So apparently Dooce is having issues with Maytag customer service. And is twittering about it. Which considering she has over a million followers, is something of a PR nightmare for Maytag. They seem to be trying to save face, and various parties have @replied offering to help, but at the moment, Maytag is facing some serious backlash - and so is Dooce, because of her increasingly pissed-off tweets.

Contrary to what it seems, this post isn't really about Dooce. I'm not here to pass judgement - if there's one thing I HAAAATE beyond all reason, it's bad customer service, and if I had any sort of influence, I'd bitch to all and sundry about my bad experiences. But it got me thinking about how something as essentially trivial as Twitter has the power to change the way we interact.

Before Twitter, Dooce would have had to wait until everything was resolved to write up a witty yet wrath-filled post regaling us all with the drama. Perhaps at worst there would have been a brief post saying the new washing machine was broken and OH MY GOD, TEH DRAMAS but that a proper post would come later. I'm sure there will be a post about this when it's all over, but in the meantime, it's playing out in real time to anyone who feels like following it.

Twitter is great as a time wasting device, or an amusing tool to update your friends (although Facebook works just as well for that, and you don't get friended by spammers). But when you have something important to say, 140 characters doesn't really cut it. So often, the subtleties of the message get lost and your informative, witty tweet ends up boring and confusing. Not to mention, the immediacy of it means it's incredibly easy to focus on how you are feeling RIGHT NOW, which is often pissed off or upset or combative or any number of emotions that all essentially mean "not thinking straight". A blog post or email requires a modicum of thought; an angry phone call requires interaction and patience. Twitter requires nothing but an ability to be brief.

Of course, that is entirely the point of Twitter, and for the most part, it's what makes it good. But just as you should think twice before posting a snarky comment on Facebook (and oh! How many times I've wanted to do that!), you should check your emotions before you tweet. Twitter is not your diary. Your followers are (by and large) not your best friends. Bitchiness, even if well-deserved, rarely comes off well in print. Get a blog! Even (or especially) one no one reads. It's like a diary, but without the pesky pen part.

P. S. True to the diary-no-one-reads form, this is my promise to write tomorrow about my breathtaking incompetence and how I cannot be left alone even for 24 hours without disaster occurring and the world nearly ending. It's about how I nearly broke MY washing machine! There may well have been some pissed off tweets if that had happened.

Huh. My computer didn't eat this post, after all.

I went to a 21st the other night. It was for a girl I was sort-of friends with in high school, but I've only seen her a few times since then. I'd worked all day, was exhausted and seriously considered skipping it. Eventually I sucked it up, put on a dress that was only slightly wrinkled, hauled on some stockings because OF COURSE I couldn't be bothered shaving my legs that morning, and headed out. If I hadn't already bought the present I doubt I would have left the couch.


But it turned out to be an awesome night. I'd forgotten the way we can apparently not see each other for months or years and pick up where we left off. The atmosphere was so relaxed, and her friends are all lovely. Some of them even wrote a song for her (I want to steal all her friends, seriously)! It's making me rethink the whole "no 21st party, never, I refuse, you will have to drag me there kicking and screaming" thing..

Really, really late to the party

So apparently wasting an entire day reading mommybloggers and eating my weight in chocolate raisins inspires me to write. Not that I have anything to write about at the moment, so...

Hi Internet! I'm Dinsdale. (Well, clearly that's not my real name, or believe me, I would have WAY MORE to write about). Despite my prediliction for blogs about squishy baby cheeks and Choosing the Right Preschool and Let's One-Up Each Other with Gory Birth Stories, I do not have any children. Nor do I plan on having any anytime soon, but since I just wrote that on The Internet, no doubt I'll get knocked up next week.

I'm 20 years old, a student, and although you'd think by now I'd have some sort of idea what I want to be when I grow up, in reality I'm really glad I have another year of college left. Because seriously, at this point, with this economy, "Selling Useless Crap to Obnoxious People" is looking like a solid career choice.

And since no one will actually read my ramblings, let's finish this post with something that will thoroughly embarrass me in 50 years when my grandchildren download the entire history of the internet into their brains, or something along those lines. Unless the Aztecs were right, and Christmas 2012 is going to suck, in which case, what the hell do I care?

(Noticed my overuse of commas yet? Yeah, the RANDOM CAPSLOCK and Capitalising Important Words are pretty much stolen straight from Dooce, TWOP, and various other internet deities, but the commas, they're all mine.)

Where was I? Oh, right, embarrassing. Uh... is the entirety of this post not enough? No? Ok, um, let's see...

Well, I once got so drunk on tequila I passed out on a toilet. A men's toilet. In my dorm. And didn't wake up until I was found by some friends, who banged on the door and yelled until I moved.

Yeah, that'll do.