What–Exactly–Is the Purpose of Twitter/X?

From my own point of view, it’s expansive.  And I hope that’s actually the real point of its intentions..

I add a link to each post here on my Twitter account.  And my dozens of Twitter followers open it.  Thank you!

(I do wish such a thing was automatic, as it used to be.  But since Elon Musk took over Twitter, I’ve had to add the link manually.  Not sure why, or on whose end that is.  But I do it anyway, because I value my Twitter followers, and I want to be visible there.)

Perhaps I’ll try and post more on Twitter.  God only knows, I’ve enough material to do so.

Most of the folks I follow on Twitter myself are charming.  Every once in a while, there’s someone I don’t follow, who reveals himself–in his insistence on bringing himself to my attention–to have a  personal, or a particularly ugly, grudge.  Funny.  This special one won’t show himself, even under his various pathetic pseudonyms  But here he is, trolling the Ricochet Twitter feed a couple of months ago:

No, I remember no such inflammatory or disgusting thing.  While I did visit you in Thailand, you’ve made up the incident you describe.  Unfortunately for you, you’ve shown yourself to be a liar so often that it really doesn’t matter anymore, even when it comes to the efforts of those whose inclination (such as my own) has been to support or protect you.  I’m done.  And so are most of us others who were once so aligned.

And again (this time in response to a post about the O.J. Simpson verdict, after the perpetrator-in-chief’s death at the age of 76, on April 11, 2024.  Perhaps you can make the connection.  Do try.  Here it is (the regular adjustment of his Twitter name might be a clue as to the investment of his intentions):

Poor girl.

I’ll respond to those three questions, although perhaps I’ll regret giving this sick individual the time of day, as follows:

“How old was Ricochet’s Mr. She when his 1st son died tragically?”

Our Sam

And the next vile implication, “How old was was Ricochet’s Mr. She when his 2nd son died tragically:”

Gratitude: For Michael

And the last question, “How old was Ricochet’s Mr. She when he died tragically?”

Ave Atque Vale: Frank Zbozny, Rest in Peace

I suppose all of those revolting insinuations end up in a post where the author in question accuses me of wanting sex from him while my husband was in the last stages of dementia, and while my stepson–who’d suffered from serious mental illness all his adult life–was in a coma after having been beaten to a pulp by local thugs.  God.  I thought this person was my loyal friend (Semper Fi!)  But apparently not:

Unfortunately even this half-baked moron and his childish followers seems to have realized that such a report doesn’t accrue to his benefit, so he’s deleted it.  Otherwise I’d post a link.

LOL.

Just to be clear, since the person concerned doesn’t seem to be all that bothered, when he calls himself:

America’s ศูนย์ ศูนย์ เจ็ด ๐ ๐ ๗

That’s shorthand for “America’s OO7.

Good Lord.  You’d think someone who actually wanted to make that point would have expressed it in such a way that his compatriots could have understood it, even in the most basic Morse Code. And yet he hides behind a difficult, non-western alphabet which isn’t intuitive those among whom he’s pretending to make his point.  That should tell you all you need to know.

Yes.  If such a person actually wants to “come home” there are plenty of opportunities.

Otherwise, please enjoy your exile and the sycophants that celebrate it.