Thomas Wictor

The chronic slowness of my site is because my Web host is awful. I owe everybody a heartfelt apology for being a complete sucker, patsy, and nincompoop.

And guess what? My publicists tell me my Web host notorious for being unable to handle WordPress. I went to this host at the recommendation of my Web designers. They apparently didn’t know that my host can’t handle WordPress, or they didn’t care.

It’s my second host. If I change again, who knows what’ll happen? When I changed the first time, I lost access to messages from the old Website. Nobody knows why. They’re just…gone. Also, changing Web hosts takes two weeks. So my site would be down for two weeks. I can’t do that right now. They’ve got me by the yam bag.

As usual promises are being made that all the problems will be solved in a jiffy. I don’t believe it. The thing is, I’ve been trying to get my Website up since December of last year. I’m spent. Hopefully things will get better soon. If not, I’ll find a third Web-hosting company, and we can start all over again.

The Web host sends funny messages to cheer me up:

Howdy valued customer!

You have specified that you would like to be notified the moment that there is an upgrade to WordPress available, and that moment is now! The newest, shiniest version of WordPress is here and will be installed for you shortly.

If you are now experiencing remorse that you requested this message feel free to log into the panel here (redacted) and edit your options for your WordPress installation.

Thanks!
The Happy (redacted) Click Robot!

Folksy and perky, like some elderly former cheerleader from the Appalachians. Meanwhile my site still struggles along, grunting and straining the way I do when I’m being chased by murderers in my nightmares, and I seem immersed in maple syrup up to my neck.

But then I wake up. I can’t wake up from this.

Are there any professionals left on the planet? Am I the only person who wants his paying customers to be satisfied? What I’ve experienced since December is the equivalent of me selling you books made of blank napkins.

But I know it’s all my fault.