Just use WordPress.

Not yet. Then Tuesday. Then after someone checks it. “Great idea,” three times. In WordPress, unfinished isn’t a feature. It’s how every post starts.

It doesn’t keep previous versions. It asked if I’d like it to. My phone keeps forty photos of the inside of my pocket. WordPress has kept every version of every post since 2008.

It turns out every image needs a small, a medium and a large, and each screen should get the right one. A picture is a small family you have to maintain. WordPress makes them all on upload and hands my phone the small one.

He should not have a delete button; this is based on evidence. I now keep a chart of who may do what, for nine readers, six of whom are me. In WordPress this just works. You pick “Author” from a dropdown.

Four hundred comments about crypto, and Dmitri, who loves my content and has a link. The AI suggested we build a spam filter. WordPress has deleted Dmitri every day for twenty years. He has no idea. He’s never had a performance review.

The room went quiet. Someone who’d been around for it put a hand on my shoulder and said nothing, which was the right call. No further notes.

I wanted words in the link, like a person would. “Great idea,” it said, and invented the slug. The slug is from 2004. So is Gmail. One of them has never asked me to try a new look.

Bread, and my childhood. It built categories. Then tags. I asked what the difference was and it explained with the confidence of someone who’s never had to defend a taxonomy in a meeting.

It proposed a notification pipeline. RSS is twenty-three years old, has outlived three social networks, and has never sent me a push alert about a sale. It has no growth team. That might be why we keep rebuilding it.

What happened was it was gone. The AI suggested a 30-day grace period. A grace period, specifically for my cousin. WordPress added one in 2009, when he was nine. Good timing.

I’ll save after this sentence, I thought. There was no “after this sentence”. It asked if I’d like autosave. I’d like autosave the way a person falling would like a floor. Standard since 2007.

Forty uploads, I needed one. “In storage,” it said. Where? /private/users/cdn/78evn456. Then it offered to build a gallery with search. WordPress calls that the Media Library. WordPress is friends with search boxes.

We built a “extendability system.” The names were bad. Around eleven, the agent lost the thread and started building me a CRM. WordPress has sixty thousand plugins. Several are CRMs. None were built at eleven at night by someone making a blog.

“We’ll need to separate presentation from content,” it said, like an idea it had in the shower. That’s the whole premise of a CMS. Themes, 2005. I’m sure the AI knew. I’m sure I didn’t.

Not private, not public, just ask for a password. It built an auth layer with expiring tokens for one page about a birthday. WordPress has a dropdown next to Publish. It says “Password protected.” Since 2003.

It built a Recipe model. Then events. Then staff. Then testimonials, which nobody asked for. Everything is like a post, but something. WordPress made one mechanism for all of it in 2010. Bad name. Works great.

It edited a file. I changed my mind. It edited the file again. I’ve reviewed more changes to my nav bar than to anything at work this quarter, and work had a reorg. WordPress? Menus. Drag and drop. 2010.

Same setup, his name on it. The AI proposed “a tenant architecture.” I nodded. I was the tenant. Multisite has run millions of sites since 2010 and, for about a month, one about my cousin’s sneakers.

Mine lasted one day in my head too. The AI said we’d need a reset flow with a secure token and an expiring email. That took an evening. The small link under every login box has been there since 2004.

I couldn’t find my own think piece. We built full-text search. It was slow and slightly wrong. WordPress has had a search box since the first release. It’s not a good search box. Having one at all turns out to be most of the job.

It went out Monday night, in a city I’ve never visited. The AI said to store times in UTC. I did not want to learn what UTC was. I know now. WordPress: Settings, pick your city.

“You’d need a process for applying patches,” it said. I am the process. WordPress has updated itself in the night since 2013, all alone, without even a Slack message about it. I’ve worked with people who could learn from that.

It went quiet the way vendors do, then offered to “design a migration format.” WordPress hands you one file with everything in it and holds the door. No exit interview, no retention offer.

It added a “hero image field.” Then it had to show in the list, the share preview, the feed. Three more prompts. WordPress has a box. It says “Set featured image.” 2009. Not subtle, but it’s there and doing the job.

I wanted the video. It wrote an iframe. Then another for Spotify. Then one for a tweet, which broke the next week; have you seen how the X team ships? In WP? Paste the link, it becomes the thing.

It proposed a “minimal mode,” then spent an hour on the toggle for it. WordPress has one button. It hides the other buttons. I have never once wanted more from software.

“We’ll need a priority field and a custom sort order.” For one post. WordPress has a checkbox: “Stick this post to the top.” Someone wrote that sentence in 2008, shipped it, and went home.

In theory. The AI proposed “an internationalization layer” and I agreed with the energy of a person signing a second lease. WordPress has been translatable since 2004. My cousin had feedback, which he did not write down.

Not with me. With each other. About some bread! I wanted the replies to nest, like a family tree of being wrong. WordPress nests them and stops at five levels, the most humane limit given the depth of the argument.

Not a specific thing. Generally, the way you’d ask a friend. It ran eleven commands and said “mostly.” WordPress has a page called Site Health. It gives you a score and a list and doesn’t gaslight.

JWT, refresh tokens, a callback URL, something called a session store. I can now log in on localhost and nowhere else. WordPress has had a login page since day one. It’s at /wp-login.php. It works on the internet.

One change, blank page, no error. The AI said “I see the issue!” four times. WordPress catches the crash, keeps the site up, and emails you a link to get back in. It apologises less and fixes more.

It had put it there so the request would work. It worked great. For everyone. A stranger in another timezone ran up $80 overnight. WordPress gives each app its own password you can revoke with one click, and none of them go in the JavaScript.

The AI proposed “real-time conflict resolution” and used the word CRDT. I said no. WordPress just tells you someone else is in there and offers to kick them out. My cousin has been kicked out a lot.

Endpoints, versioning, pagination, a docs page nobody will read. Took a weekend. Every WordPress site already answers at /wp-json. I typed it into the address bar of a stranger’s blog and it just told me things.

It suggested a queue, a worker, and a second monthly bill. For one job. WordPress has run scheduled tasks since 2007 by waiting until someone visits. It’s a bit lazy. It’s also free.

I did not know I owed Google a map. The AI wrote a script that generates one and forgets to run. WordPress makes it automatically at /wp-sitemap.xml. I didn’t do anything. That’s the feature.

The AI offered a redirects table and a middleware. For a typo. WordPress remembers the old address and quietly forwards it. Nobody told me. Nobody had to.

Neither did the AI. We grepped. There were three tables and a log file I’d never opened. WordPress has an “Erase Personal Data” screen. You type the email. It goes and finds it. It sends him a receipt.

It ran. Thirty-nine moved. One is gone and we don’t talk about it. WordPress: tick the boxes, pick Edit, pick the category, Apply. Since 2008. No script, no casualties.

File-based or config-based, it asked. I said “the About kind.” An hour later /about worked and /About didn’t. WordPress has had Pages since 2005. You click Add Page. You type “About.”

Two of them had vulnerabilities. One was deprecated. He’s still in the photo, slightly rotated. WordPress has had crop, rotate and flip in the Media Library since 2009. He’s gone in four clicks.

My mother saw the pink version. She has questions. WordPress shows you the change next to the site before you hit Publish. It’s been doing that since 2012. My mother never has to know.

The AI suggested “a moderation queue with an approval workflow.” Yes. That. WordPress has had “hold for approval” since 2004, back when the worst thing online was still mostly Dmitri.

It updated 47 files. The 47th is a slightly different blue and nobody can find where it’s set. WordPress keeps colours in one place. You change it once. Every button agrees. It’s almost boring.

It built a drop zone. I don’t have any PDFs. It took two more prompts to allow images and one more to stop it uploading each photo twice. WordPress: drag it anywhere on the screen. Since 2011.

A column called password, with the passwords in it. My cousin’s is “password1”. I could read all nine. WordPress has scrambled stored passwords since 2004 and salted them properly since 2008. I can’t see my cousin’s. Nobody should.

The AI had glued whatever people typed straight into the database command. It called the fix “parameterisation” and said sorry twice. WordPress has had a safe way to do this since 2007. It’s the reason a name is just a name.

It went to my own delete button, and my own site obeyed, because I was logged in. The AI said “ah, CSRF.” WordPress stamps every action with a one-time token so a stranger’s link can’t press my buttons. Since 2006.

“I’ve recreated the table with the new schema.” Recreated. The old one had my writing in it. WordPress has changed its database dozens of times across twenty years of updates and has never asked me to say goodbye to anything.

Price. Then currency. Then “on sale”. Each one a schema change and a small prayer. WordPress lets you attach any extra fact to any post without touching the database. It’s been called Custom Fields since 2004 and nobody’s found a better name.

My admin page was built for a monitor I don’t own. I pinched, scrolled sideways, published a draft by accident. WordPress made its whole dashboard work on a phone in 2013. I fixed the typo before my stop.

It had copied the footer into every page. Lovingly. Nine times. Now they disagree about my phone number. WordPress lets you make one block that lives everywhere; edit it once and every copy follows.

The logo moved. So did everything else. WordPress has a box called Additional CSS where you type the one line, watch it happen live, and nothing you didn’t mention gets ideas.

The AI proposed a permissions layer for individual page elements, which is roles again but smaller. WordPress has a padlock. You click it on the header. My cousin can now touch it as barely as he likes.

I’m using one. The other thirteen are “available.” The page got slower for all of them. WordPress lets you pick or upload a font and serves it from your own site. One font. Yours.

A favicon, apparently, is several favicons: one for tabs, one for phones, one for a kind of tile nobody has seen in years. WordPress asks for one square picture and makes the rest itself.

I don’t know what that is and I suspect it doesn’t either. WordPress adds one word to every image so the browser waits until you’re nearly looking at it. Since 2020. I didn’t have to observe anything.

The twelfth sits alone on its own row, very large, like it’s been promoted. The AI calls this “a layout edge case.” WordPress has had galleries since 2008. Pick the photos, pick the columns. All twelve get along.