She said I’m a Twitter star—whatever that means.

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She didn’t know I was sobbing. My hands were shaking: anxiety. I misspelled every other word. She said she didn’t mind. She reads my writing. We’ve been chatting on and off for months. I’ve never seen her face. I only know her avi. That’s Twitter speak. An avi is the little picture that represents you in the stream. Stream: that’s more Twitter speak. They say I’m a Twitter star—whatever that means. My friend, the female avi, just popped up in my gmail chat—“I am so proud of you,” she wrote, but I didn’t know why. So, I asked her. She spoke in riddles—energy and divine spirit and true to soul. I told her my father beat the God out of me—childhood. She said, “that’s fine.” She loves me just the way I am—the scared little boy who became a poet. “Because Charlie,” she wrote, I assumed emphatically, “that’s what you are!”

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