Before us in the halls of history are those we are told are heroes: Hemingway, Churchill, Bonaparte. We have rejected them. We have selected our heroes: Tripler, dril, dogboner. We are the millennials. Twitter dot com is what we do. “Social Media Intern” on the LinkedIn, so we run these streets. We run these tweets. Know more about Pinterest than my goddamn JP. You think I’m ashamed that my only marketable skill is reblogging cat pictures? This is a goddamned business. You don’t know shit. I have a pinboard that’s just 18th century coffee tables. You want to know what my game plan is in life? Ever heard of a goddamn brand? I AM a #brand.

Corporations call me to blow their social media shit up, so I get on twitter dot com and get straight up weird. Last summer you were working in Sierra Leone. I was in China starting weird Weibo. When you were in Washington interning on the Hill, I was at the club blowing up the verified Chobani instagram. My credentials? Favorites from the assistant editor of The Daily Beast. Weird tweets all up on the Lysol official page. Housewives ain’t even heard of #tcot. I turned OFF email notifications. Sext: I turned OFF email notifications. Pop that pussy for a retweet. 280 characters in these sheets. 5 new followers in a week? Are you new here? I got Myspace Tom asking me for a Favstar blowup. “Pls RT.” No. This is business. I built an empire on two thumbs and a handle of Popov. U.O.E.N.O.

Klout score engraved on the mausoleum floor. I’ll subtweet @Lord_Voldemort7 in hell. Drafts before dishonor. I’m purebred, OG Tumblr. Reblogs running through my veins. Self made before promoted posts. The Notorious H.O.P.E.J.O.B.S.C.A.S.H. getting favs from al-Assad. Obama on the retweet. Nuclear armageddon just a DM away. Set my account to private and got a follow request from Bieber. DENIED.

I’ve exceeded my data plan, and I’m going into withdrawal. Getting the shakes. Vomiting in a Louvre bathroom trying to Instagram the Mona Lisa. No service. Rushing me to the hospital, they asked for my emergency contact. I told them to DM Rob Delaney. Drafts are piling up. The line is wrapped around the morphine clinic. I need my plug to push me a notification, but my mom just manually retweeted me. I don’t talk to her anymore. My family is furious: my father slammed the door in my face and all I could do was stand outside my childhood home and scream “FAIL WHALE!” as tears splashed onto my iPhone keyboard.


50 retweets tho.

Foursquare game deadly. Checked into the V O I D. Still not mayor. “420 check-ins in the last 69 days,” says Jack Nicholson’s pudgy face emerging from the darkness. I weep and claw at his sunglasses-wearing smirk, but it’s only my reflection in my laptop’s dead screen. It’s so dark, I can’t even see the walls in my 150-square foot studio apartment. I wake up, one more day in hell.

Started from the bottom; now we write #42069 for a living. The whole team fell off one by one. All the honies are six feet deep from promoted tweets gone wrong. My homies got suspended accounts, begging for favs in the 100 follower D-League. Free my homie bong_ghandi69, suspended since October ’11.

We just out here hustlin’. Human beings in the #mob. What’s a #mob to a #king? What’s a #king to a #god? What’s a #god to a verified twitter? I.O.E.N.O.

– AKJ ’15 & AJS ’15

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