I can’t do this anymore. I don’t enjoy staring blankly into this abyss every night, my clenched jaw lit by the glow of someone else’s stream of consciousness (not even in chronological order).

I don’t want to talk about editing tweets, or argue with Twitter eggs, or watch Trump fuss about Vanity Fair.

Scanning my feed like an addict doesn’t help me do my job — though once I swore it did. I can’t cash in my follower chips for a good story or pay my bills with the weak dopamine reward of a few faves and RTs. I don’t need to plow every fleeting observation and passing thought into Twitter’s advertising machine. I don’t have to workshop jokes in real time.

The nagging urge to fill my spare seconds with nonsense and sweet owns doesn’t widen the boundaries of my world. Twitter doesn’t make me any smarter.

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My responsibilities, goals, and happiness in life extend beyond the walls of Twitter. So for now I’m deleting the app from my phone.


Phew, it’s gone.