There's a lot to hate about Twitter: vitriol, slander, ghastly current events, and rampant comma abuse. But there's also a lot to love. Following are a handful of my favorite accounts at the moment.

70s Dinner Party (@70s_party)
Despite the name, this account does not only focus on the '70s. Its dominant theme can only be described as "terrifying food."

​Nature is Scary (@NatureisScary)
You know what? I'm not even going to share any of this account's tweets. Because they're really not for everyone. But if you do check out Nature is Scary, you will see the circle of life in all its heartless glory.

Florida Man (@FloridaMan__)
You may know Florida Man. (Florida Woman is also a thing, but it hasn't been very active recently.) Thanks to the Sunshine State's ability to create news that is a unique blend of outrageousness, stupidity, recklessness, debauchery, and greed, all Florida Man really has to do is share headlines and links to current articles. The tweets simply begin with "Florida Man."

Damien Kempf (@DamienKempf)
A self-described "Medieval manuscripts explorer," Damien Kempf shares amazing ancient illustrations that I would never be able to see otherwise. Sometimes they're funny (particularly with his commentary); sometimes they're enchanting. They're always compelling.

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​Back when I started on Twitter (nearly a decade ago—egads!), it was common for people to highlight follow-worthy accounts with an #FF or #followfriday hashtag every week. That practice has abated, so here is my attempt to make up for it. I hope you enjoy these accounts—I'll try to highlight more in the future.

​To leave or read comments, just click on the red "comments" link at the top of this post.

I was just visiting a website and a pop-up window gave me two choices. I could either click on a big orange button that read, "Yes, I Want Access!" or I could instead click on grey, unembellished text beneath it that said, "No, thanks, I don't want the FREE online course. I'll let my competition watch instead."

I just couldn't bring myself to click on the "No thanks" text. I searched for the discreet little X to close the pop-up. Thank God for that nonjudgmental little X, because anyone who chooses the "No thanks" text is clearly a rube. A boob. A chump.

Now, I'm sure that such pop-up windows are effective—I see them all the time these days. But they're just so... heavy-handed. They're like a salesman who leaps directly in your path, thrusting himself into your personal space, demanding "just a minute of your time."

"Hi, there, friend," he begins, uninvited. "I have just a quick question for you. Do you want to be happy, healthy, and sexually fulfilled? Would you like to eat all the fried foods and desserts you crave but never gain an ounce? Would you like to double your income, your physical endurance, and your lifespan? Would you like to eliminate fatigue, wrinkles, and anxiety? Would you like to regain your youth, double your salary, and bring back your favorite pets from the dead?"

"Or would you instead like to ruin absolutely everything? Would you prefer to live in incessant pain and regret, weeping yourself to sleep at night only to be plagued by a stream of harrowing nightmares? Would you like to be kidnapped and tortured by bandits, infested by intestinal parasites, and covered with an itchy, unsightly rash?"

"The choice is yours, friend. You can enjoy boundless pleasure and fulfillment, or settle for crushing disappointment and despair. So: What'll it be?"

I'll opt for the little X, please.

I'd love to tell you that I was bitten by a shark. Or a dog. Or even some bratty first grader. But none of that happened. Truthfully, my life to date has involved a good deal of reading and typing, and not a lot of violence.

However, I do seem to have collected a goodly number of scars throughout the years, and each one reminds me of its provenance.

Chicken pox. You kids today—you don't know from chicken pox. You get your nifty varicella vaccines and avoid the whole mess. I, on the other hand, was ravaged by chicken pox back in the '70s. I HAD THEM IN MY THROAT. And for my trouble, I ended up with a nice divot on the tip of my nose. And a few other places as well, but the nose was the biggie.

Surgeries. The ACL reconstruction (which I stayed awake for and watched!). The removal of suspicious dark spots and various little subcutaneous growths. (Look up "Bible bumps"—ewww.) And three basal cell cancers, all on the left side of my face. (Yes, you get sun exposure when you're driving a car. I'll bet that in England, skin cancer is more prevalent on the right side of the face.)

My butt dent. Oh, heck. Why not tell you about it? That time in 1991 when I slipped going down the stairs to the subway in Boston and fell so hard on the edge of a step that it actually left a dent in my tush that remains there to this day. I'm sure that's the only thing that has stood between me and a thriving porn career.

Etc. There are oven burns and a trace of a run-in with the bottom of a swimming pool. And the place where the edge of metal mesh on my gym locker sliced me, but good.

If I think about it, my scars have been mostly caused by disease and clumsiness. But like all scars, they demonstrate healing and survival, which is a win, in my book. I'll take 'em gladly, and any more I'm lucky enough accumulate in the future. Stay tuned.

This year, it was New Orleans. Last year, it was Sonoma. The year before that, it was Asheville. But it's always the hands-down highlight of my year.

"It" doesn't really have a name. Maybe it should. FriendFest? Amiga-palooza? Gal-Pal Getaway? It's the annual long weekend when I get to spend genuine quality time with about ten of my beloved college friends. Connecting, catching up, commiserating. Laughing, lounging, sightseeing, shopping. And, oh oh oh—eating.

And exploring! Because each year (for six years now), we choose a new locale. We rent a house with plenty of beds and a nice big kitchen, and we fly in from all over the country.

With the exception of one year (which coincided with our college reunion), we leave our kids and husbands behind, making this a true vacation—to the nth power. We can sleep in. Reminisce. Kvetch. We can do precisely what we want to do. It's like college, with no homework and far less insecurity.

This year, we looked at letters we'd written to each other some 25 or 30 years ago and marveled and cringed at our former selves. One time we looked through our yearbook and howled with laughter until we cried.

We make the best memories during these get-togethers. The time Jenny showed us what twerking is. The time Heather calmly and efficiently extinguished an incipient house fire. Bicycling through vineyards. Eating sheet cake.

Clearly, I am a thousand kinds of fortunate. That I get to travel to these destinations. That I was able to attend college. But above all: that I have such a longstanding group of wonderful friends. Here's to next year! ❤️

I keep several lists of words.

One is called "words I can never remember," and I reach for it when aphasia strikes me. (One time, I couldn't remember the word "aphasia," and I knew the universe was mocking me.)

One list is called "words that sound good." This includes "Kinshasa" and "calliope."

My "words I like" list includes "hobgoblin" and "calamity."

My "more good words" list has "perfidy," "calumny" and "shamble."

Then I have this list that I add to when I read. It's for all those times I encounter a word and think, "I should use that word! It's so great." ​

Notice anything about the words I appreciate? Lots of them are negative in some way. Contempt. Depravity. Pernicious. Degrading. Debauchery.

Is this proof that I'm twisted?

I don't think so. I believe that negative words tend to be powerful. Dramatic. Amusing. They tap into the darker side of life, where all sorts of visceral emotions lie.

I think "diabolical" beats "angelic." "Dastardly" is better than "upright." "Malevolent" wins over "innocent."

​What do you think? What are your favorite words?


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Call me a heretic, but I'm no stickler for the Ten Commandments. I am comfortable cursing and coveting, and I like to use the Sabbath (both of them) for activities like racquetball, brunch, and naps.

I, like George Carlin, feel like the Ten Commandments have some shortcomings. If it were up to me (and it definitely isn't), I'd propose ten different commandments for folks to follow.

1. Thou shalt not leave a mess. Please put your chewing gum in the trash. Place your vodka bottle in the recycling bin. And keep your company's filthy chemicals out of our water and air.
   
   
2. Thou shalt give others the benefit of the doubt. You never know what other people are dealing with. Heartbreak. Heartburn. A bounced check. An eviction notice. A migraine, or mental Illness, or all of the above.
   
   
3. Thou shalt volunteer. It's good for the world, and it's good for you.
   
   
4. Thou shalt allow adults to do pretty much whatever they want, so long as no one is getting harmed. What grownups do in privacy for entertainment is truly no one else's concern.
   
   
5. Thou shalt never justify anything by saying that others have done it. Just because your mother frequently flogged you does not make child-flogging beneficial. Just because others cheat on their taxes, their exams, or their wives doesn't make it right.
   
   
6. Thou shalt verify before sharing. The more titillating and shocking a story, the more crucial it is to check its source, check Snopes, and check to see if other credible news outlets corroborate it.
   
   
7. Thou shalt vote. Never take any election for granted. Never take your democracy for granted. Never take anything for granted.
   
   
8. Thou shalt avoid using or succumbing to logical fallacies. As humans, we are all susceptible to these. Learn to spot them, and cry foul.
   
   
9. Thou shalt question authority. Just because someone is in a position of power—whether they are a teacher, a boss, a high priestess, or a senator—they are not above scrutiny. In fact, authority figures ought to get more scrutiny.
   
   
10. Thou shalt not follow lists like this one. Never blindly follow opinionated rules. Unless they make sense to you. Then, by all means.

​To leave or read comments, just click on the red "comments" link at the top of this post.

 "Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a toatl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe."

I grabbed the previous statement from this article, but you can find countless similar passages online. Most of them have a congratulatory angle about how "You msut be a gneuis if yuor'e albe to udnretsnad tihs srcamelbd txet."

But you're not a genius. You're doomed.

Because when your brain automatically makes incorrect words seem correct, then how the heck are you supposed to identify misspellings? And don't say "autocorrect." Autocorrect is a conniving backstabber. If you write, "Libraries serve the pubic good," for example, autocorrect will just whistle nonchalantly and look the other way.

I am a professional copywriter, and a perfectionist by nature. And yet, I overlook spelling errors quite often. Too often. And I hvae olny my gneuis brian to blmae.

There has to be a long German word to describe this phenomenon: the pleasant sensation of seeing someone who reminds you of a loved one who has died.

Has this happened to you?

Sometimes I'll see a woman in the grocery store whose hairdo and comportment are so reminiscent of my mother that I'll indulge in a moment of make-believe. I'll just hesitate for a spell and pretend that my mother is standing a few paces away from me, even though I'm well aware that she died in 2003. It's a serendipitous little mind game that's uniquely enjoyable.

I almost never get the same self-deceptive treat with a father lookalike, for some reason. Somehow, strangers don't tend to look like my father, who died in 2001.

But I'll tell you who does: my brothers. They resemble him dramatically. (I really need to find a photo of the group of them. Trust me—you would agree.)

So tonight, when my brother Doug was visiting from Brooklyn and I got to see him, it was a treat on several levels. I loved spending time with him and his daughter. I loved catching up and having some good laughs. But also, I loved seeing my father so very clearly in Doug.

I can't put my finger on it. It's not logical. It's not supernatural. But it's a very real emotional response, and I'm glad I have it.

It was nice to see you tonight, Daddy.

I'm ambivalent about what I do for a living.

I adore being a copywriter—getting to be creative, getting to write, getting to help companies connect with customers.

And I truly appreciate good advertising. Advertising that’s clever, provocative, or poignant; that’s honest, informative, and compelling. I love advertising that makes me laugh. I love advertising that makes me think.

But then, there’s the other kind of advertising. The kind I detest.

I'm not just talking about bad advertising—ads that are cluttered, or confusing, that use ugly fonts or horrible photography. I'm talking about ads that truly irk or even enrage me. These tend to fall into a handful of categories:

Unwelcome and annoying advertising. The only thing more irritating than a pop-up ad? An ad that starts playing unwelcome sound. Pop-up ads make me angry; noisy ads make me homicidal.

Creepy advertising. Let’s say I write about Silly Putty in an email to a friend. And then I suddenly get a Facebook ad for Silly Putty. That is some sneaky, spooky, skulking subterfuge right there. It makes me want to run away. 

Wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing advertising. Advertising that poses as editorial content is a special kind of sleazy. (“Doctors  Shocked by Amazing New Immortality Pill,” etc.) I appreciate whichever lawmaker it was who required such “advertorials” to disclose themselves as  “special advertising sections.” Because it turns out that there are some gullible people out there. Believe it or not.

Mousetrap advertising. Sometimes I encounter a certain kind of article that I just know is a minefield of advertising traps. I have… to be very careful… about where I…. click, because what looks like a benign slider arrow… might actually be… ACK! Suddenly, I’m shuttled off to some huckster’s website, when all I wanted to do was look at photos of a young Elizabeth Taylor.

Price-of-entry advertising. I’ve seen some mighty cute clothing on the right side of my Facebook page, let me tell you. And back when I was naive, I’d wonder how much some alluring garment cost, and I’d blithely click on it to find out. NOT SO FAST, the retailer would say, demanding my email address before I could go any further. You know what I say to advertisers who do that? Goodbye.

Poseur advertising. I got a sponsored post the other day—I think it was on Facebook. “Dear Friends,” it began. “I’m Josh…” Guess what? If you have to tell me your name, we’re NOT FRIENDS. Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it. Ever.

And don't even get me going on companies who send me long surveys every 45 minutes, ostensibly because they're so focused on serving my interests. If you cared about me, you would either leave me alone or pay me generously for my time.

Advertisers simply need to keep the Golden Rule in mind. Treat potential customers with respect and kindness. Ask yourself, "Would I like it if an advertiser did this to me? If the answer is "no," then don't do it. Please.

"Worrywart" is such an ugly word. Just because I have the ability to imagine the worst-case scenario in every situation, you don't need to call me the name of a disfiguring skin virus.

I worry, therefore I am prepared.

I know that a recently mopped floor could cause someone to slip and fall. So I warn everyone in the house to be careful.

Chocolate left on the kitchen table could tempt our voracious little dog to jump up and poison himself. So I make sure said chocolate gets put away properly.

As a copywriter, I imagine every potential disaster. (And there are so many!) Will this confuse or mislead people? Will the type be too small or too light for them to read? Will it print poorly? Could it be misinterpreted as an obscenity? (I check Urban Dictionary frequently.) How horrible would it be if there were a typo in this ad, which is worth thousands of dollars and will be viewed by thousands of people? PROOFREAD OBSESSIVELY. And then proofread again. Any maybe again.

Fortunately, as a skeptic, I only worry about real outcomes. I'm not superstitious. I don't worry if I spill salt, or walk beneath a ladder, or have unclean thoughts. But there are still an abundance of worries to fill my brain: Did I hurt her feelings? What if I sleep late and miss that meeting? What if the stock market tanks or I have a stroke?

Today, I had an exchange on Facebook that characterizes me perfectly. My friend Lorin is excited because he's getting a scooter. I rained caution on his parade. But only because I care.