Desuetude takes effort.
I've accumulated five or six rarely-visited social media haunts, and one or two that haunt me. Over the last five years my accounts have either languished through periods of half-hearted neglect, or sprung into manic resurrection. But I tire of the jumbled clutter, and over the last week I took to the various "settings" icons with metaphorical steel wool and Comet. Like a maid whose visa is about to expire, I scrubbed the corners of my online presence.
There were too many curious onlookers whose initial crisis brigade enthusiasm dwindled over the last nine months toward loosely disguised disinterest or slack ambivalence.
My cleaning frenzy is an act of ghosting intruders.
I have no desire to take part in sensational celebrity or trauma fame.
I'm certainly not here to maintain ratings.