I recently hit my personal all-time Twitter character limit, so I'll be leaving at the end of the month.
I'm not sure exactly what changed, or that it matters. Everything is slightly worse than it used to be, because of time, and that explains the world to my satisfaction. Mostly, I just don't have much to contribute anymore, which is the best reason I know of to shut up. But I came into this world blogging like an idiot, and by god that's how I'll go out.
* * *
It's hard to write about my experience of Twitter because it's unclear what, if anything, I did on here. I published enough words to cobble together a longish novel—in volume, if not in sensibility—which sounds mildly impressive. Of course that time could have been better spent publishing an actual longish novel, which really detracts from any sense of accomplishment. The one thing I can say for sure is that I managed to turn a handful internet strangers into real-life friends. I'm grateful for that, especially since I was raised to believe any attempt would be disastrous, if not fatal. My sincerest thanks to everyone for their many kindnesses.
* * *
Please notice that, because this piece is intended for Twitter consumption, I chose to open with a bit from a three-year-old episode of a canceled TV series. I hope that you'll appreciate my deep commitment to the form.
In "Goosebumps Walkaway," Nick's girlfriend is leaving, so he spends an entire day obsessing over his options for the perfect parting words, but in the moment he can only offer the awkward and nonsensical "Sayonara, Sammy." (There is no Sammy.)
I, too, have been worrying a lot about how to frame my exit in a flattering way. Everyone hopes to be remembered well, even in the places they've abandoned. I made a few attempts, but nothing felt particularly successful. And that might actually be fine.
Nick's gibberish in the episode plays as funny, but it's also deeply true in the way that nonsense can sometimes be, because goosebumps are a dumb thing to chase. Along any dimension that matters, your final words are merely an accident of history. For good or ill, they're simply overwhelmed by the crushing mass of nonfinal words. In the long run, the things you say converge to some reasonable approximation of the self you hope to show the world. You shouldn't pine to hang your whole legacy on the wild short-term fluctuations found at the level of the sentence.
Maybe think of it this way: It's at least a little sad when the last thing you say really is what someone remembers. Imagine all you squandered in the run-up.
My point is that nonsense is as good as anything at a time like this. That's a huge relief.
* * *
I'm about to have a son, which is very exciting. Most of all, I can't wait to teach him stuff. The finer points of being the family pastaio. Why he should always hump his own gear. That cursive isn't quite useless yet. And one day I look forward to teaching him all about the dangers and joys contained in strangers on the internet.
I wish you all the best and then some. Sayonara, Sammy.
—Chris