Alright, how do I start this email… “Hey guys, here’s the budget for this week!” No, no, that’s stupid. No one would ever put that at the beginning of an email they want someone to actually read. I’ve got to come off strong. Confident. Bloodthirsty. I need something that screams “hey, listen to me!”
*ahem* Note: make sure you delete that before hitting send or you’ll come off as cringe and as someone who still rawr xDs
To whom it may concern,
So incredibly immeasurably and in all other senses completely sorry to take away from your infinitely valuable time, but I’m afraid that I have to make a tiny request: Leave me the f*ck alone. That wording’s a little strong; maybe something a little kinder. Let me f*cking be. Much better.
For the past several months I’ve been receiving emails from your department. Nice, nice. Smart people use words like several; it’d be wholly preposterous if they didn’t. At first, I didn’t mind; however, after reading such upsetting concepts as unionizing mice, solar panels taking jobs from hard-working American coal mines (which, god, hopefully the solar panels don’t decide to unionize also) and a man named Jeff having the audacity to exist, I had to do something.
So, in a hereto unheard of moment of bold brashness, I read to the end of the email. And not just that, I looked for the legendary unsubscribe button. Due to the fact that I’m an irredeemable doofus, I couldn’t find it. I’m sure it’s there; how could a group with the name “Campus Times” not anticipate people trying to escape them?
After that, I tried any number of methods to stop receiving these upsetting messages. I tried approaching a reporter from your department and was treated very rudely. The nerve of some people to not follow the script I practiced in my head in the shower.
Next, I tried making a new account. Surely your message minions wouldn’t follow me there! But like clockwork, as reliably as people not shutting up about how early the sun is setting, it happened. “Business majors read the communist manifesto.” The horror, the despair, the — oh, shit, is this from the same weirdos that keep emailing me?
I don’t know how you managed to send emails to what was very clearly a Gmail account, but whatever demon magic you’re using — probably hand sanitizer that kills 100% of germs — I want no part in it.
Countless hours of research have been wasted trying to free myself from you. Even renowned sources like “dudetrustme.net” and “iheardfromaguywhoknowsaguy.org” weren’t able to help.
Is it so gratifying to torment my pathetic soul? Has our generation stooped to such levels for feelings of control over our lives?
Please, I beg of you, please stop sending me emails. I’ll do anything! I’ll take an 8 a.m. class with mandatory attendance! I’ll fill out Dr. Chatbot every day! I’ll fix my sleep schedule! Anything! Truly!
Listen, I might be a doormat, but I’m a nice doormat. The kind you see when you walk up to a house and step around to go inside because it just looks so nice. So please, avoid treading on my sad soul. Cease communication. Edit the mailing list. I promised my firstborn in exchange. Yeah… my firstborn…
I am on my ankles begging,
Truly,
Defeated, Demoralized, Tiny Frog Man.
