After my Twitter account got viciously hacked in February, I bid a fond farewell to 200,000 followers, and with it: my sanity, self-respect and good judgement -- all of which were in short supply to begin with.
A CYNIC IS SOMEONE WHO GOES BACK FOR SECONDS AT THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH
Being totally jaded, how this could happen to me? What's with the "slap upside the head" wake up call? It's not like I'm a sweet little old granny who gets routinely fleeced by wicked aluminum siding salesmen. But there I was, an International Man of Idiocy, flying blind without bat-sonar. A Reese's Peanut Butter Cup without the chocolate. Catherine the Great without a horse. Jared without a $5 footlong. Luca Brasi without water wings. A Faberge egg without the Romanovs... OK, I'll stop with the awful analogies.
THE CRIME SCENE
How it happened was diabolically simple: I was direct messaged on Twitter, and invited to join a group of accounts with large followings. Then given the "Drink the Kool-Aid" hard sell about how great the group is, and a link to a website which I frequently use. Their website was brilliantly disguised as the original, prompting to login with my Twitter info.
My Spidey senses were tingling, and the little guy in the back of my head was screaming "Abort!" But Absinthe is a cruel succubus, and I serve at her beck and call. I signed in... and POOF! My account was no more, I had gotten the dreaded fail whale.
NEVER ASSUME ANYTHING UNLESS IT'S THE WORST
This must be karmic last licks for never answering emails from Nigerian Princes whose bank accounts are frozen in Switzerland...
"Are they crazy? Twitter's going to spank them so bad," was my first thought.
That's when the paranoia set in. Twitter is the internet's wild west, who knows what surreal logic forms the basis of their corporate policy? Geez, it took three hard years of slavish dedication to get 793K followers. A hot, reddish flush overtook me.
"I am so very screwed..."
Hopefully you will never get hacked, but I can offer some practical do's and don'ts:
1. DON'T PANIC.
Wrongo Marylou.
Panic good and hearty. Sweat profusely. Hang out on the ledge. Start eyeing bridges. Change your Facebook Status to "I'm a jumper." Call your BFFs at the suicide hotline. Report a missing person -- you. Sneak into Syria with BBQ sauce... Seriously, whatever it takes to vent a bit, and come down from DEFCON 1 and revert to normal status... which won't actually happen, because you've been hacked! Wrap your head around it, and bandage tightly.
2. DO RELAX.
-- Do yoga, alternate nostril breathing exercises that make you hyperventilate and pass out, while you look for your old meth connection's number.
-- Do chainsaw a limb to score a week's worth of oxy.
-- Do practice your hostage negotiation: Demand for a plane, helicopter, van and pizzas (not necessarily in that order).
I'm telling you, panic! No jury will convict you...(insert maniacal laugh here) It's just starting to get weird.
3. DO GO ON A DIET.
You might as well go on a diet because you won't be eating for quite some time. The thought of food is at best repugnant. And good news! You'll stop those midnight runs to the "Stop & Rob" convenience store for Slim Jims and people will compliment you on your heroin chicness.
4. DO SELL YOUR BED.
While you're at it, sell your bed -- put it on eBay, as you won't be sleeping ever again. "Macbeth doth kill sleep," but being hacked doth crush it. Red bloodshot eyes with duffel bags underneath, is a good look for you -- work it.
5. DO BE PROACTIVE.
Seriously, you know that tagline from Alien: "In space no one can hear you scream" Well in the Twitterverse no one cares either. Once you have your dog cone firmly in place around your neck, and you can't lick your wounds, maybe it's time to be a little proactive. Play Nancy Drew and figure out who stole what.
WARNING: IN LIMBO
It's at this point I should mention (ugh) the other thing you have to prepare yourself for is being a Twitter-ghost. A spirit just wafting unseen in the Twitter-purgatory. No favs, retweets or blocks. It is eerie. You aren't dead, you haven't changed, but the world has forgotten you. You're in limbo. You can still tweet, but it's so transparent, that inanimate objects can pass through.
HEADS UP: While you're floating in eternal nothingness, just watch out you don't get sucked into any Glade Plug-Ins.
5. DON'T PLOT REVENGE.
Try not to think of those miscreants who hijacked your account. They're just hanging out with a bevy of floral bikinied females in white go-go boots and dancing the Swim, the Monkey and the Watusi. Yeah, that used to be you... but now your bunker seems so cold and distant. Hey, I've been there, I feel your sorrow.
6. DO HAVE AN ENDGAME.
A. Get back on Twitter.
Make a new Twitter account and just add the prefix 'Not' to your bio name, ex. "@NotExcrement," that is, if your Twitter handle was "@Excrement." This helps to do nothing, but maybe some Good Samaritan Follower will recognize you, and give a heads up as to who the super-villains are. I got lucky this way.
B. Carpet Bomb Tweets.
Then came the carpet bombing of tweets to Twitter's @support -- clarifying my predicament. I was like a lab rat with electrodes attached to my brain -- every time I felt angst, off went another distress signal to Twitter. Kinda surprised I didn't break the damn thing.... I made no friends I'm sure, but maybe I garnered their grudging respect.
C. Make a Dossier.
Having amassed an impressive cache of incriminating material of what transpired, I sent out an SOS to everyone I know. Just in case they knew someone on the inside, because Twitter is impossible to contact other than @support. Hey, stranger things have happened (although I don't really want to be there when they do).
Depending on a wild card as your ace in the hole, is the "Hail Mary" pass of options. Not bloody likely. And as each day slowly and agonizingly passed, I got to a point of neural numbness, where I convinced myself I'm on vacay from Twitter...I was now officially tripping balls organically.
Luckily, someone knew someone, who knew someone, who knew squat, and while I'm not sure if that precipitated anything, it did give me hope.
And you always need hope.
P.S. A million years (and nine days) later, I got my beloved account back... Sure it was suffering from Stockholm Syndrome and saddled with deep-seated trust issues, but after intensive therapy, the future smells minty fresh.
Misery loves company, but is clueless when it comes to breath mints... Feel free to share your hacked stories of woe.