#298: MY FELLOWS, YOUR DEAR JOHNS SUCK
My dear fellow bloggers out there, I have a request to make, and it will be a simple one to fulfill. It is simple, because all it requires is that you don't commit a certain act, and not committing an act is an easy thing, yes? My request is this:
Do not write a generalized Dear John letter to your audience when you decide to stop publishing material in a particular weblog.
It's depressing as hell. I will be spending an hour or so reading through material from individuals that I have come to enjoy knowing things about for whatever reason, chuckling to myself about spontaneous turkey death and rectal thermometers, and then I will innocently click on a link to somebody like this guy, and find myself confronted with some kind of whistful explanation for this being the last time ever that I will hear of a particular person.
I would much prefer a protracted silence during which it eventually dawns on me that perhaps, just maybe, a particular weblogger has bowed out. By the time I have figured it out, so much time has passed that my emotional concern about their lack of presence registers as a shoulder-shrugging meh, and I don't have to go through the back-patting, hand-shaking I'll miss you and don't go entreaties.
So, to all you quitters out there: QUIT IT.
I do so love Harper's Index.
BitFontMaker is the bomb.
When I broke the knobs off my Etch A Sketch, I struggled for months with turning the little metal nubs that remained.
Squashed Philosophers - "...ditching all the irritating verbiage".
Listen to the Jukebox.
Read about Zogg.
My ecological footprint is 3.3, while Canada's average is 8.8. Still, if everyone lived like me, we would need 1.8 earths to meet the requirements of our lifestyle.
Why do we forget dreams upon waking?
More than Harper's, though, I love salt.
Über cool street paintings.
Always stand at the back in an elevator so that you can stare at the passengers.
Heavens to Betsy! I have a mere 1.2 billion seconds left to live according to the Death Clock.
Bubble wrap is one of the things I miss most about working in the bookstore in Cosmopolis. When we got a sheet of the kind with the really big bubbles, we would throw it on the floor and dance on it.