I never go on Twitter.
Well, sometimes I go on Twitter. The last time was when my roommates and I discovered "Jersey Shore" the first time. I tweeted about it.
So a few weeks ago, my Sean texts me about joining Twitter--the conversation was fairly predictable: How do I get a Twitter? What should my name be? What to I tweet about?
But I didn't have time to talk about it then. "We'll talk about this later," I said. But we never did. We don't need to, I thought, because I'd just received an email-- Mr. Strike wants to follow you on Twitter. My Sean had figured it out for himself...
...or so I thought, until today, right now...
With thirty minutes to calm my mind before the economics test that will determine my grade for the semester, I decided to sign onto Twitter, where I found seven follow-requests (which probably have a special Tweet-y-name in Tweet-land--I'm not that savvy yet), all of which I accepted.
So I decided to check out Mr. Strike's profile.
Last Tweet: February 24th: "I'm so fu**in horny."
Well that's bold, Sean, and somewhat out-of-character.
Scrolling down, I realize each and every one of his Tweets was of this nature, accompanied by what could be considered an appropriately themed wallpaper: naked women, and boobs, boobs, boobs.
But wait, all of his friends are named "Alexandra..."