Twitter has been rolling out personal archives to all users and I recently received mine. This is my first tweet (and it’s not what I remember):
And this is my first Twister (which I do remember):
In the past, I’ve said that just a few days passed between my first tweet and my first Twister. I lied. It was almost a week. In that week, I tweeted about needing another vodka on a flight, I tweeted the contents of a home cooked meal and the wine that accompanied it, you know, basically all the stuff that people who dismiss (or at least who used to, if you dismiss it now you basically hate media) Twitter used to say. I mean, I didn’t care about it either. I read over the few (and thankfully, there are very few) with a growing revulsion, like what you feel in your stomach a few hours after dousing a taco in too much hot sauce. But the fact I got some information wrong (I’ve told the media my first tweet was about the vodka and I’ve repeated it on numerous occasions) says something about memory, about our own reliability to tell our own stories, and also about my need to make my own history sexier (because vodka is sexier than conference calls). Meaning: never believe what you read. Too much.
I started Twitter by creating stuff. The world has too much of it. I think I’ve moved on. I’d like to think what I do there has a point. Except when I’m making jokes about things. That’s just stuff, too.
