An open letter to the Unsubscribe Button

Dear Unsubscribe Button,

In the modern age, with its 24-hour news cycle and instant communication, the amount of solicitation directed at the poor unassuming email addresses of the world has expanded exponentially. Now, I must create a separate email address that I plug into websites when I make an account to avoid a constant barrage of demands for money and time. This hailstorm of information is steady and unwavering. I have an email address for college mail that gets 80 emails a day, and it’s the summer!

A writer a century ago might imagine that the whoosh that accompanies the arrival of an instantaneous piece of mail, which might come from millions of miles away or perhaps contain moving pictures, would bring us joy as we rush to see what delightful information modern technology has brought beyond our doorstep without even an ounce of effort on our part. That writer would be so far from the truth. When the soft email ping resonates through my room, I do not feel a rush of euphoria. Rather, an observer would discern a darkening depth of despair as I attempt to lift my head above the suffocating virtual pile of compounding clutter.

And so you came, and it seemed as though a ray of light had burst through a darkening storm that you were the light that ended the darkest day. That you would bring, like the messiah, a new world of hope and glory. That we could return to the days when all was good and the world was one of plenty; when spirits were brave, the stakes were high, and small furry creatures roamed.

But it was a false hope, you were a mirage of a better world, a phantasm of how life should be. For you were filled with nothing but lies and deceit. I thought I could rid myself of the ever-present demon of spam mail with your exorcismic powers. But alas it was not to be, for when I went to press you and my heart filled with joy, you did not fulfill your promise.

It was a lie, a fib, a fabrication, a deception, a fiction. When I went to sleep that night, in peace at last, I awoke the next day only to be returned to my miserable gulag of an existence. For I had received another email; from the same source no less. So I foolishly employed you once again, hoping that I had merely made some simple oversight but in fact falling victim to your continuing mendacity.

But I had not, because little did I know that your name seeks to deceive. You do not “unsubscribe” from all tortuous correspondence, no no no, you only remove me from that one particular category of missives. Now I no longer receive “Daily Offers” merely “Regular Sales,” “Frequent Reminders,” and “Classic Newsletter.” So I toss and turn and resolve to write in a most old-fashioned way, before you came, to the originator of the solicitation and seek an end to my constant turmoil in that fashion. This method too fails me at each turn however, for after composing my carefully worded display of fury aimed at the PR department that has brought such pain down upon me, all I receive in response is a bland tract informing me that this address is in fact, no reply.

So I beseech you, you who have left a long line of unkept promises and broken dreams in your wake, to answer me with some solution, to tell me of a new key to rid me of this dilemma. This is all I request, and it seems to be the least you can do after you killed me with your charms. Or perhaps you can tell me if I am only searching for something that can not be found.

Your former friend,

Justin Rosentover