I am not a member of the test group for Twitter’s expansion of the tweet from 140 characters to 280.
This makes no sense to me, because I like to be involved in everything. Also, I spend the hours of 8AM to 5PM staring at Twitter until my eyes feel like they have been rolled in sand and struck by lighting and turned into ornate, priceless glass sculptures like the ones you might see in the Corning Museum of Glass or the 2002 Reese Witherspoon film Sweet Home Alabama. I spend the hours of 10PM to 12AM scrolling through Twitter on my phone until the tendons in between my thumb and index finger pop and scream, the pain eventually knocking me out, a biological defense mechanism that induces sleep to save the body from total destruction. Not involving me in the 280-character tweet event is like not involving me in an alteration of the chemical makeup of oxygen. It’s like telling me the sky is green now and then holding my chin so I can’t look up.
Obviously Twitter will rectify this mistake soon, so I’m trying not to be dramatic about it. There’s only one question: when I do hit that cutie quill icon and see a “280” in the corner of the box usually reserved for the number “140,” what should I say?
I’m stuck. I have no ideas. The feature is already ruined for me, because I’ve seen one perfect use of the 280-character tweet and it was searingly, unbearably brilliant, like staring directly into the sun in the middle of making out, or swallowing a chocolate croissant whole and then crawling into a sleeping bag to nap for 11 hours. It was the purest expression of joy and pain. It was more romantic than a snowflake. It was funnier than the monkey haircuts. It was holier than god.
It was Jake Gyllenhaal’s Smurfs monologue in Donnie Darko. It’s so good; I won’t be able to top it. Nobody can top it, and nobody has even come close.