OK, So Now I’m a Believer

(And I know you’re thanking me for putting that song in your head. You’re welcome.)
I now understand (well, a little bit. To some small degree. Just a tad.) Twitter.
Whoa.
How did this happen, you’re wondering? Yeah—it’s a leap from my Twitter rant of a couple weeks ago, huh? What happened was today’s DOS attack on blogger, which meant that I was getting these error messages whenever I tried to access my blog, telling me scary stuff about malware and re-setting Everything In the World.
I don’t ever buy that stuff. When I first got my very first computer and used to call tech support at the store where I bought it, the little tech geeks there would suggest a couple of things, in a very bored and not-so-interested way, and then, invariably, they’d tell me I needed to re-format my hard drive. It was just the standard thing to say to get rid of the caller. I never re-formatted anything, and I’ve lived to tell about it.
So I wasn’t about to do all the stuff the error message help section wanted me to do. Instead, I googled it, trying to find what was going on. Nothing came up. I grumbled around, grousing about not having a clue, and then BOING. I thought of Twitter. Purely as an experiment, I did a search, and lo and behold, turns out everyone else was getting the same error message and tweeting about it. Once I knew for sure it wasn’t me or my computer, everything was cool. We tweeted back and forth, reassuringly, and went on with our lives.
And so now I understand why people love Twitter. OK, I do not understand why some people feel compelled to tell everyone when they’re going to eat lunch and what they’re going to eat and when they’re finished and what they’re going to watch on TV. I mean, even if you’re doing all that tweeting to keep your loving family informed of what you’re up to, come on:  I can’t imagine having anyone but a brand-new head-over-heels obsessed-with-me lover or some totally wacko stalker who would possibly have any interest at all in whether I had Cheerios or Froot Loops for breakfast. My family? Umm—they have these things called “lives,” and those Lives don’t include sitting around wondering what I’m up to unless it involves flames, large sums of money, or some particularly salacious scandal.
Still:  me + Twitter = maybe starting to talk to each other a little.
Wonder if it’s interested in what I’m having for dinner?