Not Pounded By The Handsome Physical Manifestation Of My Twitter Suspension Because It Was Reversed

After a night of hard partying and one too many chocolate milks, Jordan discovers the world around him has been altered in a mysterious and significant way. Any time Jordan tries to speak with someone who uses the social media platform Twitter, their communication is blocked by a bizarre digital message and a burst of static.

When the handsome physical manifestation of Jordan’s Twitter suspension arrives, he only provides more questions than answers, but soon enough the two of them are embarking on a journey to find the truth and unsuspend Jordan. Eventually arriving at a Twitter-owned karaoke bar that doesn’t allow copywritten music, things begin to fall into place, but for every step toward the truth they take, this pair finds themselves drawn even closer together.

Still, one question remains looming above the rest: what will happen to their love if they succeed and the Twitter ban ends?

This important tale is 4,500 words of sexless love between a buckaroo and the physical manifestation of his social media ban.

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NOT POUNDED BY THE HANDSOME PHYSICAL MANIFESTATION OF MY TWITTER SUSPENSION BECAUSE IT WAS REVERSED

By Chuck Tingle

The view from my front porch is a pleasant one. It’s nothing flashy, but flashy is not really my style, and as I sit here with a cold chocolate milk in my hand on this warm summer afternoon I couldn’t be happier. The neighborhood is stirring, sprinklers chopping and folks walking their dogs down the lane.

But as glorious as this suburban view is, I just can’t stay focused on the scene before me. Instead, visions of last night flood my mind, a raucous evening out with friends unlike anything I’ve had in years.

I’m a hard worker, obsessive even, and I rarely step out of my shell to party like that. When it happens, I go all out.

The evening began when my buds picked me up and we headed downtown to kick off a little weekend bar crawl. It was a small group of close friends who’ve known each other for years but, like myself, rarely get a chance to cut loose.

We arrived at the first bar and immediately started catching up, ordering a round of chocolate milks and regaling one another with just how stressed we’ve been at work. Gradually, however, we moved onto more important things; hopes, dreams or exciting new hobbies.

The chocolate milks continued to flow as we walked from bar to bar, eventually ending up at a fantastic karaoke place and busting out some breathtaking renditions of our favorite classic hits.

To be honest, my recollection on yesterday evening gets a little foggy at this point, flashes of various power ballads cascading through my mind. We were at the karaoke bar for quite a while, so the details begin to blend and leave me with a psychic impression of how things felt at that point.

And they felt great.

Inspired, I pull out my phone and open up the text thread between my friends and I. I read through our messages, struggling to piece together what the hell was going on and laughing at the various blurry pictures sent back and forth.

“Pete’s Karaoke,” I read aloud, taking note of the neon sign that hangs high above us in one of the group photos. It’s not our usual spot, but after that many chocolate milks we must’ve not known the difference.

I type out a quick text to my friends.
Such a great time last night, I write. Gotta do it again sometime.
I press send and set my phone down, returning my gaze to the suburban

scene before me. The birds are chirping excitedly, filling my ears with their sweet song and flooding my soul with a sense of peace and warmth.

These feelings don’t last long, however.

Seconds after pressing send I hear a digital alert chime on my phone, a tone that I’ve never heard before and immediately causes of stab of uncertainty to pierce through the haze of this otherwise relaxing moment.

I pick up my phone and gaze down at the screen. “You have been suspended from accessing these contacts,” I read aloud, furrowing my brow at this bizarre notification.

There must be some kind of mistake. Despite the fact I can only remember so much about last night, there’s no way my friends would block me. Maybe I opened the wrong messaging app or my finger slipped when pressing send.

I attempt to send my original text for a second time, watching as my device hums away and then crash lands again with another error message.

“Huh,” is all I can think to say, gazing down at my phone.
Maybe there’s a service outage at the moment.
Slightly confused and, to be honest, a little worried, I stand up from my

comfortable seat on the deck and trot down the front steps. My friend Carter’s place is just a few blocks away, and I’m curious if he’s having the same problems with his phone. Regardless, he might be able to shed some light on the events of last night.

Soon enough I’ve joined in with the neighborhood hustle and bustle, setting out on a mission of my own.

The day is so beautiful that it’s difficult to stay anxious, however. Regardless of what’s going on with my phone, the sun is shining and a gloriously refreshing summer breeze is tickling its way across my skin.

I notice a woman strolling toward me down the sidewalk with her huge dog taking the lead, the pup happily prancing along as its leash bobs behind. The path isn’t very wide, but I move to the side as much as I possibly can.

The woman and her dog, however, don’t move at all.

The canine slams into my leg, causing me to stumble a bit as they continue onward.

“Hey!” I cry out, barely able to catch myself as I turn and cry out in frustration.

I expect one of two things to happen. First, they might turn around and start a fight, telling me that I should’ve made more room and I should watch where I’m going. Second, they might start profusely apologizing and gushing about sorry they are for nearly knocking me off my feet.

Strangely, neither of these things happen.

The woman and her dog just keep walking, a bizarre flicker of black and white static washing across their bodies.

I blink twice, struggling to understand what I’m looking at, but as quickly as this peculiar burst of movement and energy arrives it disappears.

“Whoa,” I stammer. “Rude.”

I continue on my way, but this morning’s sense of perfection is starting to fade away. I gradually start to notice how impolite everyone is behaving, people forcing me to step aside or walk in the grass when they pass me.

Eventually, I arrive at Carter’s house, marching up his front steps. I reach out to knock, but before my knuckles can strike the wood I feel a sharp pain erupt through my hand. A wash of black and white static surges across the door, similar to what you’d see on a disconnected television set.

“What the hell?” I blurt.
Carefully, I reach out and try again, which prompts the same reaction. Instead of knocking for a third time, I step back and call up to the bedroom

above, hoping to catch Carter’s attention.
“Hey! Is there something wrong with your door?” I cry.
There’s no response.
“Carter!” I yell out. “What the hell is going on?”
The second I say my friend’s name out loud a strange floating rectangle

appears in the air before me, hovering at eye level and displaying a message in crisp black text over a glowing white background.

You have been suspended. The user Carter Borkins cannot be reached until your account is back in good standing, it reads.

I just stare at the message for a moment, utterly dumbfounded.

“What?” is all I can think to say, but the digital text has no response. Eventually, the rectangular alert flickers and dissipates into thin air.

I gaze up at the window of my friend’s bedroom, hoping to notice a hint of movement but finding none. Finally, I turn and storm back down the front steps, returning to the sidewalk in a state of utter frustration.

“Hello?” I cry out. “Can anyone hear me?”

I notice a man jogging by and hurry toward him. “Hey! Can you see me?” I cry out, growing more frustrated and belligerent by the second. I can feel tears welling up in my eyes as powerful emotions overwhelm me, the weight of my own voicelessness pushing down and crushing my soul with its existential heft.

There’s something about restricting communication that’s particularly devastating, a quick and simple way to untether someone from their own life.

The man jogging by completely ignores me, waves of static washing across his body as I struggle to make contact with him.

I spot a woman on the other side of the road, casually taking a stroll, and I hurry over to her.

“Excuse me! Can you see me?” I question frantically.

The woman turns toward me, a little shocked by my outburst and the tears streaming down my face.

“Uh... yeah,” she replies. “Why?”

My heart skips a beat, unsure if I’ve heard her correctly. I glance back over my shoulder to confirm she’s not talking to someone behind me. Nobody’s there.

“Are you alright?” the woman continues.

I nod. “Yeah, I’m just having a... very confusing morning,” I explain. “I’m trying to contact my friends, but my texts won’t go through and I keep getting a message that I’ve been suspended.”

“Suspended from what?” the woman questions. “Your phone?”
I shrug. “I don’t know,” I reply. “It’s all a little confusing.”
The woman considers my predicament for a moment. “Well, how else do

you communicate?” “Twitter,” I offer.

The woman nods. “Well, I don’t use Twitter, so that’s probably why we’re able to talk. Either way, you should message them and see if you can get a retraction or whatever.”

The woman continues along on her journey as I pull up my phone, opening my Twitter account. Instead of my usual login page, I see that I’ve been prompted with a small questionnaire that must be filled out to put my account back into good standing.

A wave of relief washes over me as I diligently begin to type out my answers, slowly making my way down the list.

The farther I go, however, the more I realize just how long this is going to take. Every time I think this endless cascade of questions is going to end, I scroll down to see yet another row of blank digital spaces just wanting for my information.

On and on it goes, the sun making its way across the sky as the warm afternoon slowly transitions into evening.

Finally, at long last, I reach the end of the questionnaire.
“Yes!” I cry out, smiling wide as I press submit.
The digital page of questions disappears as a wave of sweet relief washes

over me. I tilt my head back and shut my eyes tight, thankful this nightmare is finally over.

Seconds later, my phone dings, trembling in my hand and causing me to glance down at a new digital message that flashes upon the screen.

“We’re sorry, but your submission has been denied. Please remember to answer all questions and try again,” I read aloud, the frustration blooming in a powerful wave.

Fortunately, there’s an option to search for missed question spaces, which I quickly use. The screen flickers for a moment, then returns to inform me every question has been completed.

“Wait what?” I blurt.

I’m prompted to submit again, but I just receive the same error message as before.

I take a deep breath and let it out, struggling to remain calm.
“You okay over there?” comes an unexpected voice through the darkness. I glance over to see a strangely familiar figure standing nearby, nodding

toward me in the dim light of the evening. They appear to be a giant blue bird with a massive red circle around them, along with a diagonal line slashed across the middle.

“Do I know you?” I question as the strange manifestation steps forward. Suddenly, I snap my fingers with recognition.

“You’re Tromp’s Twitter ban!” I blurt. “That’s where I’ve seen you before!”

The giant bird shakes his head. “I’m afraid not. This time around I’m your Twitter ban.”

My heart sinks as I hear this. It’s not like I’m unaware of the mess I’ve found myself in, but this blatant, physically manifested reminder is a little much.

“Not so funny when it happens to you, huh?” the bird continues.
I shake my head. “Tromp getting banned is still very funny.”
The massive bird shrugs. “Well, regardless, I’m sorry you’re going through

this. I’m sure it’s really annoying.”
I just stare at him blankly, blown away by the complete dismissal of his

place in all this. “Can’t you just... not ban me?” I question.
“I’m your Twitter ban, not Twitter itself,” the physical manifestation retorts.

“That’s their call.”
I let out a long sigh. “Okay, well... do you know what I have to do at least?”

I question.
“It’s all in the rulebook,” my physically manifested Twitter suspension

explains.
“Can’t you just tell me?” I continue.
The living concept shakes his head. “Nope. That’s against the rules.”
“But why?” I counter.
“Just is,” he offers.
I hold up my phone and begin to scroll through the help section, struggling

to get to the bottom of all this. “You’re being very difficult,” I inform my physically manifested Twitter suspension, my eyes still transfixed on the screen as I wade through page after page of deeply confusing documents.

Eventually, I arrive at a section dedicated to information on account suspensions. I begin to read over the various activities that will get you banned from Twitter, but this only makes things even more confusing.

No matter how many chocolate milks I had in my system last night, I’m simply not capable of anything listed here.

“Harassment... death threats,” I read aloud. “What the hell?”

Finally, a glimmer of clarity arrives as I reach the bottom of the page, stumbling upon the last restriction: posting or performing copywritten material.

I think back over the night, remembering every step we took until my eyes go wide and a powerful realization washes over me. “Oh my god,” I blurt.

I’m not exactly sure what happened, but my wild time at Pete’s Karaoke must have something to do with it.

With a solid direction in mind, I break out in a brisk walk. Pete’s is not far from here.

I glance over my shoulder to notice the sentient physical manifestation of my Twitter ban is following close behind, which prompts me to stop.

“You’re coming with?” I sigh.

“As long as you’re banned, I’ll be here,” the massive blue bird and bright red crossed-out symbol retorts.

“Fine,” I offer, then continue on my way.

The two of us walk in silence for a long while, but soon enough the awkwardness of this quiet companionship starts getting to me.

“What’s your name?” I question.
“The physical manifestation of your twitter suspension,” he reminds me. “No, I mean your real name,” I prod.
“Oh!” the giant blue bird chuckles, apparently shocked by this question.

“Gorgo,” he replies.
“I’m Jordan,” I inform him. “Listen, I know you don’t want to hurt me, so

I’m gonna try to be cool about all this.”
“I appreciate that,” Gorgo continues. “When your entire existence is based

around restricting someone’s voice it can be difficult to make friends.”
This statement is an obvious one, but it’s not something I’d actually taken

the time to consider. While I’m certainly frustrated, I also find myself sympathizing with the physical manifestation of my Twitter ban. He didn’t make the decision to be thrust forth into this reality, plucked from a vast, empty nothingness an blessed with sentience. He’s only here because a set of rules was broken, and if I’m upset with anything it should be the rules themselves.

I glance over at Gorgo, taking him in as objectively as possible. When I’m looking through a lens of anger and frustration, there’s actually something kind of handsome about this unexpected physical manifestation.

By the time we arrive at Pete’s Karaoke night has fallen and shrouded the city in darkness. A huge, pink neon sign hangs before us, illuminating the building as it flickers and hums.

Music pumps away inside, rumbling through the walls as someone croons over an unfamiliar song.

“Do you know what that is?” I question. “The tune sounds kinda familiar.” Gorgo shakes his head, prompting me to shrug it off as we head inside.
The bar isn’t particularly full tonight, but enough of a crowd has gathered to

give the place a pleasant, cozy warmth. Everyone is grinning wide and having a good time, sipping away at their chocolate milks while a handsome bigfoot commands the tiny stage before them. The bigfoot is singing their heart out, reading from a screen at their feet as they make their way through this danceable pop number.

We stand for a moment, watching the performance, and I’m surprised to discover that I still don’t recognize the tune. I’m a huge music fan, with a fairly encyclopedic knowledge of the hits, but I don’t know what this is.

The other bizarre thing is the actual quality of this recording. The song is competently played, but it has absolutely no soul. It sounds like this tune was crafted by robots on a quest to be unquestionably average.

The sentient manifestation of my Twitter ban suddenly taps me on the shoulder, then points up at a sign hanging behind the stage.

Absolutely no unapproved content, the notice reads. Royalty free songs only.

I furrow my brow. “Who would want to do karaoke in a bar with no decent music choices?” I question.

“Apparently you did,” Gorgo retorts.

A wave of memories wash across me, flooding my brain with a cascade of sounds and images. I remember stumbling into Pete’s with my friends, our arms draped around one another as we found a booth. I was excited by the prospect of karaoke, but disappointed when I noticed my limited song choices.

Not wanting to sour the evening with a disappointing rendition of some awkward, elevator-music number, I kept flipping through the song book. I continued on and on, scrolling deep into the banned pages that were covered in stark red felt-tip marker.

This is where I made my selections.

The memory flashes through my mind in crystal clear detail, a vision of prowling the stage while belting out Love Is Real by Martha Moobin at the top of my lungs. I went through her entire catalog that night, a veritable greatest hits collection of banned recordings.

“Oh fuck,” I blurt, remembering it all. “You’re not supposed to sing those songs here.”

The physical manifestation of my Twitter suspension raises an eyebrow. “And here you are blaming me for all this? I may be overly complicated and extremely frustrating, but you’re the one who decided to sing all those restricted songs. The sign is right there!”

I let out a long sigh, accepting my place in this tangled web.

“Well, what now?” I question.

Gorbo nods toward a booth. “Let’s see if we can get some retractions or counter notices going,” the physically manifested concept offers.

The two of us stroll over and slide in, taking our seats. A server comes over and we each order a tall glass of chocolate milk.

“I still don’t understand why Twitter cares so much about the songs I sing in this old karaoke bar,” I confess. “It’s just a random little place downtown. They can suspend me indefinitely for that?”

“All of reality is owned by like five mega-corporations at this point,” Gorbo explains. “You just happened to be in a Twitter bar. If this place was controlled by some other social media platform then you’d probably be fine, because they all have licensing deals with the record labels.”

“That is very frustratingly complicated,” I retort.

The physical manifestation of my Twitter suspension stares over my shoulder and I follow his gaze, returning to the sign that strictly forbids any music that isn’t royalty free. “Is it though?” Gorbo questions knowingly.

I can’t help but erupt in a fit of laughter, the anxiety and frustration within me finally mutating into begrudging acceptance. This whole situation is a pain in the ass, but it’s not the end of the world.

Now that the physical manifestation of my Twitter suspension and me are speaking more openly, I continue to soften in his presence. The visceral irritation has faded, and I now just see us as two cogs in a much larger machine.

Our chocolate milks arrive and we both take long, satisfying gulps.

“Let’s get started,” my Twitter suspension finally begins. “There’s a form you can use to ask for a retraction from the copyright holder. You should start filling it out now, because it usually takes a while to get a response.”

I pull out my phone and Gorbo helps me find the proper form. The questionnaire is simple enough, so I quickly fill it out and send it off. Moments later, I find myself immediately pinged with a response notification.

“Your retraction request has been filled out incorrectly,” I read aloud, confused.

My Twitter suspension shrugs. “That happens sometimes. Just give it another shot. You should also start working on counter notifications and reaching out to people on other social media platforms. If you have any friends at Twitter, or other large media corporations, you might want to contact them.”

“But... what if someone doesn’t have any of those things,” I ask.
My Twitter suspension just stares back at me, unable to offer an answer.
I nod begrudgingly and then get to work. This little booth quickly becomes

our battle station, Gorbo and I reaching out to as many people as we can and struggling through mountains of email forms and legal documents. Minutes turn

into hours as the bar fills with patrons and royalty free music rumbles on and on around us.

Strangely, however, I’m not longer upset. Losing access to my Twitter account was a shock at first, but the more time passes, the more I’m starting to realize all the things I was missing out on with my head buried in my phone. Hell, I hadn’t even noticed the giant hanging sign that might’ve alerted me to this whole impending mess from the start.

Of course, I’ll want my social media channel back eventually, but I’m starting to accept that a little shock to the system can do some good.

Once Gorbo and I have exhausted our options, we decide to part ways and head home. We hug goodbye, embracing like old friends and gushing over what a strangely fun time we both had this evening.

The second this physical manifestation leaves, I find myself actually kind of missing him.

I walk back slowly, taking my time as I stroll through the darkened suburban neighborhoods. Typically, I’d be staring at my phone during a moment like this, but now I’m wide awake and focused on the world around me. There’s a faint breeze that washes through the trees above, causing the branches to shift in beautiful, subtle patterns. The moon shines brilliant and silver above, watching over me and illuminating the scene with a spectacular nocturnal beauty.

I breathe in and out, taking note of the slow, steady rhythm.

Once returning to my front porch, I find myself compelled to pull out my phone and call the physical manifestation of my Twitter suspension once more.

“Hello?” Gorbo questions, picking up quickly.

“Hey,” I offer, immediately struggling to translate my feelings into words. “I... uh... had a really good time tonight.”

“Me too,” my Twitter suspension replies, a heavy weight in his cadence.

“I just wanted to say that... you know... it sounds like this might take a while to get sorted out,” I stammer, “and I just wanted you to know that... well... if I’m gonna be suspended, I’m glad it’s with you.”

“That’s really kind,” Gorbo replies. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“Out of curiosity, how long do you think it’s gonna be until I get my account back?” I question. “Tomorrow morning? This weekend?”

I can hear Gorbo chuckle slightly then catch himself. He doesn’t want to be rude, but I’m clearly a little off base with my assumptions. “Let’s just take it one day at a time.”

Thinking back on that first night with the physical manifestation of my Twitter suspension, it’s hard to believe how far we’ve come. Now my closest friend,

Gorbo and I spend most of our days together, puttering around the neighborhood or out in the mountains fly fishing in peaceful silence. We’ve watched each other age, hairs turning gray and children eventually growing up to have children of their own. We’ve been by one another’s side this whole time, though thick and thin.

Eventually, I stopped asking if Gorbo had heard anything back from Twitter. My questions regarding the account suspension became fewer and farther between, until eventually they just disappeared completely.

It’s probably been three decades since the last time I asked.

All the while, the sexual tension within us has continued to blossom and grow, simmering just below the surface of everything we do. I’ve had fantasies about what might happen on one of these quiet fishing trips, but I also know it’s not something I could ever act on, or even mention.

Because of the way we met, there will always be this barrier between us. No matter how much I understand or come to terms with my Twitter suspension, there are some bridges we simply can’t cross.

Strangely, knowing this tension is there only makes our friendship that much more intimate.

I glance over at my friend, the massive bird surrounded by a brilliant red cancellation sign standing in waist deep water with a fishing rod held tight in his hands.

Gorgo doesn’t see me admiring him, his focus on the gurgling waters and the glorious wilderness landscape that stretches beyond for hundreds of miles. The leaves are turning, hanging above us in brilliant yellow and orange as they showcase the passage of time, another season coming and going around us.

“Hey,” I call out, catching Gorgo’s attention.
“I love you, buddy,” I offer.
My friend smiles. “I love you, too.”
Slowly, however, Gorgo’s expression begins to change. A peculiar

realization washes over him.
“I’m gonna have to leave you now,” my Twitter suspension informs me.

“I’m sorry.”
“You’re driving back to the city?” I question, utterly confused. “I thought

we had three days out here.”
Gorgo shakes his head. “I’m going for good,” he continues. “It’s been forty

four years, but your Twitter ban was finally lifted.”
I notice now that my friend is becoming more and more transparent, his

existence fading away before my very eyes.
I cry out, stumbling through the water toward him, but my friend raises his

hand to stop me in my tracks. Gorgo just shakes his head. “It’s okay,” he offers. “Your friends pulled through for you. David and April and Sam and Gino and

Corynne and A’yen and everyone else who sent Twitter messages or made phone calls. Plus, the Electronic Frontier Foundation and all their hard work. Everyone came together and, after all this time, it finally paid off. This is a moment for celebration, not sadness.”

“But... but...” I stammer. “I’ll miss you.”

Gorgo chuckles to himself, almost completely transparent now. “Watch what songs you’re using next time, okay?”

I nod, tears streaming down my face as the physical manifestation of my Twitter suspension disappears completely. Gorgo’s fishing rod splashes into the water and is swiftly picked up by the current, floating away and disappearing around the bend.

I take a moment for myself, then wipe away my tears. The physical manifestation of my Twitter suspension is right, and it’s time to move on.

I should probably go make a social media post announcing I’m back... but that can wait.

I make another cast and settle in, enjoying the great outdoors for just a little while longer.