Arrakis teaches the attitude of the knife—chopping off what's incomplete and saying: "Now it's complete because it's ended here."
— Frank Herbert, Dune
Well, that's a bloody relief.
I just unplugged from Twitter. I think my heart rate and blood pressure both dropped twenty points apiece.
I've been threatening to do so for some time now, whining and tweeting out loud about quitting for weeks, in between launching one or more of my trademark multi-tweet treatises on some-fucking-thing-or-other. My Twitter followers have made terrific fun of me for it, and justifiably so. But as I have explained in these pages before, I naturally tend toward the ADHD side of the consciousness spectrum. Twitter's automation of a never-ending stream of bright, shiny bits of information, opinion, trivia, and minutiae is tailor made to drive me to paralyzed distraction. It's terrific, enervating fun.
Which would be fine, if I were truly independently wealthy, lounging on a luxury yacht in the middle of the Mediterranean with a bevy of scantily-clad confidential secretaries and barrels of ice-cold champagne my only competing distractions. I could handle that. But shit, homies, I have a job, and a family, and two pathetic excuses for dogs to take care of. Twitter is just too fucking distracting. At least for me.
So I am gone. Vamoosed. Outta there. Never to return, until and unless I win the lottery or convince a particularly recalcitrant client of mine to sell his massively overpriced company for a very large pot of money, of which I will commandeer an appropriately modest, yet obscene percentage. "Fuck you money," as they call it in the trade.
Those of you Dear Long-Form Readers who have frequented my irregular emissions on Twitter as well as these pages are welcome to remain and enjoy the more substantive fare here. Although I did recently threaten to withdraw from blogging as well, the time commitment to this forum is far more manageable than the daily drain of watching Twitter on the off chance someone one might say something ridiculous or amazing. As well as the competing temptation to lob 140-character bon mots, aperçus, or word bombs into the stream whenever I feel unjustly overlooked or neglected.
But you'll get over it. The electronic mailbox associated with this account remains in effect, should you care to communicate in a more personal and direct fashion. And, really, admit it: you're not gonna miss me that much.
The person who experiences greatness must have a feeling for the myth he is in. He must reflect what is projected upon him. And he must have a strong sense of the sardonic. This is what uncouples him from belief in his own pretensions. The sardonic is all that permits him to move within himself. Without this quality, even occasional greatness will destroy a man.
Not that anything I have tweeted to date constitutes greatness, mind you.
© 2010 The Epicurean Dealmaker. All rights reserved.