Our favourite chore is that of getting rid of things we don't want. Those who introduced the clean air act didn't get around to detailing what we aught to do with letters and other confidential documents that are most easily cremated, but fortunately most of our documents and correspondence is now digital (or electronic if you must, or computerized if you're being pedantic). Unfortunately there are precious few who know how to organize a filesystem: wading through treacle best describes how I've ever made any progress thereupon (people who have the energy to tidy a house in one go probably come to know how we feel who don't).
Fear of accidental deletion aught to get us to look at a backup plan--by which we mean, setup a backup routine. But some haven't the time to think, and so they make copies of whatever comes to mind with the fear. GPL murderers might find a way to help people who've thus given themselves a duplication nightmare, but we need to work out whether such a thing could be a thesis, or if theses are all about getting African boys to think about education before reproduction.
As an English-speaking boy who doesn't know if he's being referred to when African boys are talked about, for the soil itself certainly plays precious little in terms of the personal features that together are called race, I am displeased that in a language with almost as many alternatives for terms like word as there are colours in the rainbow, we seem stuck with delete. Making up words has generally been something I do not consider very wise, with a language of such an extensive vocabulary as English. But, at times, those who do what they consider the wise thing are brought to their knees.
Recalling one of my birthday parties that included activities that got me looking for a straw man to take my place, I come to the term, deplace. A deplaced item is no longer an item.
Can we go back to being ourselves, now?