It almost pains me to say it, but I’m online. Not just Facebook online. Everyone has a Facebook. My grandfather has a Facebook. He even updates it. No, this is worse than Facebook. I recently got myself a tweet page.

My introduction to the Twitter website was a somewhat embarrassing one. I was sitting next to one of those uppity communication majors at a journalism conference in October, and he wouldn’t get off of his phone. I made my snob face at him and chastised him for texting in class, but it turns out he wasn’t texting at all. He was using his tweet page to liveblog the lecture.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with liveblogging like I am, I’ve found that reading a liveblog is basically like going to the movies with that one friend of yours who interrupts crucial dialogue every three minutes to comment on one character’s facial expression or to ask you if the actor playing the father-in-law is that guy from the Honda commercial. Except with polls.

After meeting the future journalists of America, I wasn’t too thrilled about jumping on the tweet-filled bandwagon. It seemed like an exhausting place: 140 characters, lots of number signs and not enough apostrophes. But curiosity eventually got the best of me. After discovering that Twittr is actually spelled Twitter, I had a tweet page. And it isn’t just exhausting. It’s dangerous.

Within the first minute, the Twittr––dammit––Twitter website encouraged me to follow five people. Of course this was easy. Following people is something that I do occasionally on Saturday afternoons when I’ve finished re-organizing my desk drawers. It’s likely that the controllers of my tweet page are preying on my weakness.

And now it’s getting serious. I have two followers and I am kind of hoping that Josh Groban will write a song about my tweets. Actually, I’m stressed out about that because I feel like I’m constantly in a competition with Kanye West. And I don’t have fur pillows.