I’m frustrated with Twitter.
Exhausted with the performative “wokeness,” “blackness,” and morality. Disgusted with the brainless mob mentality behind “drag” and “cancel” culture. Concerned–bordering on terrified–by the disregard for people’s real lives because the hunger to consume and criticize matters more than the humanity of the people in the photos or behind the screen names. (See #TeacherBae. I cannot believe that shit happened and will forever remember it as a wake-up call)
Let’s see… Frustrated, exhausted, disgusted, concerned. I have more beefs than I have adjectives. I hate the overvaluation of opinion and reactionary emotions that disregard facts or nuance. The degradation of critique; reducing everything to “classic,” “iconic,” or “trash.” Formerly innocuous words (“queen,” “protect,” “tea”) taste sour on my tongue, triggering a Lambchops Play Along-style chorus of strangers’ thoughts that have jumped off the page and embedded in my psyche.
Formerly innocuous words (“queen,” “protect,” “tea”) taste sour on my tongue, triggering a Lambchops Play Along-style chorus of strangers’ thoughts that have jumped off the screen and embedded in my psyche.
Let’s talk about the sins committed under the guise of “community.”
The judgment and one-upmanship.
The conditional idolatry that turns lynch mob on a dime should you fail to Protect The Magic projected on you by those who consume your content.
The demand for transparency from those who daily prove they’ll throw you under the bus for laughs and retweets.
Gossip culture. The insatiable thirst for “mess.”
I am tired.
If I needed to vent, I’d write this in my journal; not on the Internet. In writing here, I acknowledge my choices. I choose to be frustrated, exhausted, disgusted, and constantly annoyed when I could easily choose not to.
And so begins my slow march away from These Twitter Streets. What does that look like? I’m not giving up my handle. Perhaps I’ll use my account to publicize my writing and use Facebook, Instagram, and my blog for my daily musings. I don’t know. But I have to take a step toward a post-Twitter life.
If the world is burning–and I believe it is–I’m not going out watching people scream with their thumbs.
Skinny Black Girl is a thirtysomething blogger hailing from the Mighty Midwest. An MFA dropout, writer by calling and wise ass by craft, she posts her tales, interests and observations on her award-winning blog, The Skinny Black Girl. She recently published her first book, Songs About Boys: The romantic musings and misadventures of my 20s.