Right now I'm grieving the loss of my first and best blog. It was called
The problem was: my readers were all members of my family. My parents read it. My siblings read it. My dad's ex wife read it.
I got IRL comments about mistakes I had made, or things I "maybe, probably, possibly shouldn't say because of potential consequences in my adult life" and so on, and so forth.
One night I got a call from my dad, who simply HAD to mention that I had mixed something up, and given false information in some way.
I freaked that night.
I freaked the fuck out.
I deleted my blog.
I deleted four years worth of genius nonsense.
Before that I had always been very strict in my stance against "you shouldn't write that". I always refused to delete posts, no matter what I had written in them.
....Except for this one time, when I (for some reason) decided to write my first and only emo/angst-post, about my utter lack of hope and will to live.
That post died about 2 hours laters.
Oh, the shame I felt about feeling feelings and all that.
Today I regret my decision. I regret most of my decisions. But that one, especially. That one.... haunts me.
Don't get me wrong. I love throwing things out. I love giving things away. I love the feeling of owning less objects, because it makes me feel free-er. It gives the illusion of zero responsibility and accountability.
But deleting that blog was like deleting my 15-year-old self.
She may have hated herself, but I appreciate her for the weirdo she is. Was? Uh, who am I kidding. I've barely changed at all.
Lesson: Throw away all those magazines you've already read. Give away clothes you never wear. But keep your thoughts; because in five year's time, you might need them again.
And DON'T DELETE POSTS.
If anything, it could provide some poor, bored sucker with a few minutes worth of entertainment. Schadenfreude and all that.