The wonderful Jake has resolved the majority of my website issues, and my old TextPattern posts are now all back online. However, the comments are not! They show as being imported but they are not assigned to any posts and I can only see them in the admin panel. Very strange! Google or WordPress.org also do not help me with trying to solve this issue. I also can’t figure out why when you click on a post the sidebar navigation disappears.
I think maybe I am not very good at the internet.
Holy beejesus, it’s been months. I really was moving servers in October last year, but shit fucked up and I never managed to export my old Textpattern database from my old host to my new Wordpress database on DreamHost. Something to do with a block on my old host. Then I tried to export by using phpMyAdmin but my boyfriend changed a permission setting that he couldn’t remember and now I can’t get to my old site at all (it still exists, however). So, here I am, new server, nothing on it, nothing more than a default Wordpress theme with no content. Months later.
Anyway.
I have been saying this on and off for years now, but I think I am sick of the internet. Well, yes and no. I am not sick of photos of bad celebrity plastic surgery, movie reviews, Google Maps, some emails received, and invited events on Facebook. I am, however, sick of writing for the internet. Perhaps even writing fullstop (yet ironically, I am writing as I say this).
Twelve years ago when I made my first website and posted my first post, the equivalent of what a blog post is today, writing on the internet was exciting. Back pre-millenium and in the early noughties, being recognised on the street for doing nothing more than having one of the few blogs in a country of only a few people was novel. Being vaguely involved by proxy and degrees of separation in the start of the blogging revolution was rather exciting. Going to SXSW Interactive and hearing people talk about cool new shit that no one had heard of before was awesome. But now it is 2009 and I fell out of love with the internet when I realised I have little to offer the internet. Anything I would ever do on the internet would just be offering my opinion to people who may or may not know me. And to be honest, who gives a shit what I think? Most of the time even I don’t care what I think; when people ask me what it was like on my holiday I say, “fine” because I don’t feel like listening to the sound of my own voice (the scientist from the Simpson’s is a preferable head-voice); when friends I haven’t seen in ages ask me to send them an email with what’s going on I don’t because I can’t be bothered typing out what I think aren’t very exciting updates. My sole contact with many is my latest one-line Facebook status update.
The truth: I need better stories.
And then, I go and watch Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas while inebriated. Hunter S. Thompson inspires me to do great things, such as take acid, mescaline and poppers while drinking, smoking cigarettes and taking bong hints to then write about it later. He’s a great role model.
So here we are. 2009. Maybe I do feel like writing after all.
