To tweet, or not to tweet?

I’ve had my wrist slapped by twitter.

If I were more of a rebel, or a more confident exploiter of on-line tools, I might have been outraged, but the wrist slapping was actually kind of embarrassing.

“Your account has been suspended for inappropriate use of tweets.”

Was I sexting? No.

Was I spamming? No.

Was I cyber-bullying? No.

Do you realize that none of those above words would have been understood by Shakespeare? Google? Apps? Tweetbank?

What, ho, anon! It cometh as a gentle rain upon my soul of wanderesting woe. I hath been de-twittered, oh fie! Fie, on’t ye beggardly bunions, ye clodswollop of infinitesimal guttersnipes! I bite my thumb at you, twitter! I… bite… my… thumb!

I digress. I’ve been teaching “The Merchant of Venice” and “Othello” to my lovelies at school and the language just oozes into my pores like the light from yonder window…

Twitter.

Apparently, you aren’t supposed to just randomly send tweets to people you don’t know. It’s kind of like showing up at their house and waving your underwear in their living room window.

Apparently.

And if you do unknowingly commit this sacrilege, then they slap you on the wrist and shun you.

Whenever I wrote a blog, over the past few months, I would merrily hasten my eager steps to the twitter page, where I thought the world was my oyster, the computer was my bedfellow, the wayward highways of the world were open and beckoning me forth, “Avast,” I cried. “To Belmont where lies a maiden richly left…”

Yes….

I would troll the twitter categories and merrily tweet my blog to the masses, content in the belief that I was building a fan base for my novel and my writing career. I was pleasant. I was cordial. I never insulted anyone’s mother, or talked politics. I just pressed that magical key: tweet.

No one seemed to mind. Some lovely people even decided, without my asking them, mind you, that they would “follow” me, which resulted in me closing my living room curtains at night, but otherwise warmed the very cockles of my heart.

Then. Out of the blue. Is this a dagger I see before me? Nay, nay, tarry not, hie thee from hence and foreswear thy folly… the twitter Gods said “Nay.”

Actually they didn’t say anything at all, they just aimed their mighty powers of techno-shunning and shut me down.

I’m sorry. I am truly guilty of twitter-badness, and in my ignorance, I apologize.

I feel incredibly guilty of having committed some vile undie-waving violation of privacy.

Ellen DeGeneres, I apologize for my unsolicited tweeting of you. You just seemed so friendly, and cute, and I thought maybe you would like my Fifty Shades posting, and perhaps retweet it to millions, and we could be BFF’s.

Frank Magazine, have I forever created enmity between us? Because I really don’t want you as an enemy.

Salty Ink… I’m sorry. I just really liked your name.

Stonerjesus, you were just really… really… a mistake….

I have been reinstated in the good graces of Twitterdom, but I feel it is a precarious ascent. Like there are rules just beneath the surface of our star-crossed relationship that I have yet to compass ‘round.

I just don’t get it.

“But love is blind, and lovers cannot see/ The pretty follies that themselves commit.”  : This, I get. No problemo. Thank you William, Bard of my dreams.

“Hashtag, mention, favorite, tweetbank, friendapolooza, tweetroduce, twitosphere.” :  This, I DO NOT GET!

I’m only forty-five, people! I’m not ninety two! I should get this stuff!

I, apparently and much to my horror, am a twewbie.

Fie… oh, fie on’t!

S’truth, I know not why I am so sad…

I asked my students, who are sixteen and so techno-savvy it’s frightening and my good friend Brandon looked at me with a sympathetic smile and said “You are such a loser.”

He didn’t, actually, but I can read sixteen year old minds easier than I can tweet. Or see the buttons on my cell phone. He tweeted me. I didn’t feel a thing.

“I didn’t feel a thing,” I said.

“Tweet me back,” he said.

“I don’t think it’s legal for teachers to do that. That’s how we get fired,” I said.

“No. Ms Broadbent. Just tweet me. It’s easy,” he said.

I did. I tweeted. Nothing happened. He gave up on me, but I think he still loves me because he assured me that when he fulfills his dream of becoming an LPN he will be kind to me when I am under  his care in a nursing home.

He mentioned diapers.

I live in fear that my pedagogical exploits will come back to kick me… in the ass.

So now, I exist somewhere on the periphery of the technologically twitter-able world… on probation? House arrest? In-school suspension until I figure it out and hashtag my way to fame and fortune?

I think not.  Chaos is come again, and I know not that of which I speak! Oh, how poor are they that know not patience… be patient with me twitter! I am but newly born into a brave new world that has such bizarre new rules in’t!

I will tweet, anon.

To tweet, or not to tweet, that is the question.

Whether ‘tis nobler on the cell phone to ‘follow’

The slings and arrows of twitterquette and outrageous technology

Or to stand firm in the ignorance of non-tweeting and by opposing end them.

To tweet, to follow, to mention, and by mentioning, twitterpate them…

Aye, there’s the rub!

Wish me luck!  🙂

Check out my novel: That Thing That Happened:  Available on kindle and kobo

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