I threw a shit fit.

I’ve spent the last three days trying to figure out what the first sentence of this should be, and if it’s meant to be something that represents me properly, the title of this post is the only thing that’s appropriate. I have a habit.

I want to return to a previous one: when I was a junior or senior in high school I started carrying a hip pocket notebook, and this very simple and flexible medium immediately Marshall McLuhan’ed me into writing things that were more like what I want to write than what I’m writing now, or what I’ve been writing for a long time. I studied poetry in college, but left that coursework in favor of classes on essay and fiction writing, and that was where I was happy. A few times since, I have tried to revive that regular writing habit, but all my energy has been lost instead into twitter — which has the same immediacy and ease, and it’s a good place to dump almost anything, but using twitter never leads me to create real things in the same way as those notebooks. About a week ago I declaimed (this guy, always with such overwrought intensity!) that twitter is what if toilets worked in reverse, where you press a small handle and a medieval, chthonic pipe system delivers terrible things to your home and pours them up inside you. Everyone already knows that, but you can’t quit twitter and stay on twitter. So I’m here instead.