Reduce, Reuse, Recycle: A Motherfreaking Twitter Lover Novella

Here are some things my husband finds hilarious:

fish-hooking.

dutch ovens.

Not that kind.

the other kind.

drinking supersized malt beverages with incapacitated hands

while simultaneously surrounded by two big weiners.

paul rudd.

Anyway. Following you will find something my husband does not find hilarious. I know this, because I am presenting to you today for your approval some recycled material that I wrote in conjunction with a failed career of mine from just a few short months ago. You see, I built a matchmaking enterprise from the ground up, and with just a few condescending head shakes and one too many, "eh"s, - POOF! - the enterprise crumbled, and with it, my dreams of pairing up sweet, needy Tweeters crying out for love. My fate of fulfilling dreams all the world over was annihilated.

I want to introduce you to my alabatross - my Edsel -no, my Crystal Pepsi - because I feel you and I are tight like that. It's been weighing me down, and I'm gonna get the damn thing off my chest. The enterprise was called "These Twits Should Twuck," and it's dead. My husband said it was just a'ight. Translation: a colossally botched attempt at a brand new endeavor. Well, you know what? When I abandoned the forelorn Twitterers of the planet, I also abandoned some of my soul. I truly feel compelled to share the hurt and pain of my lost path as a liaison of love. I gotta get it off my chest.

So, my catharsis:

My maiden matchmaking voyage set sail with a pair so potentially blazing, so en fuego, if you will, that I couldn't possibly put a price on their burning, burning love. Oh. Except, maybe I could: Seven dollars.

On one side of the globe, our hero hails from that old, familiar hotbed of lust - yeah; you know where I'm talking about: Waterbury, Vermont. His name is Nicholas Erwin - that's nerwin in the land where Twitter dreams come true - and though his face is obscured by a rather large lens, he is clearly peering out from behind his large lens into a mirror reflecting his aforementioned large lens back upon himself, and so on, and so on, until we are looking into an infinite sea of stars and dreams. It's like a mind bender of sexiness. And, quite obviously, our hero Nick (if I may) Erwin is searching for the siren who will tame his wild soul. Nerwin is a man - nay - a prince in pauper's clothing, but he's got something. He's got seven dollars.



And our heroine? She doesn't provide her exact locale, probably because she primarily resides as of yet undiscovered in the confines of nerwin's heart. Her real name is Jannae-with-an-accent-symbol- between-the-latter-a-and-the-e Pack, but we know her by her twitter moniker PACKthatshit. Clearly it's code. You know who's probably PACKINGthatshit? nerwin. clearly. But back to our gal. She doesn't ask for much. Not much at all. But what she asks for, nerwin can provide. In spades.





PACKthatshit describes herself as "a jewish vampire who wants to fly away via umbrella." You know what's beautiful this time of year by way of umbrella, Pts? Waterbury, Vermont.



Hey, PACKthatshit: Why don't you bite off a piece of the nerwin ("Blogger, Photographer, Musician & Computer Geek") action? You two crazy kids don't need a lot. nerwin's got a cat and enjoys chicken noodle soup. Obviously that goes perfectly with PACKthatshit's affection for lemonade flavored booze and her bff SpankkyJohnson.

These Twits Should Twuck can only find the lovers and inform. It's up to them and fate to do the rest. So, come on, nerwin. Give a PACK a seven spot. I have a feeling you won't regret it.

I can't even afford the cable which is like 40-50 dollars and I only have 7 dollars. about 4 hours ago via TweetDeck

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nerwin

Nicholas Erwin

If you wanna read on, read on. If you don't, you should seriously do a google image search for "dogs wearing wigs." There is some REALLY funny stuff on there! Anyhiz: Another day, another love match. This go round, we're setting up a pair of adorably adorable, cleverly clever, lovers of the fish. Specifically the fish sandwich - I think - but, then again, these two crazy kids each seem to be masters of the double entendre. Who even knows if these wisesters are referring to an actual, you know, sandwich, when they talk about a fish sandwich.

Anyway, today's gentleman seems to have shot out of his mom's legs with such fanfare that she had the foresight to read all of our tea leaves, naming her spawn "Your Idol." Even more appropriate than Your's given name is his Twitter nom de plume which, of course, is sexforbreakfast. sexforbreakfast is both handsome and understated (see his mini-autobiography: "Probably the most awesome dude you'll ever meet. Ever. And for the record, I don't like sex for breakfast.") Well, I know one thing he does like, and when he wants it, he wants it bad:



You know what I'd like to know? What the hell did he do? Where the hell did sexforbreakfast go? Seriously.

Somewhere out there, in a kitchen rife with piscatorial dreams, a beautiful maiden was cooking her heart out. Was she feeling a subconscious desire to fulfill the passions of our own sexforbreakfast? Probably. All I know is that Felicia Stanikmas - otherwise known as FeliciaOnFire - had a pang in her four chambers to make a damn sandwich. Get ready for this, everyone: It was a FISH SANDWICH.



How did she know? I don't know. These Twits Should Twuck isn't God. We're just here to help nudge our lovers closer to their destiny.

You wanna see how cute these kids look together? Same here. I'm going to try to shove their photos as close together as possible, so we can see what their engagement photo is gonna look like.



When I look into FeliciaOnFire's highly reflective sunglasses, I like to imagine she is reading some of sexfor...'s instantly classic tweets. And just look how the delightfully muted colors of sexforbreakfast's pillow/bedspread combo match FeliciaOnFire's skintone perfectly. If that doesn't scream fate, I don't know what the hell does.

As though either of these crazy kids need further evidence that they should make contact immediately, I'm going to present that aforementioned double entendre these two so skillfully spit for you.



Really, FOF? Ever have them for breakfast?



Oh. I see what you did there, sfb. How very naughty of our friend.



Oh my.



Okay, mind reader. You inherited that trait from your mom, I guess.

These two offer so much more (so much more!), but this love story is for Mr. breakfast and Ms. OnFire to consummate, not for us lookyloos to rubberneck. So, go on, FeliciaOnFire: All he wants is a little fish sandwich. And, you, sexforbreasfast: take a chance on an unknown gal who brings a little homemade sandwich to the yard. And don't forget to invite us to the wedding.

Okay. World's longest therapy session. But, I can now move on with my life, even if those poor Tweeting lost souls cannot. Eh.