Way out west at a coastal hermit shack, there tweets a lovable weirdo beside ducks, dogs, chickens and pumpkins. She doesn’t want to comment on that article you’re sharing on facebook, see pictures of your restaurant-prepared meal, play on your virtual farm, find out which fictional TV character you are, or crush candy with you. She tried that, but she kept losing friends who can’t take jokes (and then discuss it like a true adult afterward), and she doesn’t understand imaginary farming or taking any interest in candy that she isn’t also eating.
Besides, any quiz you take to find out “who you are” among a list of fictionalized personalities will only lead you to one conclusion:
you are imaginary.
In her twitter feed, there is never a bored housebound uncle accusing her of lying about her sleep schedule or suggesting that she take up spelunking as her new residence of choice. Twitter never suggests that she be friends with her former school bully, or that she read the advice of a childhood cohort who thinks all art is utterly pointless. Twitter wants her to know about the actual news, as it unfolds. Or she may just play #HashtagWars instead, and taunt the Tweeter-In-Chief in the White House.
If all language is arbitrary, same goes with all mythos.
Outside of the homestead, connected to a world at her fingertips, she seeks language to express humor in 140 characters of challenging brevity. And also, the taunting of 45. She loves Salon and can easily spot all trollbots for Trump. She sees a subcultural revolution unfolding on twitter, but all her “real” friends are still married to facebook, where they’re telling sleep-inducing stories about the best tacos ever and finding out which Game of Thrones character they should pretend to resemble. They’ve never even heard of @midnight!