Friday night someone broke into the office where I work and made off with several laptops, including mine. Now, while I wait for a replacement, I have to write my brilliant tweets on notebook paper and fold them away to plug into the internet when I get home. It is a bizarre thing to do, like skywriting poetry or spelling out the opening of a story with bisected hot dogs. The feel of the writing doesn't match the medium, I mean. Today was the first day I tried it, and I promptly lost the scrap of paper, and now someone in my building has probably taken up a folded slip from the floor and read "Can this email truly contain the secret to creamy, light mac & cheese?" and "3x the tuna, 3x the tuna water." I have broken the boundaries of Twitter and tweeted as directly as possible at a custodian or a maintenance person or, more probably, to no one.