The Huz Experience

Since I bemoaned the loss of SMS notifications on Twitter almost a year ago – they’re back now, by the way, but the multitude of mobile applications for receiving Twitter updates has rendered them all but obsolete – I’ve been a Twitter user, messed around with it for a while, got bored, and stopped using it. But wait – was it as simple as quitting? And did I really just “get bored”?

The sad truth is that the answer to both of those questions is no. First and foremost, I didn’t get bored of Twitter – quite the opposite. I was spending so long checking out people’s Tweeted links and figuring out what the latest trending topics were that it was taking up a significant chunk of my time – time that could have been better spent. The ease of checking the latest happenings from my phone just made it worse – I found myself picking the thing up just to check for new Tweets, like one of those people who can’t go five minutes without texting “wot u up to lol” to one of their tedious friends. In short, I was becoming one of Them, one of the very creatures I wish to dispel from our universe.

Here’s the really sad part. I didn’t just quit as in stop using it, drift away, as you would if you couldn’t be bothered with your favourite desert island-based American series any more. No, although I tried, its hold was too strong for that. I couldn’t help thinking, “Ooh, I bet this thing on TV is prompting a liberal backlash in the Twitterverse,” before filling up with self-loathing for even having heard of such a term as “Twitterverse”. It was no good – I had to go the whole hog and delete my account. Which was, at least, easy – but it’s quite a drastic option when Twitter can be genuinely useful, and with everyone and their dog embracing it, it will no doubt become increasingly so over the next few months. Will that drive me back? Perhaps.

There’s one consolation. At least if I do choose to return, it will be with a clean slate. Unlike other sites I can mention (hello Facebook), Twitter doesn’t secretly keep your ‘deleted’ account on ice in the back room, ready to resurrect it as soon as you crumble and enter your login credentials again. A couple of friends have fallen victim to this necromancy, their brave attempt to break free of the Facebook yoke scuppered by a creative definition of ‘remove my account’. Facebook even asks you why (why on EARTH!) you want to leave before shoving your inanimate corpse in the cryo chamber, offering up a compelling counter-argument for whatever option you choose.

As I’m sure you’re wondering, I didn’t choose the “I’m addicted to Facebook” option. Broadcasting myself to the word isn’t really my thing (hello irony! What’s that you say? I have a blog? Shut up). I happily chose, “Facebook is rubbish, the very idea that it’s popular makes me angry, let me out”. Or I would have done if that option existed. Surely even Facebook’s lovingly crafted resignation system wouldn’t have an answer to that.