Ah, Twitter. A platform that once held the promise of connection and witty banter has morphed into something straight out of a dystopian novel ever since Elon Musk took the reins. Honestly, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when I first signed off in protest, but here I was: a Brit living in the UK, fighting the good fight against right-wing extremism in an American landscape while trying to navigate the chaos that is now dubbed "X".
Let’s rewind a bit. I joined Twitter back in 2009. I enjoyed it there, following my favourite celebs, posting pictures of my food, tweeting random shit about films & TV shows I was enjoying, and sharing funny stuff from around the internet. I wasn't by any means a big account, I probably had around 1.3k followers when Musk took over. I thought it was just another fleeting bad reality show, and then I started getting shadow banned whenever I tweeted my disapproval of anything right-wing political, or of him changing it's name to X, like, why? Everyone will just keep calling it Twitter anyway, what the hell? I also noticed that a lot of people I was following were also suffering with shadow bans for the same reason. Earlier this year, I deactivated my Twitter account, huffed in indignation, and told myself that I was better than this online circus. A break from the barrage of tweets, political mudslinging, and the occasional cat video felt like an existential cleanse. I relished days filled with far less toxicity or, as I liked to call it, days free from the madness of men shouting into the void. “This is it! This is my time!” I thought as I basked in my newfound Zen.
But, as time went on, the pull of Twitter (sorry, X) beckoned. I went back in August and created a brand new account with the sole purpose of promoting and sharing my AI artwork to try and get a better reach, and that was all I intended to do, but with the 2024 election drawing near my curiosity got the best of me and I took a look at what else was going on. BIG mistake! The plan was to dip my toes back into the shallow end, but let me tell you: it was the deep end and packed to the brim with right-wing sharks. I felt like a tourist in a fascist theme park where the only rides were designed to terrify you and the cotton candy was served by Trump supporters.
I was appalled by what I found. The platform had become a battleground in an even more absurd war. Fascism had planted its flag like a leech, spreading its ugly ideology—and I, a British woman with no American vote to cast, somehow found myself compelled to join the fray and scream into this digital void. I curled my fingers around the keyboard, turning into a digital Zorro, slashing my way through a sea of blue Dems and demanding justice for them all. “Go on, blue team!” I would shout, as I tried to support the Democratic fighters.
While I battled on the virtual front lines, I encountered the kind of roaring rhetoric one could only imagine coming from an alternate universe—full of conspiracy theorists, election deniers, and, obviously, those ever-enthusiastic Trump fans, slinging slurs faster than a speeding train. No reasonable debate, just insults. Everything we said was wrong, wrong, wrong, even when we knew we were right.
After the election was over, I finally hit that point again where I thought, “Enough is enough.” I bid farewell to my few newfound followers and prepared for the dramatic exit. But before I left, I thought it only fitting to shoot a few parting shots directly at Musk. As my fingers flew, I unleashed my wrath: “FUCK YOU ELON! FUCK TRUMP! FUCK YOU FOR MAKING THIS ONCE GREAT PLACE A CESSPOOL OF SHIT!” Ah, the thrill of the moment! I even sent some of the foulest MAGA Republicans posts by way of Shakespearian insults. I found a fitting retort for each and every one of them, including what play it was from, followed by act and scene, as I know the likes of Greene and Boebert are both uneducated, uncultured dingbats who won't get it.
You see, shadow banning and throttling accounts relentlessly targeted those of us with views that didn’t align with extreme right-wing propaganda. My last tirade to Musk was hidden 30 minutes before I clicked ‘delete my account’ for good. The irony! The unsolicited censorship! I imagine my tweet stashed somewhere deep in the dark alleyways of the X algorithm, muttering hopelessly like a forgotten sock behind the washing machine.
And just like that, I packed my virtual bags and set sail for friendly shores—Bluesky, here I come! It felt like moving from a crowded subway car smelling of piss and despair to a quaint little café where the barista remembers your name and serves you a lovely cup of coffee. A place where you can peacefully share your thoughts without worrying about which vocal fascist will come after you next.
In the end, my journey away from Twitter has been a whirlwind—one filled with headshaking, furious typing, and plenty of “how did we get here?” moments. Dear reader, if there’s anything to take from my story, it’s this: if you ever find your online existence eerily resembling a reality TV show run by a billionaire, maybe it’s time to consider a change—in platform and perspective. So wassup, Bluesky? I’ll take a refill of good vibes, please!