I joined Twitter in 2009, a little past two in the morning, London time. Fifteen years later, I quit with a grand total of 73 followers, most of them bots, inactive accounts, or people I’d never met. It wasn’t exactly the stuff of legend. But those years? They were something.

At first, I thought Twitter was a place where clever, niche humour might thrive. A world where ideas, wit, and a touch of sarcasm could earn a little spotlight. And for a while, it was like that. I had my moments: Quantum mechanics jokes, sharp observations, and gin-soaked slippers.

For one brief, golden moment, Arnold Schwarzenegger followed me. Yes, the real, verified Arnie. It was like a divine sign. Better, honestly. But, as I do, I overthought it. I sent him a DM demanding to know why he was following, and the moment passed. He unfollowed. Gone like that.

That sums up Twitter, doesn’t it? Fleeting, cruel, and absurd. It started off indie but ended up smelling like Trump’s farts. It could have been a gallery for wit and brilliance. Instead, it became a hellscape of petty arguments, performativity, and algorithm-driven mediocrity. Regularity was key, and I fucked the algorithm early on with my bizarre Flarf.

But I stayed at it, hoping for those rare sparks of magic. Like a Dril tweet that could cut through the noise like a knife. If Dril was Mozart, I was Salieri. Though at least Salieri had more followers (74 last time I checked).

For a time, it felt like anything could happen. A tweet might land in the right hands. A writer I admired might reply to one of my posts. There was a thrill to it. But slowly, the magic began to fade. The algorithms took over, prioritizing outrage and conformity over creativity. The chaos turned monotonous.

Then came Elon Musk. The man who bought Twitter, renamed it “X,” and slapped on the visual aesthetic of a generic porn site. Musk didn’t kill Twitter—it was already dying—but he showed up at the funeral, rearranged the corpse, and declared it better this way. Under his rule, the platform became a vanity project masquerading as innovation. Embarrassing, really.

So, I quit. I archived my tweets, downloaded the receipts of 15 years of overlooked shining crap, and turned them into this book. A collection of the best tweets you never saw, the stories behind them, and reflections on what Twitter might’ve been and what it became.

But let’s not over-romanticise it. Twitter was always shambolic, always a mess. It’s just that, once upon a time, there was magic in the chaos. Now? It’s a husk. A monument to squandered potential.

I don’t regret leaving. Don’t make me regret writing this book. I needed closure and this is it. A thinly disguised book of sns poems and essays. #fuckhashtags.

This book is my goodbye. My middle finger to mediocrity. And maybe, if I’m lucky, a laugh or two for you.

You can pre-order and download a free sample from the publisher, Hungry Wolf Press