December 24, 2022
‘Twas a pre-Christmas night of Elon-related anxiety over Twitter suspensions, when all through the site, yimbys gritted their little angry white teeth with all of their might.
The empty glass towers were lined up with care in hopes that no tenants would ackshually ever live there.
But you know where everyone does live? On Twitter.
I mean, you can’t see me or hear me, but I’m there.
(As you yimbys all well know.)
And I’m with you, yimbys: I’m waiting right along with you. The anticipation is, like, palpable.
Will I, notorious, homophobic, mentally ill and very unsaintly fuelgrannie, be allowed back onto Twitter? Especially now that all the yimbys who had worked at that social media platform have all been fired?
Will Santa finally free me? Will Elon unlock my account? Will I actually be back?
Omg the suspense is downzoning me.
But then again, it’s not like I can’t see Twitter.
Or comment here in this place, on my extremely unpopular and never seen blog, about what happens on Twitter: I mean this past year certainly substantiated that I still reside, full and undead, on that site.
And my horribly written, incredibly boring blog also substantiates how I have always articulated myself: weird flex that my own site isn’t rife with all the homophobia, bigotry and harassment which I had supposedly committed on Twitter.
How terrified all the yimbys must be to newly unwrap my blocked words and frozen content which will only reveal and confirm that they lie about everything, even me.
No wonder they’re all so grinchy.
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