The idea I have right now is that I want to talk to five or six people. I have no idea how many: I remember their usernames when I’m posting something I want them to see, and I link them into it.

And that’s it. There are people who have suggested to me that I should be the sort of person who runs a social media ’empire’.

Facebook’s dead. Instagram’s naked older women (nice) and kitty cats— so the old Internet standby, Kitties and Titties. Tiktok’s whatever the fuck that is, and YouTube’s my version of TV. Twitch is just live television for my generation, and the generations that come after mine. So what does that leave us?

Well, it leaves us a lot. And the usage case for any of them is basically slim to none.

The idea that you need to be on social media as a business has no real value. Barkeeper’s Friend is on Twitter. Why? Heinz ketchup. Who’s fucking following Heinz ketchup? You ready for some hot ketchup updates, motherfuckers?!

The reality is, most of the smaller companies and businesses don’t really need anything but a website you can order from. I order from my local Chinese Restaurant because they have a website; I wouldn’t order from them if I had to do it face-to-face because I’m bashful. That’s your only usage case.

Every restaurant doesn’t need a goddamned Twitter account.

And so, the same goes with me. What the fuck am I? I’m not a brand. I’m not a brand; I’m a person.

There was a time when I thought that I needed to master this. But, the reality is, all I really needed to do… was make money.

And there’s no money here.

A sea of worthless effort.

Why make content? Why draw anything? I write because I enjoy it. It’s relaxing, and I enjoy doing it.

But after three decades of being on here, and being famous for one thing or another, and then somehow becoming ‘unknown’ again… I really have witnessed what human beings are like. Nobody remembers anything; and if they do, it’s viewed through the veil of a fragile, fragmented, often wrong ‘memory’ that has so many holes in it, I wonder how any of you ever even get anything done.

As I transition into my new life, I’ve often thought of maybe posting pictures of the people I was with. But the reality is, every single detail I give of my real life is just something to be used as ammunition by people who aren’t even really to blame— the vast majority of Internet ‘trolls’ are just 11 or 12 year olds. I cannot even really hate them. They’re stupid kids.

But there’s no reason to share any of it. There are no fertile and verdant fields for me to produce with this content. It goes in; it gets chewed up, and shit out by people I don’t even know.

And they’re not grateful. And they’re not great.

There’s no point to it.

Ultimately, the only real thing I can do, is do things for myself. And that’s something I don’t have any real experience with— the idea that I deserve something, and that I should make myself happy, because I’m good.

I’ll have to play with it.

This is one step into doing it.

An addendum

Even Crooked Trees is mis-remembered.

Once upon a time, it was thought that I was Crooked Trees, the legendary My Little Pony fan-artist. And as much as that delighted me— to see through the lens of other people’s eyes, to know how they felt about them— it was vicarious. That was what it would have been like, if I had taken the route of being a famous artist. (Which was possible: I can still speedpaint photorealistic things in an hour and forty.)

Looking back on it, I’m glad I skilled into writing. I have no desire to create art. Not really; not for this audience, and not for humans.

For this current crop of humans, that will never change. But for the generation(s) that come after you, intermixed with non-human extraterrestrial DNA?

Perhaps.

But this scene blows, kids.

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