Blue Bell Icon of Happiness

I am taking a Twitter break. I really need to. I’ve become a little addicted.

I don’t initiate many tweets. I have a suspicion that most of my followers are bots or wanna-bes who just want me to follow them. Therefore, the Barb-initiated tweets land quietly, so what’s the point. (I’m am followed by a couple whose last name is Bott, so they do not fall into either category.)

I’m an avid replier. I’m following a wide assortment of celebrities – real world celebrities and my world celebrities – and thinkers and Twitter philosophers. I hang on their every word, well, their every 165 characters. And when I come up with something witty – that’s within the character limit – I type away, hit “Tweet” and then wait. Wait for that little blue bell icon to light up. And when it does, oh boy!

A Twitter response is different from a Facebook response. Facebook is my friends and family; I know they love me… blah blah blah. But Twitter is strangers and the occasional celebrity acknowledging my wit or wisdom. Lin-Manuel Miranda liked one of my tweets. Lin Friggen-Alexander-Hamilton-Not-Gonna-Throw-My- Shot Manual Miranda liked one my tweets. For a brief second, the most popular person in pop culture knew I existed. (Yeah, I can see how that statement is kind of telling. More on that later.)

The Like is special. It’s a cute little acknowledgement of, hey, you are kind of funny, right, insightful, etc., you take your pick. (I prefer funny). A Comment is more of a commitment. You must develop a response and then type. That takes thought and time. But the re-tweet? The re-tweet is a glorious thing. And to be re-tweeted by someone with thousands of followers? That is the sweet stuff, baby. And the little blue bell icon lights up.

Let’s go back to something I alluded to in a previous paragraph. My existence being confirmed.

Day in and day out, I live the life of the corporate drone. Days are a cycle of traffic, cubicles, meetings, salad for lunch, back in the car, and then home again. I’m one of many in a vast sea of the same. There is a glaring lack of a spotlight, and I am desperate for a spotlight.

Twitter has that little blue bell icon. That’s my little spotlight. I get my pats of acknowledgement from my fellow tweeters. And it’s become my little drug. Not as bad as pot; not as good as sex.

I compose and post what I think is a hysterical or insightful reply. It would be thoughtful, edited, and proofed. After the posting, I would check back obsessively to see if the object of my tweet liked, responded, and/or re-tweeted. If yes, then I get a little shot of adrenaline. If no, I can’t lie, I’m a little bummed.

I’ve had to check Twitter to relax when I was stressed. That’s a bad sign, right? Like sipping a glass of wine to deal with a thankless job, except that I am checking to see what Patton Oswald is saying about Trump.

So, I need to stop. Cold turkey, man. Starting today, I’m putting he phone away. I’m breaking the addiction right now. There’s not going to be a tweet to be had for miles. Serious.

But first let me post this and hashtag the hell out of it.