When Twitter Makes A Dick Out Of You
I’ve only been doing it about six years. I suppose that makes me a bit of a late developer, along with not learning to drive until I was 28 – well, I SAY not learning to drive – I really mean not actually passing my test until I was 28 and even then I had to have three previous attempts and knock down a pedestrian. Okay, knock down is a slight exaggeration. I clipped him as he was trying to leg it across the road in front of a double roundabout, some pelican crossing lights that were displaying a red man at the time of his abortive attempt to jump over a metal barrier, present himself at the end of my bonnet and upon realising that there was no way I was remembering which was the brake pedal, he gymnastically leapt to the nearside of the road again and my wing mirror clipped his back as he was about to leap back over the metal barriers. I hardly touched him.
There followed a very theatrical performance on his part – of feigning sudden death or at the very least a catastrophic back injury (he needed a bit of Ralgex rubbing in, if the truth be known) with the only immediate thought in his mind being large amounts of compensation for his future ruined life. I didn’t pass that particular test.
I didn’t fly until I was 35, either. Up until that point in my life, the prospect of being inside a tin can with wings with about 400 other people, 35,000 feet above sea level, all sweating and coughing their way to a two week holiday in warmer climes didn’t really appeal to me. It’s such a ball ache, flying, anyway. You have to turn up at the airport at stupid o’clock and spend practically the whole day waiting for your flight; then you have to put up with sweaty, coughing strangers for the next two and a half hours and you can be guaranteed that the fat man with two blocks of gorgonzola for feet will sit next to you AND you’ll get the middle seat so you’ll have him spilling globules of fat over the armrest on one side of you and a nervous middle aged woman inspecting the seals around the window to your right and periodically making the sign of the cross whenever there’s an inflight announcement from the Captain. Then when you get to your destination, your bags will not be on the carousel and there won’t be anyone to tell because no-one speaks English, anyway. So, no, flying didn’t really appeal.
What other things didn’t I do for a long time? Well, I was the last girl in my whole year at school to wear a bra and this wasn’t because I was flat – chested or anything. No, on the contrary as all my mates were busy packing Gossard Wonderbra’s full of cotton wool and tissue paper accompanying two of the tiniest pinpricks of tits that you could see with a microscope, there was me jiggling around my very select private school with both hands clutched under what can only be described as rather cumbersome melon like objects which threatened to burst forth from the regulation white aertex vest. It was only when I went home one weekend with two black eyes that my mother took pity on me and took me to a bra fitter and got some arnica for the eyes from Boots.
So, I’m a late developer in a lot of respects and I’ve still never smoked a spliff or had sex in the shower, but I’m hopeful of achieving at least one of these long term ambitions one day, even if the soap dispenser does keep digging me in the back. The other thing I didn’t do for a long time was join any social media platform. In fact, the only reason I did eventually join Twitter was because the bloke who used to look after my former Company’s social media left my employment, and no-one else wanted to do it, so I got lumbered with it. I already had my own Facebook account. I didn’t use it all that often, I didn’t really rate it much, but Twitter was great. It’s character limitations challenged me grammatically to get my messages across in a more concise language (I’ve always loved the written and spoken word) and I enjoyed the feeling that I was part of one big cocktail party, with people coming in and out of the door and joining in whenever they felt like it.
I was good at social media on Twitter, too. My love of the spoken and written word, and my one line gags and yes, awful jokes, seemed to go down a storm and the company gained a lot of new followers. I liked tweeting, but sometimes I was stymied by the company account because of course, you can’t post personal points of view or argue politics on a company account, so I learnt how to set up my own Twitter account and I became JustJane and I’ve been that ever since.
I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m just me on Social Media, but I know that there’s an awful lot of people who aren’t, who live lives they wouldn’t really have if it wasn’t for the anonymity that social media, especially Twitter, provides. There’s the married women with the locked accounts and the suggestive photos, who promise men a great deal more than they will actually be prepared to give. They seem to think it’s perfectly acceptable to go onto a social media platform and act like a trollop, making come on remarks to men they wouldn’t look twice at in the pub and then publically berate the bloke for sending them a picture of his genitals.
And speaking of genitals, fellas, what makes you guys think it’s acceptable to follow someone and then suddenly pop up in their direct message box with a full frontal of your erect penis and a hopeful smile? Think about it. You wouldn’t walk into your local pub, march straight up to a random woman and whip out your dick before you’ve even asked her ‘Do you come here often?’ So why do you do it on Twitter?
Then there’s the people exploring their ‘dark side’. These are the accounts of people who want to be tied up, whipped, chained, have sex with seven other people at the same time and generally explore any perverted piece of sexual proclivity that they can from the safety of a phone screen which is probably bigger that their sexual organ anyway. These are the people who can’t get it up in real life, or can’t get a man – depending on what sex they are. Do me a favour! If you lot have sex at all, you are the ones that do it strictly on a Thursday, with the light off and only in the missionary position. Twitter for you just fulfils sad desires that you’re too scared to explore in real life because you’ve only ever done it on a Thursday with the light off.
Unfortunately, Twitter gets darker – there’s the Trolls. The internet bullies who think it’s perfectly acceptable to scroll around twitter acting like a twat and demonstrating a mentality that they should have left behind in the playground a long time ago. That’s the sad thing about Twitter. It gives anonymity to vermin who prey on the insecurities of other people who are also hiding behind their persona.
And before you all point the finger at me, and my Twitter account, I’ll let you put this in your spliff and smoke it (let me have a pull, won’t you? I’ve never tried). Yes, I’m cheeky, a bit saucy, full of innuendo and double entendre. Yes, I post some – I’ve been told – sexy pictures of myself, but long term followers know the reason I do that and it’s nothing to do with sexual gratification, more just being grateful for being alive and having two tits to show off. I’m slightly rude, I’m sometimes angry, sometimes serious, sometimes I talk utter, utter crap, but I think that on the whole, what you see with me is what you get in real life – I know that anyone who has met me in real life will agree with my summing up of myself.
I’m on Twitter to enjoy myself, and so should you be, too. Not flouting your genitals at some poor unsuspecting follower; don’t let Twitter make a dick out of you. And keep yours to yourself.