artwork for Sara Crowley's writing

Life Is Time Consuming
Sara Crowley (@sara_crowley)

Selected and arranged tweets, April to June 2012, not in chronological order.

Part 1

So, when did nowadays begin then?

I’m on a train.

Overheard: Nowadays people keep looking at me like I’m a benefit scrounger - they’d change their mind if they knew my handbag cost four and a half fucking grand.

First day of summer. Insectarama.

Things you don’t want to see drop from your shower puff after you’ve finished washing with it: a wood louse.

The creepiest looking guy I’ve ever seen is sitting opposite me on train and smiling/smirking/staring at me. #shouldmovebuttoonervous He has one sour old face, like he bathes in bile and lumbers around being mean.

Sitting on train next to really stinky drunk guy - I’m squished in w/no escape. I may vomit. Send tactics ASAP.

A man on the train is reading a pamphlet on sex addiction. A woman is talking to herself. A man is shouting “you fucking twat” #Brighton

There’s a man on the train with a moth trapped in his ear. He’s tortured by the sound of its desperate flap. “We’re a self-important batch of humans, aren’t we,” he says.

He wears what surely can only be an unhat. Or a blank space. He is a fiend. He asks the woman behind me if she’s a time traveller.

Glad to get out of #Brighton - the ratio of scary people to unscary people is rather high #Bankholidaynutbars

Part 2

“I’ve got to a bit where I’m genuinely wondering what I did next,” she says. “I’m a little scared.”

She hates everything.

“You may soil yourself in a minute, or is that what the stink is?” “Don’t be a twunt.”


“I’m glad I made you pfff. So there.”

I don’t know how to make them better, but I don’t want to kill them. He begins to give a self-important monologue on his every move. Fictionalizing his existence.

“Oh, you’re so great,” she says.

“No, you are.”

“Oh, but you’re so funny.”

“So are you.”

“We’re so funny.”

“Aren’t we witty!”

“Yes, we are.”

“Not like them.”

They are disappointing people. Please stop being so fucking disappointing. They strike me as odd - cold. Fuck that shit. Fuck. That. Shit. I have NO voice at all now, just a whisper. Poor me. The train has crunched to a standstill. Awkward folk are everywhere. Outside the window windy rain gives way to melancholic snow. Is it all over yet?

Part 3

Melancholy is a beautiful word, not such a lovely feeling. Living is time consuming. I hate myself all the time but right now I hate myself more than usual. I wish to publicly shame myself. I want to stop being so fucking disappointing. Why don’t you like me? What did I do wrong?

I wish everything could be as clear as Sharpies.

I’m so sorry for everything. I’m so sorry. I feel like the least. What is the taste of death? It has that nasty damp, wool smell. It’s cold plastic. Not death! I’m singing loud enough to drown it out. I am alive. I don’t know how to make it better. Is it all over yet?

Part 4

Ted’s school has one of those old style grumpy receptionists. She always asks, “What time is your meeting?” then snaps, “You’re early.”

Today I arrived at 9:48 for a 9:50 meeting & she still said it.

My son told me he’s glad his best friend is his best friend “because he has a fist the size of a swede”. #awesome

Dylan woke up this morning & said, “I feel like I might be sick,” approx 1 second before hurling. He’s managed sips of water & a bagel.

I said, “I’ll run you a nice bath later.”

“Why would you do that? Oh my god, you’ve never done that before. Why now?”

Yeah, he heard “I’ll run you an ice bath later.” True story. *Ka boom tish*

Dylan, “I can’t eat the crusts.” Si, “They aren’t crusts, they are sides. Without sides your fruit loaf would have the same mass as the universe.”

Son just woke up, got out of bed. “What’s up?” “Oh, nothing. It’s just all label-y.” Erm, rightio.

If my son’s piece of shit pc laptop doesn’t finish its bootscan soon I will smash it to pieces. I thank Apple for my shiny Mac products.

Part 5

Bunting is rhyming slang. I fucking hate bunting.

Not the bunting per se, more the fake nostalgia royal celebratory british bollocks symbolism of it.

old man on bbc news blathering on about Cameron being more popular amongst women in recent poll - says cos women like a strong man #GRR

Part 6

Sometimes writers can be really fucking sycophantic. Not surprising really. I mean, humanity is often twuntish.

However, there are some people you kinda think are actually your friends. But only your friends are your friends. These writer friends are fair-weather what can you do for me people.

Twice now the same person has requested to follow me and then unfollowed once I have followed back. Did she forget she dislikes me?

If I call you meta are you just all about yourself? Can you say that Tao Lin himself is meta or just his writing?

The ignored because you’re not worthy thing? PISSES ME THE FUCK OFF AND FILLS ME WITH RAGE!

Part 7

Genuinely just read a “Going for a walk” tweet as “Going for a wank” & thought tweeter rather surprisingly bold.

I said the word “schlep” to a neighbour t’other day. She made me repeat it twice, shook her head & said “Sorry, what?”

Went to a pub tonight that hung chamber pots from its ceiling.

Dreamt I was saying “Sometimes I dream about books and stationery and it’s lovely.” Did not dream about books and stationery.

There’s a lot of weather out there. Gulp.

Quick - cardigan or no cardigan?

Quick - umbrella or no umbrella?

Quick - give up writing or don’t give up writing?

Quick? Or slow?

I think I’m gonna be reckless: NO cardi, NO umbrella, No giving up.

Part 8

There were several unhappy women in the bookshop today. Sad and unsure of themselves. Keen to confide their insecurities.

An old woman in a red mini skirt and lacy tights has just tottered past #Brighton

Girls marching down to town wearing tiny shorts & bra tops, singing “willy willy willy”. They’re just kids & I fear for them #Brighton

Sobbing girls, smashed glasses, leering men, and an old hippy screaming that he’s just broken thru the 3rd wall!


Is it all over yet?

Sara Crowley’s Comments

Twitter can feel fast, disposable, a little cold, but it’s an amazing communication tool. There’s power in its immediacy—breaking news, politics, the big stuff of life. We can become part of an event by live tweeting it.

It’s a good place for writers to play. It forces concision; a good skill to practice. I enjoy words, puns, banter. Chat with writers can make you feel part of a community. I dislike the we’re-too-cool-to-follow-you-back tweeters, or the ones who don’t respond to comments you make directly to them. I’m bored of those spammy writers who repeatedly link to their own books.

Twitter is a companion on a journey, a place to just blahblahblah, a virtual water cooler.

It’s like listening in to a zillion conversations and moving in on the ones that grab you. It can also be like being ignored at a party full of witty, fabulous people.

Being unfollowed turns me into mrs paranoid onion, but being followed by someone ace is a delicious feeling.

My favourite-ever twitter thing was the Crispin Best posting “shock and/or.”

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 37 | Summer 2012 | The Twitter Issue