From the Department of Buyer’s Remorse

Every day, I visit Livejournal—yeah, that Livejournal, where everyone used to blog. Home of drama and gossip and weird gothic angst.

I go every day, or close enough as makes no odds, and I have done for years now. I click on LOGIN. I enter a journal name and three password guesses, then it bans my IP, and I’m done for the day.

I didn’t forget my password. I never registered at all. It’s more just…ten years ago, I followed a link to a certain discussion. A sex talk, if you must know, a filthy, dirty sex chat, filled with nasty sex. It was crass. It was funny. I couldn’t resist joining in. Only, as it happened, my participation turned into sort of a story idea. I’d like to use it, make a book of it, but I can’t while it’s on there. Someone might remember and post a link, and everyone’d think I’m into, ah, something odd. In the bedroom. (Or probably not the bedroom, for that particular kink; you’d want…you wouldn’t want…oh, never mind.)

The idea wasn’t naughty. It, like, sprang from a joke I told. One of those organic conversations.

The problem is, I posted it anonymously, so I can’t delete it myself. Anonymous comments, the owner of the journal has to nix ’em, and he’s been MIA for years. So there’s this idea, and I really want to use it, and I have a publisher who’ll let me, but it’s stuck behind this perv wall.

The one fucker on the Internet with a cast-iron password, and he’s guarding my filthy lech idea.

Why do I do these things?

Why, why, why, why?

I’m not a creepy sex pervert. I’m really not. I wish I could go back and still have that idea, but not post it there, or post it there but register first, or anything that wouldn’t land me in this quandary.

PS – h0w h@ck livejournal???? plz send h3lp!!!!111111oneoneone

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