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Several weeks ago I signed up for twitter. Since then I have spent loads of time twittering about funny or unimportant things and was working enthusiastically on my own little nest, when all at once a mysterious magpie made its debut. As those sly cunning birds do not belong to my dearest buddies, I tried to ignore it for a while but politeness finally forced me to greet him. What started as an easy going chat ended up with my social destruction.

There we were hanging around on my bough, magpie looking at me in a flirting and judicial air, and thus I murmured: “Good morning Mr. Magpie!Very fine weather today…” He either must have overheard the question or not be interested in polite weather talk as he brutally cut off my remark and inquired if I wanted to be a magpie. Well, I was a bit shell shocked, my blood congealed but a tritone haunted my thoughts. It was sweet music and pure gold, and its name was “money”. I decided to sign the contract and fill my purse with cash. Obviously, many shops fought for my stream as I had been so communicative and industrious in building up friendships.


It did not take one week before I felt how quickly the deterioration of my reputation and followers faded away in consequence. The advertisings popped out ceaselessly. What Mr. Magpie described as hardly worth mentioning, was rather annoying and intrusive. I wrote my usual witty tweets full of pathetic remarks but soon found out that nobody took notice of them.

I had lost half of my followers and some of my friends threatened to break up our twitter relationship if I did not quit these spamming bombardments at once. In short: I was in an interpersonal twitter crisis and felt like a chocolate covered chicken more than ever.

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