I finally did it. I deleted my Twitter account.
Okay, not deleted — “deactivated.” If you try to find me you’ll be told, "This account does not exist,” but to quote that crappy old poem: “Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there. I did not die.” There’s a 30-day waiting period to truly nuke your account, and I’m still not sure if I can do it. It’s hard to believe, but I have a lot of happy Twitter memories. Plus, I need to download all the oddly shaped penis photo DM’s I’ve gotten over the years. You never know who might get successful enough to be blackmailed.
(Note: that last sentence was a joke — a thing that is no longer allowed on Twitter.)
I could give you a noble reason for leaving Twitter if I wanted to. I could say I was protesting Elon Musk, or the social media companies that are Destroying Our Democracy. But the truth is, I deleted Twitter because I could no longer stomach the content of my enemies. Their premiere dates, their links to Deadline Hollywood articles, their banter with hot, famous people I’ll never sleep with.
I started to really consider leaving a few weeks ago. I woke up one morning and,