Dear Twitter, I Tried (Again)

Dentist visit complete; if Hell exists, I'm certain it's an eternity spent in a dental cleaning while Christian rock music blares through shitty speakers.

Subject at hand:

Like any good slot machine, there's a promise to Twitter. A promise that, like the first go-round that brought me my first book, it would bring me connections and challenges that this redstate hellscape (beyond dental cleanings) couldn't provide - a feeling as though I'm still a part of the world, to boot.

But, then: recognition that it's just the addiction talking, the justification of continued pulling of the arm. Truth: I'm out of coins and I'm tired of lugging the pail back and forth and back and forth and–. This space (and the newsletter, my little lifeboat/dinghy) represent all I've got to share right now and I've got to be comfortable with that; must content myself with being the guy muttering to himself in the corner (but at least it's a pretty corner), content with deriving pleasure in penning these pieces every day... which, given that I've been writing them since March, seems to indicate that I'm content with this particular iteration of my content.

(None of this is to say that social media hasn't brought me lifelong friends and collaborators; it has, and I talk to many of them to this day. If I haven't, I miss you. Again, Newsletter as lifeboat.)

And so, another period of relative isolation declared in full recognition that it is an announcement not for the sake of my followers (though I prefer Moira Rose's "disciples"), but for the beast that is the slot machine of fantasyland.

Maybe for my benefit now, too.

Note: all of this subject to change. This is just where my thinking lies – maybe in all senses of the word – at the present moment, and in the name of generating new daily content via exorcism. Tomorrow might bring something new. Or not. But at least my teeth are clean.