Twitter is nothing but a parade of cops. Policemen’s day at the ballpark. It’s not just political, or strictures on art. It’s everything down to, Do you put ketchup on a hotdog? Fuck you! Do you put pineapple on a pizza? Fuck you! Because I’m a cop and I decide how everybody lives their lives. That’s an absolutely poisonous thing to pour into your head, especially if you’re a writer. The constant hectoring and hall-monitoring of that place. The purpose of Twitter is to let everybody know that you’ve got a badge and you’ve spit-shined that shit and you are controlling these halls. 

Jordan Harper

h/t Om.

Finished Reading: Grass, by Keum Suk Gendry-Kim. 📚

Ripped my heart out. Stories of being separated and torn and discarded by your own family, to then further face the horrors and cruelty of what we humans can do to one another. Survivors have stories that we need to know. Deeply.

From Anne Helen Peterson’s “The Final Frontier of the Text Inbox“:

West Elm will be emailing you once a day about the last day of its Summer Clearance until you die. Even after you die, maybe even after West Elm dies, the emails will still hit your inbox, like boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.


The inbox has stopped being a place of intimacy or a place of enjoyment. It requires attentiveness in a way that breeds resentment. It’s open all the time on my desktop and I hate it, as most people hate it.

and, ominously,

For brands, the text inbox functions as a sort of newly-revealed layer of intimacy to colonize.