Texting. . . Tweeting. . . (or "How I learned to stop living and love the Web")

does anyone MySpace anymore? No?

Look, I think Twitter's kind of double rainbow these days, especially since I've expanded my massive Nathan Fillion crush to include a crush on Nathan Fillion's tweets (he loves geeks. I am a geek. Therefore, utilizing old school logic, Nathan Fillion loves me and come on, let's admit it, that's all I've ever wanted since he uttered the line "The use of a s-what?").

But who has the time, really, between repeated viewings of Hot Tub Time Machine, gestating, keeping a half-eye on the 2 already-gestated-and-born children and their massive pool-fort-invention outside, teaching Composition online, and editing this massive document full of really big words.

Still, I keep going to the Twitter homepage and staring at "Create an account." But doesn't it seem a little self-important to think that people will care about my tweets? Of course, I've labored under the idea that this little blogosphere is practically private and yet I seem to get visits from all sorts of places. Hrrrm. We'll see.

In other news, the children have now come inside for 4 plastic bags. To play with in the pool. Methinks more than a half-eye is necessary when these things are in play. . .