Life is made up of moments. Tiny incidents. If you add them up, they become a story. No wonder Twitter is so popular. It crystallizes our experiences into telling fragments. Look at a person’s Twitter feed, and suddenly, you have their autobiography, in minuscule installments.

Since many of you who read my blog are not Twitterers, I am going to give you my autobiography. Straight from my Twitter feed. Fasten your seatbelts; it may be a bumpy ride.

I am not sure what “follow your dreams” means. Or is that just meant for sleepwalkers? 

United we stand. Divided I don’t understand math.

Goodnight to the insomniacs. We count the sheep, writhe in bed, watch the minutes click by. And we wonder WHY napping is so easy. Why, why… 

Feed a cold and starve a fever? OK, I am having this virus CATERED. 

Am I the only person who has wanted to walk into a cheese store and say, “Hi, Havarti?” 

Make impossible resolutions, so nobody can blame you for breaking them. Mine? TO LEARN TO RIDE A UNICYCLE. 

I have one too many rechargeable devices. 

I could never be close friends with anyone with white floors.

I wonder this: I am just a normal woman. How will I know when I am old? Will I just wake up one day and have a compulsion to wear knee high hosiery? 

Alex Trebeck must hate hypothetical questions. 

I just made quinoa salad with fat free balsamic dressing. Now throwing it in the garbage and ordering a pizza. 

One second of listening to Carrie Underwood as Maria. Accordionist looked at me. I nodded. Now watching Houston vs. Jacksonville. 

There is a special place in Hell for professional cheerleaders. 

Getting old: needing to take a Rolaid after you drink a glass of water too fast. 

I have five cats. Someone out there needs to find me and shoot me. 

I would like to think I will die a noble death. But chances are I will trip over a cat or mistake Ben Gay for toothpaste. 

Some people are poets. Some people are great intellects. Some have great empathy. Some are artists or mystics.  And the rest of us are on Twitter.

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