the phenomenology of getting banned

a stupid essay about twitter

I’m not really sad about losing my twitter account. I thought I would be, but I’m really not – specifically – ‘sad about losing my twitter account’. In many ways it was a good thing, I instantly started doing more shit I need to do and use twitter to avoid. In a small way of course, but I started. Mindset was completely clear, just oh right that didn’t work out, then we can move on to other things. In a way it felt like “getting back to work”, getting back to the real world, getting “in the zone”. Like after you finish a video game, just, 24/7 for 4 years.

It’ll take some getting used to, and I am definitely *annoyed* about it, a lot of ticks and bad habits. But it didn’t make me *sad*. Felt like waking up. Waking up to a lot of disgusting a terrible things, but waking up. Up is good. A gentle, lightness of being. And what I’m really surprised by: instantly, more will to power. A little more zest for life. A little more desire to live. Not a lot. But a little.

But what I also did not expect was, sneaking in without an account to reading the eulogies – sneaking around trying to find them, trying to remember names and @’s – I didn’t expect that would make me feel anything. And if I did, I would have expected that it would have made me feel, I dunno, proud? I think what I was trying to do was see if anyone had read my blog and see if we could communicate cross-platform. I don’t really know what I expected. A game. I was hoping there would be games.

I did not expect that it would made me feel sad. I did not expect this sensation that by dying, I have left my work unfinished, that I have *let people I like* down. I did not expect to feel like *wanting to reach out and let them know it’s all going to be all right*. I did not expect to feel like cheering them up, but being unable to. I did not expect anyone to express anything, and be all cold and business like about it: “Randy has been ban. Over.” - levels of engagement.

I know my follower account grew dramatically over the last 3-4 months, but I barely ever interacted with more than, maybe 20 people. I muted tweets that went over 100 likes, I felt absolutely nothing about doing “big numbers”. The old adage about “you only hear the critics” and all that. But that’s all setup to this: seeing 200 likes on a press F post, I did not expect that to fucking feel like a right after breakup. I did not expect to feel that. I guess it never really clicked with me. I never actually believed that anyone expect like a couple of guys was reading my stupid tweets. I deeply and sincerely in my heart just assumed on a pre-sentience level, without thinking about it, that I was at best “tolerated”, and no one really cared much. as you well know, I have some issues along those lines.

I expected to be stoic. I wrote the response essay stoically. I did not expect to see people in genuine distress. I did not expect anyone to feel like I feel about Carlton. I did not expect to feel ashamed about my snooping in to see the eulogies. I did all of these things.

It’s interesting to see the screenshots – it’s interesting to see who took them, and it’s interesting to see which snippets were chosen. It’s interesting on a literary level, that posting them, now, the fact-of-being-banned is the punchline, no matter what the joke in the tweet was.

It’s interesting that from this point of view, I am able to read myself differently. It feels like I’m seeing me as others see me. Death death death death death death

In a sentence, I expected that I would take it harder than anyone. On this I was mistaken twice.

I was wrong about something. I am attached to many of you and it hurts me to not be able to talk with you. To suddenly be out of reach, be uninvolved in your lives. Even if our involvement is only small, is only words of comfort and camaraderie. Even if we are only pen palls. Even if we are only mutual hallucinations of each other, even if we are only each others invisible friends.

On a now deleted thread, I once wrote a girl story I never wrote into a blog, that involved the metaphor of a “reverse hedgehog”, who’s spines grow inward, who’s afraid to “open up” to others because he’s full of ingrown spikes, so doing so hurts them. This is how I perceive myself. I am a danger to my environment. And also I’m dying from internal bleeding but that’s not the point.

And so in conclusion I say to you all:

I don’t want to talk about it. I’m going out to the garage to do some woodworking I don’t want to talk about it

“hahahaha”

bookreport@yandex.com just in case. There’s also an egg report gab if things get really weird. Worst case scenario, defcon 1? meet me on /a/, we organise from there.