Bloody Blue Bird

No I wasn't swallowed by some prehistoric bird. I mean to report this in a dazed, confused, highly saddened state. I have joined Twitter. Now before you take offence (and I don't care if you do) do understand this. I like paper. I like pens. The fountain kind. I love libraries which carry crusty old books. I am extremely enraged by the concept of limiting the world's wisdom to 140 characters. I've been resisting the onslaught of this Bloody Blue Bird for so long that I was some sort of weird lone ranger.

But I am told, nay, threatened, that if one does not fly with the Bloody Blue Bird, one shall sadly hit the ground at a great thumping velocity that will surely fracture one's spine and leave one like a vegetable, like the broccoli one so despises.

To avoid pain and paralysis, one has begun to flap one's wings. To counter this feeling of extreme illness, one shall do the following ten things immediately.
1) Read a book. Printed on paper. Preferably old paper.
2) Drink tea out of a Victorian teacup. Daintily.
3) Wear something disgustingly highneck and with lace on it.
4) Read another book. Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. An old paper edition.
5) Speak in tongues. Addressing everyone thus: How art thou?
6) Speak very ill of the Bloody Blue Bird
7) Shoot all birds should they fly past one's face
8) Insist that Shakespeare never had the Bloody Blue Bird and is remembered after well nigh, 500 years.
9) Refuse to abbreviate and say u instead of you.
10) Check one's phone obsessively to see who has read this list.

Bloody Blue Bird. I curse thee.