You tweet inspirational quotes with peaceful sunset backgrounds. I prefer my inspiration in the form of cheerful goat videos.
You look like one of my exes. I have 17. This isn't a stretch.
Your last three tweets were about a piece of pie. Same pie. Different angles. Zero pithy sayings.
I think you might be a bot, an alien, a twelve-year-old, or a fake account set up by my mother. (Hi mom! Love you!)
Your last ten tweets were about how many followers you’ve accumulated. I spend my dating life feeling like a number. I prefer to branch out on social media.
Your banner photo and profile shot look like images a creepy axe murder might’ve collaged back before Photoshop existed. Seriously, Creepy Axe Murderer. We have better tools for that now!
Pure unadulterated sincerity. Haven’t you heard? This is Twitter. Get pissed already. Or at least get 30% cynical with a dash of insouciance.
You have the same name as one of my exes. (Sorry Dave, Matt, Joe, Kenny, Hank, Ben, Jason, Kyle, Andrew, Lester, Greg, Kevin, Vince, Carl, Bill, Alec, Fred, and Damian. Especially Damian. That one’s gonna take a while.)
You seem really invested in a sports team/ TV show/ single food group.
Wait. Mom, is that still you?
You have recently used the hashtag #adulting.
I can’t find any original content among your re-tweets. If I can’t tell who you are, I’ll make something up. It might not be flattering. However, in the spirit of generosity, I promise to picture you with a fabulous hat and an obscure but adorable spirit animal.
You mention God a lot. I’m more of a dog person, myself. And an anagram person.
You mention Trump. At all.
I think your primary objective is to sell me something. I leave that task to the ice cream man, the cute guy at the bookstore (swoon!), and the advertising analytics that think I’m a gay, male octogenarian with a love of cheese and a propensity for car accidents.
I think your primary objective is to get me to follow you. It’s called harvesting. Despite a body type that suggests a strong leaning toward carbohydrates, I’m not a cob of corn. Follow me if you like my content. I’ll do the same.
I’m 98% certain you’re not actually Keanu Reeves.
I couldn’t find a single cute animal GIF in your tweet history. You caught the thing about the goats, right?
Selfies. Ugh. So 2015.
Self-righteousness. Double ugh. Sadly, so now.
Your Twitter account is set up to build your Instagram account, which was created to channel people toward your Facebook page so they click on a blog that links to your Pinterest page and then onto your Etsy account where they can eventually buy your soap/candles/sweaters for squirrels. Phew. I’m exhausted already. And you’re still tweeting about pie!
You paint pictures of clowns.
You write haikus about coffee.
You post memes about wine.
I didn’t notice you were there. I’m busy. It happens. Thanks for following me. I’m sincerely flattered if you find enjoyment in my musings and mental meanderings. Now I need to go eat some pie and try to get over Damian. (Seriously, Mom. Don’t worry. He didn’t get the dog. Or the goat.)