I’m no superstar, but I’m definitely a big deal…on the internet. I mean, I’ve got it all: blog fame, blog fortune (that 90th of a cent I receive per word is really starting to pile up), and blog power. Bearded boys are at my every beck and call, processed meat in hand. When I go out to clubs, I generally only have to wait in line for 15-20 minutes, or however long it takes to make it to the front. Yes, I am truly living the life.

The other day I was asked why I didn’t have a verified Twitter account. Not knowing why I have a Twitter account to begin with, I never really thought about verifying it at all. After dwelling on it a bit, I decided that, yes, I need all of my 300 followers to know that I am who I say I am.

I attempted to get verified by following these instructions, but was told that “verification for your account is not available at this time.” That was even after I told them about my impostors, and caps-screamed DON’T YOU KNOW WHO I AM a few times. I know, I couldn’t believe it either.

If all of these people, who I have no idea who they are, can get verified accounts, why can’t I? It’s not even that I care about it that much, it’s just the principle of it all, or something.

Having a verified account proves that you are someone, that your condensed thoughts are worth reading. And seeing as I tweet about my vagina all the time, I see no argument there. That’s information everyone is interested in knowing. Nay, information everyone needs to know.

I’m really not sure what I’m talking about here, but this is my obligatory “I’m Writing About Myself” post, so deal with it. For all of you that complain about me being self-absorbed; I am, and so are you. The only difference is that I have a platform to voice my opinions, and you don’t.

Plus, if you really want to complain about someone’s narcissistic drivel, hang out at Dooce. At least I don’t have children to ramble on about. I mean, can you even imagine? God, they’d be so fucked.