Last week, I received a box in the mail. Unlike my usual, ticking, livewires-sticking-out-of-crevices packages that usually arrive at my doorstep, this one seemed quiet. Almost too quiet. I cracked it open to find a hardcover book featuring my last 30 days of Tweets. It was hardcover — a slightly unnecessary feature — and shiny, and looked not unlike some of my favorite books as a child. Inside, my tweets were printed with reckless abandon. There was the night I did Dirty Marmar keg stands in the West Village, there were pages dedicated to #balloonboy, and even Tweets sent fro 10,000 feet in the air made it in. Hyperlinks were rendered useless on these newfangled “paper pages”, and once again, I was reminded that my undiagnosed possy autism is still very much a threat. I put the book down and went about my merry life.

Then, today, someone sent me a link to a Gawker article about the death of publishing in relation to books which actually print out your Tweets. And there I saw it: My twitter handle, in bright blue letters, scrawled across the front of a Tweetbook on the website’s main gallery page. That’s… curious. I… I have absolutely… nothing… to do… with this book. And even less to do with Twitter. (JK xoxo Twitter 4VR.) And yet… there is my name.

So, just to clarify. Yes, I am on Twitter. Yes, I was sent a “Tweetbook.” Yes, I have exactly 0 dollars invested in this project. And yes, I have e-mailed their administrator to remove my name from said photo/website. Look, I know, I was quoted on the back of an “Oy Vey! My Son is Gay” postcard, and blog-checked in a Vanity Fair article about “Cuteness.” (3rd para from the bottom.) I get “it.” I’m the internet’s go to person for re-re-ness. But please: I am a person, not an object. Let’s leave me and my Twitter handle out of such proprietary matters.

In other news, how many of you would actually drop coin on a Tweetbook? Don’t even front, because I know some of you would.