I am over capacity. Try again later.

I am epic fail at Twitter.

I have spent the past hour of my non-existent free time attempting to set up a profile on Twitter. I have tried to upload a picture three times. It gave me this helpful message: 

Twitter is over capacity.

Too many tweets! Please wait a moment and try again.

This is the best message ever. It is my new catch phrase. Now, whenever I am drowning in stuffs, I want my forehead to show a retro-cool print of a bird while intoning pleasantly, "Libba is over capacity. Please try Libba again later."

I must confess: I find modern technology baffling and overwhelming on a good day. On a bad day, like today, I find it slightly hostile–the smiling hotel concierge who knows you booked through hotels.com and gives you the room by the freight elevator while sweetly insisting it’s all he has.
It’s not so much the technology itself that intimidates me. Okay, it’s that, too. It’s that I must learn to navigate it and live my life on a variety of Internet stages that includes Livejournal, Facebook, and now (because all my friends are doing it, Mom) Twitter. As you have no doubt noticed, I don’t even blog all that often. This is because, quite frankly, I don’t always have something to say. Sometimes I am doing any number of painfully boring thingy-things such as grocery shopping, ferrying of my child to and from school, imagining that I have undiagnosed Hanta virus and will lose my flesh by morning, ignoring telemarketers, throwing out junk mail, wondering whether to order Thai or Indian for dinner because I forgot to get actual food for dinner making,  and, of course, writing, which, unlike the movies, where writers wear a lot of very cute clothes/have affairs/battle Satan’s spawn in a cabin in the woods, mostly involves sitting at my computer all day and occasionally asking the cats if they think any of my plot points are unclear. This is not terribly Twitter-worthy in my estimation. Perhaps you feel differently. 

Reluctantly, I joined Facebook. This allowed old high school and college friends to find me and remind me that I once wore outfits that were the equivalent of an ’80’s drive-by. (Headbands and stripes. Can we all just agree that’s a bad idea? I won’t even get into the Laura Ingalls Wilder floral prairie dress and permed mullet.) I am happy to see them but do not wish to relive my twenties, which involved a lot of angst in leggings.

Now I am being coaxed into the world of Twitter. Yesterday, I had lunch with writing gang. They all Twitter. They Twitter like pros. They are the Beckhams of info-bites. It’s like I am like the last girl in junior high to find out that all the cool kids go to the mall after school–DUH! Of course, I have read the Twitters/blogs/Twi-bloggery-bloggity-thingies of my various friends and they are actually vastly entertaining. But I dunno.They told me I should Twitter and they would help me with it, and somehow, I had a vague recollection of the time I went to a spa with a friend and she told me I simply had to get a Brazilian. 

I can’t decide how I feel about this. It’s like doing something and then…commenting on doing something. Like you are your own personal Greek chorus. In 140 characters. I am not being a total smart ass here. I am honestly thinking, If I ate a piece of pie or did a load of jeans or had a heart-to-heart with my cats, would I then want to rush to my computer and update everyone: "I am eating pie!" "Jeans in wash. Taking odds on whether they make it 2 dryer l8tr." "No one understands me but the cats." "Update: Cats object: claim I am batsh*t crazy and they don’t get me either." 

It all makes me want to breathe into a paper bag. 

So I sent an email to Robin Wasserman who is often my voice of reason, because I like my voice of reason to be somebody who stares at me as if I am the stupidest person on earth and says, "You’re kidding me?"
*sigh* I need her.
I sent her an email saying, "Can you please tell me how to set up my bio and website info and such on Twitter because I see no links to do so." And then I added some brand-new phrases crafted together out of words that had my spellcheck going nuts and probably made a whole crew of Teamsters blush somewhere in the world and even had Joe Pesci going, "Whoa! That is impressive." And Robin emailed back, "I love it when you curse, you little minx." And then she told me how to do it so I’m going to go do that thing now, God help me, and in the meantime, here is the Twitter version of my first book. Enjoy.


Mom dead. Leaving India for London. Always wanted 2 go but now am 2 sad 2 w00t. 😦
Girls @ Spence mostly douches. FW=psycho bitch. PC iz total follower. Roomie iz humorless cutter. Fun.
Weird cloaked guy following me. Annoying but hot. 
Visions won’t stop. Sooo embarrassing.
Dead girl gave me old diary. Should wait 4 pb or read now? J/K 😉
OMG! I haz powers! Off 2 realms. BFN.
Life in realms GR8. IRL, not so much. French=pain in my ass. *sadness*  
New art teacher Miss Moore ROCKS. Off 2 caves. TTYS. 
Got deets abt fire @ Spence from NW & Bridget. SRT and MD were part of Order! OMG. 
Punked Cecily and others. ROTFLMAO! Magic is kewl.
Hot guy iz still hot. See pic @ his blog: Hot Men of the Rakshana. http://tinyurl.com
JSYK, finally got rid of Bumble this w/e. Fab. 
Turns out Mom was in Order. WTF? 
Tweetup in caves epic fail. FW tried to kill K. Have 2 take peeps 2 realms now. *sigh* 
Do NOT trust Huntress. M8jr  beyotch. 
Update: Pip 8 berries. 😦
Update update: Funeral was bummer until K showed up. Totally crushing. *squee* TTYL, BBs!



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