Secretly stalking from afar is the Twitter way. I love yelling incoherent things at Wil Wheaton. Every time he says something snarky I think of him on "I Love the whatever decade needs to be drug sputtering back to life". Not so much because it's fun to do, but I feel like if I even sort of remember he was Wesley Crusher he'll come murder me in my sleep.
In fact, that sounds good enough to be a stream of Twitter posts. Let's see what I can do.
Actually I don't do it that often. Or really ever, until last night. Probably a first and last time thing. Usually the receiving end of the incoherency, at least if we're talking Twitter, is you, Mr. Ellis. But that's only because most of the time I believe the whiskey-fueled brain custard from your end needs some sort of reply. Why? I don't really know. I fancy myself a lot more clever than I actually am, probably.
I recently received a few notifications of people following me that I didn't know were from here. I'm sorry if I blocked you. I don't remember those of you who I blocked. Hopefully my memory will work better and I'll recall those of you I blocked and unblock you.