Sometimes it can be useful to update a group of people at once on something important, useful or entertaining. I can see how the ability to send an informative text or short online message to the world at large could be worthwhile.
I can even see the psychological benefits of always having someone to share your news with, to celebrate or commiserate accordingly.
Yet when I go to my Twitter page I am bombarded, swamped with the minutiae of other people's lives.
The level of information deemed worthy of transmitting to the planet at large is staggering in the depth and breadth of its tedium. Tweets about breakfast, tweets about the weather, tweets about other tweets. This is the kind of excessive detail I would find arse-numbingly dull from my nearest and dearest and I actually give a fuck about what they're up to. If my daughter, husband, best friend or mother phoned me up every five minutes to tell me "I'm having my first coffee of the day", "I fancy some toast" or ""I might buy some trousers" I would have to have them sedated. It's just not normal.
Who are these incessant babblers of crap and why do they spend so much time on Twitter? It's not that they don't have anything else to be getting on with, surely? Many of them appear to have jobs. Jobs which involve sending out a message on their caffeine intake, what they fancy for tea tonight and how incredibly stressed and busy they are at work today every three minutes. Which is odd because when I am at work I simply don't have the time for this sort of obsessive compulsive behaviour, even if I did happen to have the inclination.
There are one or two Tweets of Interest. Links I would have missed if someone else hadn't flagged them up. The occasional snippet of genuine interest. Most of it, however, is the kind of stuff you'd only pretend to be interested in if you were humouring someone (eg. the nodding and "uh-hum"ing one does when engaged in a one sided telephone conversation with an elderly relative) or hoping for a shag (eg. the nodding and "uh-hum"ing one does when stood at a bar with a talkative drunk who, though boring, has big tits and may well be up for it).
Why do I still bother with it then, if I hate it so much? Fuck knows. Much like blogging I just seem to wander in now and then, hurl a bit of abuse and stagger out again. I shake my fist at the television too.