The Twitter-verse

It's official. While you didn't read it here first--sorry blog followers--my life has become of such great consequence that it necessitated the creation of an account on Twitter. No longer do you need to wonder "what is that witty, infrequent writer up to?" Just head over to the Twitters to see my latest musings.

As expected, my tweety tweets are largely of little importance, unless you want to know my food cravings, which rival those of an expectant mother. This morning merited an ode to my recently purchased box of Triscuits. Of course they were the Sun-Dried Tomato. There have been occasional thoughts that I hope to use when I finally get up on stage to do stand-up:

• I am a pro self-check-er-outer at #Dominicks. I am also a pro check-her-outer at bars. Thank you. I'm here all week. #isthison
• Twitter Popularity Index: If your Followers > those you are following, you deserve your own TV show. #goalsetting

Ultimately, I created the account because my horoscope said my day would be a nine. It lied. At best it was a 6.4, but I figured if I'm going to have a nine-caliber day I am obligated to share that with the world. To be clear, when I say "world" I mean my 21 followers, most of whom I suspect to be robots seeking more input.

I had considered having an anonymous account setup that couldn't be traced. I could tweet about my dates, my deepest thoughts about Jersey Shore (corrupting the youth of tomorrow) and how much weight I really lift at the gym. But I'm holding onto the infinitesimal chance that I'll be discovered, and let's be honest, who's going to put in the leg work to track the real me down?