I can just good to admit it. I am hooked. Depending on. I must have it. One dose every day. More. Larger and larger dosar.Columnist Earl Wåge
is the debater, writer, and former winner of the tell-competition "Storyslam". Photo: Sunniva HalvorsenLast published posts were All there, It is extremely serious that Per-Willy Amundsen is trying to write about the story I allow myself to play rasismekortet Regret no things Better has never been more brittle than now
It started in Spain. In a small mountain village in Andalucia. On a weep weepers class trip with the fabulous spanskklassen my. Spanish winter. Hot ettermiddagar with talk on the stairs outside of the hotel with views towards the valley and the mountains.
Pupils to talk a on Facebook and Twitter. I was datavegrar and duppedingsteknisk tilbakståande. They could just as well have been talking another language. "What is Twitter?" and I answered. They grudge and stønna of such a fåkunnig fossil. "You must have twitterkonto," said Olai. He could just as well have suggested that I should build a spaceship.
Suddenly they were on fire. I had to and went on Twitter. They created the account, drawn and explained. From the Spanish stairs they took me into a completely unknown landscape. Helped me with the first tweet. "I need to write in nynorsk," I said. "Cool," they said.
I famla me in in a flunkande new, virtual world. Had følgjarar. Drove the campaign to reach one hundred in the course of a weekend. It balla. Suddenly the harbour I in endless debates. About everything. Knew that the commitment my was weight to live again. We "loved and retweeta". Hissa us up. Lo. Dried a tear.
more and more følgjarar. Some stood out as more than følgjarar. Had person. I was about to get the virtual neighbor. One night, we were four of five who spent hours with to be goofy and goof off. We utveksla biomedicine and their stories. Flira and laughed. Until the night fell. Before I sign off, thanks, I for an absolutely great evening. As if we had been in the team at the pub.
For the quarter, it has crystallised a group of "political adversaries". Call me radd, venstreekstremist, sexpredator, muslimelskar. Probably because I share all kronikkar I get on the press, on Twitter. And they think what I write is so jævleg that they believe it is their place to call me all this. And much more.
"Are you not tired you," ask them that hate what I write. "Ekkokammeret," as they are called. I can not allow me. Then you can I have not done anna. I choose to laugh it off. Also triggar them to me.
I am they're actually great thanks guilty all that call me elite, brunbeisar, mobbar, sjikanør, svadaleverandør. Utskjellinga is a great source of inspiration and has generated the one the piece after the other so that I today dare to call myself a writer.
I know I will be happy in the people on Twitter. Not happy in that love. I love them not so it doest hurt as I do with my very closest family. No, I will be happy in them for the engagement their. For the knowledge they share. The sense of humour. Vitsane. The irony. Mind. Joy. The pain they dare to set out. Sorga they are experiencing. The courage they show.
"We need to have a tweetup," suggested one. "Okay?" I said. Champion green as usual. A sort of rendezvous, it appeared to mean. We were a whole bunch. Met at a restaurant on the Noose. Almost like blind date. Virtual neighbor was a man of flesh and blood.
Next tweetup with the new bunch. Met home with me. Was further out of the city. We never came so far. Ordered the pizza and was at home with me. We have been a group of friends. Have had several hits.
Every single day. Several gongar to the day I have to stop and snort a dose. Yes, do not get me wrong. I will not kokainrusa or high. Just have to leave a comment, share a story, provoke debate, scroll me through the new tweetar. Read the latest news about Trump. Stare over to the partly absurd tweetar from the guy. Get with me texts other people have shared. Cheer on the politicians. Come with criticism.
"Why with materials or you are not a life instead?" asks the individual. The ask I me although also some gongar. For example, when I discover that I in the course of these years has write 79000 tweetar. Syttinitusen! You read that correctly. All in nynorsk. Yes, apart from some in English when I have the black Trump. As if he read his tweetar!
When I are easier shocked of my productivity, click I me into one of følgjarane of mine who is hyperproduktiv. He has 430 000 tweetar. When senkar I shoulders and think that it is a long way to go.
Moreover, it is what I have done. Got me a life. A virtual life in addition to the other. The levast. Of and to operating I in other SoMe. Plunging down, for instance, in the comments section to kronikkar I have to write. It is that to throw out in a masochistic mud-bath. Where will I idiotforklara so it held. 've just got to know that I am the destructive, pathetic, motbydeleg, immature. That my ethical and intellectual level is at the low point. That I behave myself as a pubertal jentunge. All this from a man who at the same time tell that he gets scared when he "sees others calling people the most nauseating things on the web".
When is the to save themselves returned to Twitter to seek out normaliteten, as to land after a turbulent flight. Yes, almost like coming home for christmas. A virtual hug, a pat on the skuldera. One and anna godord. And I send a warm thought to the Olai and the rest of the spanskklassen my which opened up this world for me.Fraterniserer with høyreradikale groupings, and no one responds Columnist