Breaking Up With Twitter

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It wasn’t you. It was me. Actually, it was kind of you. With your constant updates on all that is wrong with the world. With your diabolical indifference to how a timeline should work. With your inability to allow editing. Sure, maybe I am too picky. But I expected more from you. Or maybe it was just that I had grown accustomed to expecting so little of myself.

Because I needed what you had. Everyone was there for the most part. And if they weren’t really there, there was an assistant at the controls making me feel like I was really connecting. I needed the constant allure of trending hashtags. Who the f*ck am I kidding? No one needs that. Ever. Until eternity calls.

So maybe it wasn’t all you. I think it was me. I wanted something from you that I was never going to get. I wanted you to help me. But I forgot how meaningless I was to you. Because you treated all of your suitors the same. And there were a lot of them. We were all just an account. Nothing more, nothing less. We should have known better.

A few days ago, I dumped you. I did it at the same time that I dumped Medium. Leaving me only with Instagram. Leaving me happier instantaneously. F*ck Facebook. I ditched that horror show more than a year ago. I don’t even scroll on Instagram anymore because of the ads. But you, I was scrolling on you. It was a habit because I knew you would always have fresh material for me.

You were the disgusting version of The Zen Diaries of Garry Shandling. You always had a new line. A new slant. A new video. A new meme. But you weren’t funny. You were usually off-putting. You usually exposed me to the type of political rhetoric I could really deal without. You were a constant stream of unnecessary quasi-information that I had to have. I was f*cked up.

I would be watching a show and thinking about how I could tell you something. #television I would be reading a book, but thinking about how I should share this quote. #currentlyreading. I would just finish writing something and before I could even appreciate it, I was dropping a link into you. #amwriting But I never wondered to myself, what #amIdoing? I mean, I did, but I kept pushing it away. Until I couldn’t anymore.

You were just too constant. Always there. Always my port in the storm. Always accepting of my most inane thoughts without telling me, “Bro, this one isn’t worth putting out into the ether.” Yeah, thanks for nothing. Thanks for allowing me to go semi-viral (for me) for a regular comment on an April Fools Dodo video. It was then I knew what my Twitter value was. None. And then when I knew it wasn’t you. It was me.

I want you to know that we are broken up. I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to look at you. The only page I have saved in my phone’s browser is for a sports video game’s account. Yes, I am 48, a single father of two, and fairly free of the Internet, and the only thing I want from you are codes to play cyber basketball online with ten-year-old’s who talk smack in a squeaky voice and still rage quit every time I go on a 8-0 run.

So maybe they have something right. Because when I rage quit you that night, I felt better right away. Maybe they feel better too. Maybe we are all better without you. Because you are dating so many people in the world. Luring them in with your platform and exponential growth possibilities, i.e. accounts to follow for every alum of The Bachelor franchise.

What the hell was I doing with my time? Thinking that by sharing my stories in a link, it would lead to something. All it lead to was an echo chamber. The same supportive people, the same pats on the back. Until I finally realized I didn’t need that. I didn’t even want it. Because it wasn’t real. When you can share something with one simple click of a mouse, it doesn’t mean you liked it. Or read it. Or really knew what I was talking about. But you were trying to help. And I appreciated it. But now I just want no part of the cyber-festival.

I just want to allow myself some space. And I don’t want you to hold that space for me. I’m good. I can hold my own space on this one. Because you were too present in my life. And I allowed you to be. But when I say goodbye, it’s really goodbye. Sure, there may be accounts maintained for current or future endeavors, but not by me. I would literally rather pay someone to do that than to get sucked back into your head games.

No, it’s over. I am breaking up with you. No more doodling Twitter on my notepads. No more wondering what we will be like in ten years. I’m ghosting you. And this is the last you will hear of it. Thank you for the memories. Like that time…wait, nothing I ever did with you mattered in the slightest bit. Reality hits when it wants to. And from now on, I am going to let information come to me when it will. I don’t need your notifications of activity that is useless to me anymore.

I would say be well, but I actually don’t give a sh*t. Even though I allowed myself to become beholden to you, I have enough self-worth to take that back. And put the blame partially on you. Because you aren’t in it for the right reasons. And neither was I.