I Took Almost a Whole Day Off Twitter and I Swear to God I’m a Virgin

My addiction to Twitter is basically like yours or better. I just can’t stop.

My fingers find the buttons and my eyes laser in with precision — and then my reaction translates through the actions that highlight why I’m absolutely aware of the bullshit.

Not only are we aware — but we’re also doing something about it.

Activists that actively seek communion with others who feel the same way increase in number with the likelihood that your “blue sticker” — also validates my name and presence — so that I can leave random coding that gets retweeted “1295 times.”

I was against this shit from the get go, but gave in when I started blogging on a platform that got virtually no love. I immediately understood that being a wordsmith wasn’t enough. I also needed to master the art of blatantly injected headlines with images that suggest head-spinning content.

When the week started — I was already exhausted from the shit I engulfed in my bed — on a Sunday night that saw me reading letters from a torchlight — instead of spooning with a lover or pillow.

The morning caught me with the phone in my hands and the fan grazing my thighs into the lethargic overnight — spent — scrolling through the bundles of information — that actually don’t inform. It’s a ploy to get you fastened in the position you were assigned — back in 2009 — when you had that choice to make.

I made my decision — based on the fact that I wanted people to hear me as loudly as they do now.

Now that you hear me — here’s what I have to say.

I’m prone to trolling the pages of my targets. I notice the book deals they’ve secured and I examine the preview of their masterpieces with a deepened sense of loss. The clock ticks and draws me closer to when I will soil the couch with my sweaty ass — as I try to make my “live folder” accept the proof of why we need multiple reasons to expand our butts like The Kardashians.

I also notice organic connections between the ones that refuse to follow me back — and after sifting through accomplishments of the “before thirty-five” crowd — I silently concur that these matches are heavenly and I’m not worthy.

I go back and forth between Twitter and Instagram and the intersecting bodies don’t deplete shit. I’m energized by the mechanism of stalking people who want to be stalked.

We demand your prying eyes on the beauty of our existence. The speedboat that makes the Amalfi Coast beckon to the speed of spirited hearts hitting the tempo of brands — that promise more if we can manage a last minute jaunt to our wedding destination.

Okay, enough of that. I’m protective of Instagram and all the users who use if for the benefit of being discovered by users like me who use it for the luxury of steady abuse.

Back to Twitter.

I left my stapled platform for almost a day — and when I returned — I felt untouched and grossly manipulated.

Like a virgin, I winced at the calculated penetration of all the shit that surrounds us with bated breath. Scrolling was suddenly not a venture that pleased the folds of my non-imagination. The chip that was implanted by invisible masters with serial objectives — was nowhere to be found.

I was misplaced by the right to watch the updates with fueled horror.

Virgins waiting to fuck the right person aren’t dumb as fuck. They just value the value of their pussies — to the point of righteous insanity.

I want to be that naive. Again.

I want to not stumble on headlines that depict an incredible journalist as just a “floating torso” in the waters of Denmark — because that’s the only way to meet her with consistent flow of traffic — before breaking off into more respectable fare — after the sum of your interest equals victory.

I want to not keep track of the followers I follow with keen interest — based on why they never acknowledge my shit as if their validation means shit.

I want to feel the way I do today — all the time. Fuck! It felt amazing to be booted off the Island. It was not so great pondering how much the infection had spread while praying that the diagnosis wasn’t terminal.

Turns out that absence does make the heart grow healthier. It actually reprograms the vessel to pump the stuff that alerts you to whatever threatens to override your instincts.

I’m still human! Thank God!

I still wonder if there is a God — and if so — does he get a hard-on watching us galavant with tweets as we draft up memes and think pieces in response to the latest fare — that only we can assess with the branding of the times.

I can’t get over the Moments that stage random collections of items that demand your intervention. Trump is an asshole. You know this, and yet you need to be convinced 24/ 7. White America thinks Black America will stifle America’s quest to be “Great Again.”

The only way to be assured of this — is to scroll though the evidence of Black bodies, Black pain and some (not all) of the Black activists that work really hard tweeting their daily itinerary, while posting images of photo shoots with Black editors of White magazines.

It’s a maze that I wrapped around to desensitize my appetite for nostalgia. My first day off Twitter that wasn’t quite an entire day — revealed my worst fear.

I hate the idea of being a virgin because your first time never prepares you for the aftermath. It hurts like hell, but then you’re glad you were wide open to receive whatever it was you thought you were inviting.

Social media is god. You can be god and do god’s will with the blessing of the god you serve — when you invent hashtags that activate the struggle you feel — when you #throwback to that time you were on your knees — with uniformed officers surrounding the future investments of your tagged moniker.

My day off was the return to holistic dispositions — that only exist when you decide to allow your veins to pummel you back to life.

Breathing and thinking without haste or resistance is slowly making a comeback. Don’t get too excited — but I have to hint at the fact that you will once again have the privilege of formulating your own thoughts without the threat of extinction.

You won’t be a virgin, but trust me when I say that this time — it won’t matter one bit.

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