I have never been a social media maven. I signed up for FaceBook a decade after it was trending primarily for events and sharing pictures with family and friends. It was not until I made my author accounts that I got on Twitter, Instagram, and TikTok. Of the bunch, Twitter is at the bottom of the list for me.
It feels like being back in high school, but you just moved to a new one. The cliques already exist, and if you are not the gorgeous, exuberant person that people are innately drawn to, no one interacts with you. Trying to break into a group otherwise garners you the one “like” or generic comment that is the online equivalent of an awkward chuckle.
Maybe it is just me. I’m socially awkward to start, and I’m sure part of this is me internalizing the abyss into which it seems I shout into via Twitter. Either way, yesterday, I decided to stop worrying so much about it and jumped in. What follows is a thread I posted, daring to tag Stephen King. The worst he could do was block me. Even a roast would garner attention, and he asked the question in the first place! As that book by Master Payne says, sometimes the jokes are just for me.
*For the purposes of public posting: yes, appropriate attire is involved*
@stephenking re: soap
Mr. King, you don’t know me, but you asked a question about soap that stuck in my head. I firmly believed I had used a bar of soap to the end, but I could not recall the details. As a result, I began an experiment, an adventure born of curiosity, if you will. (1/7)
At the time, I was not halfway through the bar. Life continued as usual, and I held the experiment at the back of my mind each day as I watched it shrink. This week, I knew I was close and opened a new bar. Yesterday, I gently perched the thin slice atop the bar, hoping it would better maintain its sudsy abilities. (2/7)
The perching was a mistake. I nearly despaired this morning when the little bit of soap was stuck. Would it break and ruin the test? Would I have to start over? Heart in my throat, I gently pulled with as much grip as my nails could gain. It came free with a tiny snick of sound, and I breathed a sigh of relief. (3/7)
I continued my business as carefully as possible, checking on the soap often. The sliver was so thin I could not feel it in my hand and lost it at one point. My hand came back empty, and I looked around to see if I had dropped it. The piece was so soft at that point, I wondered if I would even be able to pick it up without destroying it. (4/7)
The soap was not on the floor, but it had been too large to have disappeared down the drain. I craned my neck and found it clinging to my shoulder. Peeling it off, I returned to my chore. (5/7)
When the little piece of soap was the size of a dime and so thin it became translucent, I decided not to risk losing it again. I worked the lather between my hands. The ever-shrinking bit slipped between my fingers, but I returned it to my palm every time. Eventually, it disappeared beneath one finger into the mass of bubbles. (6/7)
Can it be done? Yes, but I find I cannot handle the soap drama. I will return to smushing that last slice into the carved decoration on the next bar.
Thank you for the inquiry. I hope you found this to be as entertaining a diversion as I did. (7/7)