I twittered a long time ago and then last year decided that I don’t and while I’m at it I don’t do those other things that make me sociable even though I spend all day in an office on my own mumbling about cheese and poking widgets with little pointy cocktail sticks and so had a very nice old-school 8 months of my life when I didn’t give a weasel’s chaf what coffee you made this morning and just did some work and sat in an office on my own mumbling about widgets and poking cheese with little pointy cocktail sticks. having de-invested and de-invented and then got right narked off with myself I took a little poke around the fringes of the social one-hand-claposphere to see whether anything had evolved from the ephemeral cup-a-soup and lo, it took about 7 minutes to re-register my entire bloody life away. the last twit I had anything to do with was a bloke pavement cycling into my bush but now there’s so much twit and can’t keep up with what was just twat. similarly, the last time my face was in a book it was about daguerreotyping but now I’m spending a fruitless and irrelevant half an hour trying to guess more cars that my dad owned than someone in berkshire that I’ve never met. if that’s not bad enough, I’m wasting valuable disk space, apparently, by even thinking about writing about it the useless dullard that I am. who’d have thought.
I have 17 friends in common.