent sometimes believing my Twitter friends might actually give a flying corgi-butt about something I thought was funny. Because that would mean I think I'm funny. Which is a stretch on good days, and ironically funny on bad ones.
> I definitely did not need another black hole in which my attention can easily fall and break its legs and turn me into a distracted mental-paraplegic.
> I am bad at hashtags. I didn't need another things to be bad at. I usually just try to turn any hashtags I use into a bad pun or clever little punchline to the tweet it follows. Please just consider them little winks or sheepish apologies.
> Socially-acceptable stalking of Jon Benjamin (again, I'm so, so sorry about the harassment, Mr. Benjamin. But I'm not making any promises to stop).
I realize I'm beyond fashionably late to this party. So late that I'm just showing up with a tray of cookies as the pools of vomit I'm stepping over to join the fun are already drying on the sidewalk and the walkers-of-shame have managed to stumble halfway home, barefoot and mascara-smudged, with their heels in their hands. But I think cookies are always welcome. Even for breakfast when hungover from online information overload.
Better late than never, right?
*I have an amazing story involving me actually meeting Jon Benjamin this weekend at his Seattle show. I'm still giddy and reeling from the encounter, so I need to let it settle before I try to coherently tell it here. But next time, friends.