Okay, my mailbox at the end of the driveway isn't as full of junk mail as it used to be, and for that I am grateful. Those shiny pamphlets don't even burn in woodstoves.
But now my email inbox is crammed. I try to unsubscribe as much as possible, but there are a few shining (forgive the pun) examples I want to point out.
Yes, I know you want to tell me of all those great authors. I'm one of them, too. But you don't need to show me a list of books I have already purchased, under to subtitle of "Books you may be interested in". Yes, you know my tastes. To a certain extent. But I am fully capable of choosing my own reading material. It's not like as if I slap my head and say, "Oh, yeah, I noticed that my Kindle was empty. I didn't know what to do about it." I've already figured out how to purchase your books, thank you very much.
It's okay to tell me when someone is following me, although most of them just want me to auto-follow them back so they can tell me how to enlarge my penis. News Flash! I don't have one! But don't give me a list of people I may be interested in following. If I was interested in following them, I'd follow them. You see, Twitter followers follow people with whom they have a common interest. Can you follow me? It's not a numbers game. You don't get a special prize for having the most followers, or at least Oprah isn't telling us about it.
I do like traveling, and I can always count on you to provide me with info based on my last search. But here is a hint for you. That last search of Mongolia? It was just to mess with your head. I'm not really planning a trip there, so you don't need to inundate my inbox with lists of things to do while I am there.
Yes, I like you, but I'm not going to travel 4,000 miles to take a flight from Vancouver because you offer me a 15% discount. Hey, Air Canada, Westjet, the same goes for you!
It's kind of like the Mazda dealer in the next town who keeps telling me that people are asking to buy my Mazda 2. (With the cracked bumper and noisy brakes) Hey, Mazda! I don't believe you. People aren't staring at me when I pull into the bank parking lot because they like my car and are on their cell phones asking to buy it.
And finally, to all those non-English speaking scammers out there, my last words are for you. I don't believe my writer friend, Margaret, who is at home writing her next bestseller, is in Paris and has just been robbed and needs me to send her money. She posted to FaceBook just this morning that she planned to spend the day in her office.
And, no, I don't need a loan, or a new job or a girlfriend who tells me she's "very much pretty with very much pretty body". Why don't you set those scams aside until Google Translate can perfect its translation program?
Yes, yes, I can hit delete, opt out, unsubscribe, and I do, but to be honest, some of those opt out buttons don't work. You know who you are, car dealer to the north. Putting an 'unsubscribe' button at a bottom of your email that does as much as a button on a Fisher-Price kitchen set isn't going to make me rush out to buy anything from you.
There, my rant is done.
And I can only hope you don't hit the unsubscribe button because of it. We both know you feel the same way.