Remember all the good ole' days, when we'd go strolling down the streets of Geocities, each homesite tucked into a cool little neighborhood -- intentional communities of like-minded hipster folk. I lucked out when they opened SoHo for new building sites, secured me a cozy studio at no cost, and made my first venture online.
We didn't know each other so well in those days. You were the guy I said hello to down the street; maybe I asked you a question about the new store in town or the cool sneakers I saw you were wearing.
Things started getting rough between us when you stopped being just a casual acquaintance and became my new landlord. How cold I felt toward you, the errant business "tycoon" running through to pillage my awesome crib. It was my first crib, you see; I had emotional attachments. When the passcodes stopped working for my own home, I tried to contact you but no one ever answered. I walked from one austere FAQ to another, finding only more questions and never the right answers, never the friendly voice of a helpdesk with the key to my door.
Still, I gave you the benefit of the doubt simply because I couldn't seem to contact you directly. I figured if I could just reach you, rather than your uncaring auto-programs and machines, we'd really see this relationship could be mutually beneficial again. And I understand why you had to evict me when I didn't take care of my property. I couldn't, being locked out, but you didn't know that. So I quietly packed up my pictures and my files, various miscellany I'd collected while living in that beatnik neighborhood, and moved to the new site, with the new keys. The neighborhood wasn't as cool, it wasn't a Soho Studio, but I could pay to have my name, shiny across the top of my new place, and then I paid you for storage for the stuff I hadn't yet found a place for, and then I paid you to keep this new neighborhood pristine and free of ads, signs or billboards.
But it hurt me to see the old neighborhood demolished. The new space seemed too small and the rent seemed too high. I never did find a good place for half of my stuff; there just wasn't enough room. Some of those fancy amenities didn't work half the time, like the weather display I put up. And every now and again one of my guests would complain about a sign blocking there way -- they just popped up out of nowhere and get torn down the next day. Sometimes the mail wouldn't get through.
So I moved. I left most of the old things in storage, sure I'd come back for them someday. Yet life moves on and as time passed, going through all those old memories seemed less and less important. It was actually a relief to find out that you had decided to tear this place down. Might have been nice if you'd tried to notify me directly, with the new address I gave you, instead of leaving the mail in the old forgotten box. I said to myself, "finally time to get off my butt and move my crap."
But Yahoo, you are really not making this move easy. Sure, I could pay yet another fee and you'll move me to some fancy new site of yours, someplace where the amenities will probably work, at first, where I won't see the billboards, for awhile. But I'm done with you as my landlord, can't we just go our separate ways in peace? Why are you determined to keep all my stuff? You're just going to throw it out as soon as I walk away. You won't let me grab it all in one batch, oh no, you insist I take my things out piecemeal one at a time. That makes for some slow going work. Apparently, there's a bunch of other folks all having to do the same thing, because every time I have an hour to work on it, there's a traffic crash. It's like roadkill out here.
What I'm really trying to say is, I don't think we can be friends anymore. I'm not enamored of your new mojo and fancy-looking tricks. Sometimes I may have to deal with you, but I don't have to like it. I have other friends to answer my questions now.
Goodbye Yahoo, I wish you well...