On Twitter, I’ve always felt like a party crasher.
For 12 years, I’ve lingered in its corner, perpetually wishing I was cooler, funnier, more popular. Ironic, maybe, considering Twitter’s loudest voices come from the sort of people you’d never want to have a beer with IRL, and 99 percent of my closest friends have never sent a Tweet in their lives.
And yet…
We hear a lot about the ways Instagram makes people yearn for new bodies, partners, or lifestyles. But for the nerds among us, Twitter is its own category of Comparison Hell. Underneath the “personal news” announcements, links to stories landed in major publications, and media personalities endlessly flattering or bullying one another, is the constant reminder that: You are not doing enough. Though I’d consider myself an Online™ person, I have never known the “right” people or had the day’s hottest take. Yes, I realize I suffer from a trifecta of horribly unattractive, juvenile diseases known as Intense Envy, Crippling Insecurity, and Lazy Ambition that only I have the power to cure — but Twitter has amplified my symptoms to a lethal degree.
This gap — the one between Twitter’s cool kids and the ones Tweeting into their follower-less ether — has never felt more apparent than now, as the lights have turned on and the party seems to be coming to an end.
As we collectively watch the demise of a place where we once shared memes and bad Awards Night jokes, the platform’s biggest mini-celebrities are writing their dramatic goodbyes. For my peers (30-something writers) who have blue check marks beside their names, Twitter has, apparently, “completely changed” their lives. They have the platform to thank for their “entire careers,” for landing major book deals, for connecting them with their best friends, and long-term romantic partners.
Well, shit. I guess I’ve really been doing this Twitter thing wrong all along.
OK, I’m being somewhat disingenuous. Even with a measly 800-something followers, Twitter has led me to at least one full-time job, freelance gigs, a few new friends, and, albeit indirectly, reconnection with a longtime crush. If Twitter as we know it disappears, it’s true that it will be harder to find editors to pitch to, people to network with, and all kinds of other opportunities. Twitter is where I get most of my breaking news, real-time updates during disasters, and juicy gossip within circles that I might never be privy to without it. It’s where I’ve found new podcasts to listen to, fiction to read, and causes to care about.
But I’m prepared to give all of that up if it means also saying goodbye to Twitter’s ugliest side: the navel gazing, the cliques, the mob mentality, the echo chamber.
What I’ll actually miss most isn’t the job opportunities or potential for gaining clout — it’s the jokes. Twitter at its best doesn’t feel like an exclusive party I’m crashing, but more like a 3 a.m. hangout on the rooftop of a youth hostel with a group of strangers I just met last night. It’s chaotic, fun, and silly. It’s for sharing cat videos and absurd celebrity interviews. It’s for self-deprecation and lovingly taking the piss.
***
Since it’s Thanksgiving, I’d be remiss not to talk about the things I’m grateful for this year. And thinking about my life on the internet has me also thinking about my life off of it. For me personally, Twitter very much aside, these past two months have been triumphant and traumatic. After losing a job, I’ve felt lost, terrified, and ashamed, but also proud, inspired, and loved. My friends — those who couldn’t care less what happens to Twitter — have shown up for me in unimaginable ways, when I often had very little to give them in return. What I think we all crave, and what I’ve been lucky enough to find offline, isn’t empty connections with important people, but a real sense of community with the people who matter.
So, if you can, get off the internet, go for a walk, and call a friend. Laugh at a comedy show. Ask someone out at a bar. Stop watching the party from your bedroom, and go join the world again. You’ll be better for it, and those are experiences Elon can never take away.