I come home from work to find this "Dear blogger" letter. My heart is breaking . . .
Dear Milwaukee,That's it? It's . . . it's over? Mandy, baby, you can't leave. Think about at all we've been through together. You want to just throw that away?
I always knew this day would come, I just didn’t expect it to be so impersonal. This is hard for me, so I’ll just be out with it – I’m leaving. In two weeks, I'll be moving away and this blog will come to its end.
I know it sounds very cliché, but believe me when I say it's not you, it’s me. Though I have been faithful to you and only you for going on three years now, I’ve gotten an offer to try something new – and I’m going to take it. You’ve given me so much – the lakefront, deep-fried cheese curds, Summerfest and Spotted Cow – and I’ll never forget it. My only regret is that I'll never know what the city is like without M-Change construction. [. . .]
Is it me? I can change, baby, you know I can. I can do better. I can link to you more, send you appreciative emails, stop making fun of your dislike of indecent exposure. I'll stop forwarding you those hoax emails, baby, I promise. I'll give you whatever you want.
Look, we can spend more time together. Go away somewhere, maybe back to someplace more Web 1.0, where we can have some privacy, just the two of us. Wouldn't that be nice? No webcams, no YouTube, just you, me, and a 386 processor.
Come on, baby, I'm sure we can work out--I mean, work it out. How can I fix it, what can I say to convince you not to just give up on us? We put in all this time--maybe we could just take a little break. Maybe you just need a little space. I can respect that. You don't have to post every day. I don't care! I just can't imagine loading those pages without your face. I need you.
Is it my friends? It's Mike, isn't it. Well, I can get rid of him. I don't need him like I need you. Maybe it's Tim, or Dave. You know you're my world, and if you just say so, they're gone, baby. I mean it.
Do you think I'll be happy with just Vikki? She's not you. She doesn't have your charm, your wit, your bloggy presence. I don't think she understands me the way you do. You know she can't make me happy.
And, Cincinnati? Really? Mandy, baby, I'm from there. Grew up there. Graduated high school and dropped her, hard, because, baby, there's no there there. She won't make you happy. She can't love you the way I do. (But, if you have to go, say hey to Jim Borgman for me. He was always good to me.)
I don't know how I can go on blogging without you, Mandy. I'm standing on the edge of time. I walked away when love was mine, caught up in a world of uphill climbing. The tears are in my mind, and nothing is rhyming, oh, Mandy. You came and you gave without taking, but I sent you away, oh, Mandy. You kissed me and stopped me from shaking--and I need you today, oh, Mandy . . .
Oh, Mandy . . .