Writing a blog
October 19, 2021 :: 07:58

I don't really know why I made this.

I used to write a lot. The emo, teenage version of me had a Xanga, and in the bygone days of AIM and Fall Out Boy, we used Xanga as a form of social media.

No, there was no social media. This was pre-Myspace. Yes, that was a real time. Yes, we had the Internet, cars, and indoor plumbing. No, we did not have smartphones. You used a computer.

You'd write your thoughts and feelings, maybe a story about your day, maybe some terrible poetry that suggested you were moments from defenestrating yourself, then you'd post it and go check what all your friends had written.

I guess there was something I missed about that. The long-form writing that people actually read - about six of them, anyway, and mostly because they'd deliberately gone to the page so they felt bad not sticking around - provided some kind of creative outlet that has gone missing. Maybe it's everyone's reduced attention span and junkie-like desire for the endorphins they get from scrolling endlessly. Maybe nobody's ever going to read this. I don't know. Does it matter? It's my outlet, not your inlet. Go get your own thing.

I could have just used some prefab blog software. There's plenty. For whatever reason, it felt more genuine to roll my own. I'm not sure genuineness is a prerequisite for a callback to a time in my life when I was hopelessly emo and- no wait, there it is.

At some point, whoever took over the Xanga brand (which I think was somebody) deleted all of the blogs. The Web Archive, which is normally excellent at this stuff, missed them. (Or at least, they missed ours, which nobody but us cared about.) I remember experiencing a strange, deep feeling of loss at realizing that my hyperbolic musings on the teenage problems of some random Tuesday weren't deemed important enough to be preserved.

I'll never get back the content that was there, or see my friends' posts again. Perhaps making this is some kind of bizarre callback to the olden days. Maybe it's just a manifestation of an unconscious yearning for an outlet. Maybe I'll never use it after today.

Whatever the reason, I made it, anyway.