Can we chat for a minute?

Here, have a seat.

Can I pour you a drink? I just opened a bottle of the George Dickel Rye Whisky.

No? Well, I’ll have one for the both of us, then.

There we go.

Mmm… Smells pretty good. Better than I expected. I can definitely smell the rye. And a little bit of cinnamon and soot.

Anyway, thanks for taking a minute with me. I’ve been meaning to tell you this for quite some time, and, well, I’m not really sure how to say it without hurting you.

I guess I should start by saying that I knew coming into this relationship that it would be foolish to ever think that I could change you or that you would appreciate me enough to want to change yourself; that someone like me could be the person to make you want to better yourself. I know that relationships don’t work that way.

Still, we humans are a crazy bunch, aren’t we? We hope in the midst of hopelessness, and we thrive on distant dreams just beyond our mortal grasp.

I hoped we would make it, I really did.

I hoped that we’d be able to live through both the highs and the lows, that we would endure one another’s faults and carry on, that we would be able to look past the inabilities and the let-downs and the garbage always trying to divide us, trying to pull us apart. I truly wanted this for us.

But we are who we are, Twitter, and I guess all we can really do is apologize.

And so with that, I’m sorry… and I wish you well.

When we first met, when we first started, things were good. We had fun. But now I must devote valuable time each day to cleaning up after you – annoying spammer accounts latching on, an inability to block these accounts with some sort of bulk action tool, an app that makes following a message thread nearly impossible to navigate, and so many other irritating character flaws that I really find myself struggling to go on.

I need some space – some time to think. I’ll be back. I have to come back. I’m obligated. Social media is an absolute essential for writers like me, but right now I just feel trapped in a toxic relationship and I need some distance.

But before I go, Twitter, here’s to the dream that we once were. Here’s to what I hope we can eventually be for each other, with each other, to each other.

(Sip) Huh. Not bad… a little bit of orange marmalade spread on freshly baked rye bread.

(Sip) And maybe a little bit of the charcoal noted on the label.

And the finish… not bad for a relatively cheap edition. It’s short, but nice. The spices begin to nip at the heels, but the marmalade maintains its sweeter prominence. And it seems that the rye bread was buttered before the marmalade spread.

Interesting. Bold.

On second thought, while I’m heartily thankful that you’ve introduced me to a good number of wonderful folks – people I would now consider friends – unless you find it within yourself to change, until you hire the right folks to come up with better solutions to the issues I’ve noted, you remain an unwelcomed tether for me, Twitter, and I feel that the only way I’ll ever be free from your pestilent demands is for you to go bankrupt.

Now, I’m not hoping for Chapter 7 bankruptcy, which is that you are forced to shut down permanently, but rather Chapter 11, which allows for self-examination and change.

I want this to work, but I need you to change. And while sometimes I get so angry with you that I catch myself wishing a disgruntled employee would set off an EMP in your server building ultimately erasing your digital soul, I know it’s wrong and I repent immediately. Still, there is the hopeful knowledge that I cannot be held hostage to a prominent social media outlet if that outlet has faded into the night of “once but no longer.”