I usually don't spend more than 5 minutes a day on Twitter, unless something especially crazy is going on (like the domestic terrorist attack on the U.S. Capitol on January 6, 2021), but I found Caitlin Flanagan's essay for The Atlantic, "You Really Need to Quit Twitter" worth reading.
I'm almost 60, and in these many decades I've seen people—some of them good friends—taken down by all kinds of things. Alcohol and drugs, mostly. A few years ago, I lost someone to heroin, and hundreds of us sat at his funeral in wordless communion. I know a couple of people who couldn't shake gambling, and many plagued by food and sex and all the other great distractions. But in all these years—almost 60! —I haven't had trouble with any of those things. Until now. You know what finally took me down? Fucking Twitter.
The indignity of it! Couldn't I have gone out on a champagne bender or bet the house on a poker game, or even clogged my heart with so much gelato and fried chicken that the life force was squeezed out of me midway through a slice of cheesecake? Why did it have to be this common, embarrassing habit that just about everyone on Earth knows is a scourge?