scary gxrl

I started my first Twitter account in 2009, which means I spent over a decade of my life tweeting.

Back then, things were much quieter. It was a place where my college friend group could share our thoughts and feelings, stitching into the already-rich texture of our lives. We were doing our own digital scrapbooking, and there’s still something so charming about looking back on my little jokes, daily observations, and constant gratitude for good food. There were no “recommended” tweets shoved into the feed, and posts were sorted chronologically. It was possible to “catch up.”

After I graduated, Twitter became a place to both keep in touch with the friends I’d just moved away from and reconnect with my friends back home. Eventually it turned into a platform to support my online friends, in their projects as well as their personal lives, and for one-off follows of celebrities or popular bloggers.

We all know what happened, though. In marched the intrusive advertisements and bot accounts and endless retweets and payment for verification, and on and on… Over the years, the landscape morphed until it was no longer recognizable. I spent less time sharing my own perspective and more time reposting the opinions and quips of others. It’s like I no longer trusted my own mind and relied on strangers to paint a picture of me.

Aside from my main account, I’d created pages to chronicle the ridiculous things my college roommate said, and later the pithy remarks of my coworker. I had an author profile that did reasonably well; one for my failed wedding and event planning business that I quietly took down; a professional “health and nutrition” account that sank before it could swim; and I spent a couple of days on a “cute video games” page before conceding that other people had already done it better than I could.

Side blogs and second accounts offered some enjoyment until they didn’t. All of my Xanga and LiveJournal pages have been swept away by the sands of time. My first Tumblr was unceremoniously deleted, and my second was killed by copyright claims thanks to a sapphic music side blog. My first Reddit account was shadowbanned, but the second I unplugged myself. Every Pinterest account I’ve ever had, I ended up getting rid of shortly after.

And don’t even get me started on Instagram. I’ve had two primary accounts, plus one to display the cuteness of my cats, one for my appreciation of zines, one for “health and nutrition” again (I never learn), one for bad art, one for creative collaboration with my best friend, and one for that goddamn wedding planning business that thankfully my friend reclaimed as her own.

This was originally about Twitter. The point is, I’ve enjoyed the ability to record my memories and express myself in a public space. While all of these platforms have their pros and cons, I really vibed with microblogging in particular. Thus, when a certain billionaire purchased Twitter and I vowed to leave that brainrot hellhole for good, I sought out alternatives. I’ve tried all the popular contenders: Mastodon, Bluesky, Cohost, Pillowfort, Micro.blog. Only a handful of my friends have even attempted to move to any of these, so in spite of their varied success and similar features, to me they just feel lifeless and empty.

Additionally, I’ve never been able to make new friends through social media platforms themselves, just connect with people I already know. The first genuine online friends I made were ones I met through writing for the same video game website. In the past year, I’ve also met a vibrant and friendly community through Twitch. But even in the face of these facts, when I see folks forge real connections in fandom spaces or through other shared interests, I still experience a tinge of jealousy. I like existing online, but often it feels like the internet isn’t welcoming to me.

All of these words and winding sentences scrawled, but to what end? That’s the wall I constantly run into. Some days I genuinely want to throw my phone into a lake and live in a cabin on a remote plot of land for the rest of my life. Some days I feel so deeply lonely and misunderstood, and question why self-imposed self-isolation would somehow be the correct answer. Some days I wish I didn’t care so much and could just follow my friends down to the bottom of the well.

I’d rather write books. I’d rather make art. But then, is withholding from a public forum protecting my peace, or is it depriving my friends of a way to connect with and care about me? Is it cool and down to earth to be unreachable, or is it a form of self-harm?

Everything is surveillance. Everything is sanitized and corporate.
My data is being monitored for the sake of commerce. My self is subject to psychological manipulation. There are no easy solutions.
Everything is on fire. Everything is fine.

I am not a cool girl. Go with the flow. Easy to please. Up for anything.

I’m a high maintenance bitch. I’m the antithesis of a professional woman.
Big business hates everything I stand for.

Woe to pointless meetings and casual chit-chat and “how was your weekend?”
Woe to capitalism.

I keep my door closed. I don’t answer the phone. If your event is optional, I’m not going. I recognize your preference for in-person meetings, but if there’s an option, I’ll join online. You see, the impact on my social battery is diminished through the screen. I don’t have to constantly construct myself in real-time, determining what body language, vocal inflections, and facial expressions are appropriate every second.

In transit between my office and the smoking area is when I allow myself to unmask. The consequences are resting bitch face and poor posture, but if I wasn’t this generous with myself, I likely wouldn’t be alive or sane. Sometimes self-preservation is everything.

I like to refer to myself as a fragile plant, and no, I’m not joking. I’ve carefully calibrated my cigarette breaks, caffeine intake, bathroom visits, snack and meal times, daily naps, and drinks of cold, cold water. If any element is out of sync, I’ll actually lose my mind.

But I understand everywhere I will not go. I’m not built for climbing corporate ladders, pitching myself as a product, staying up too-late at too-loud bars, navigating the nightmare of alcohol and overlapping conversations and trying to say just enough but not too-much.

And that’s all just within the context of my career path. It fails to fully encapsulate the eating difficulties, the executive dysfunction, the eternal fatigue. The innumerable selves clamoring for breathing room.

The constant contradictory nature of performance, of art,
of existence, of me.