I just got a message from a friend asking about switching snack bar schedules next week and I’m like “Sure, no problem! I’m not even on the snack bar schedule; it’s the least I can do” She’s like…yeah, you are…according to the email. Oh Shit. The Email.
About that…I’m a little behind on my email upkeep. I’ve been meaning to sit down and go through my inbox. You know, check some messages, mark some spam, but…
One thing led to another, I was absent one day, and now this is me except with emails.
I don’t know how emails work in the real world, but I got mine in the 1900’s and it’s the only one I’ve ever had. I went to America Online and I applied for membership. I was accepted and invited to create a username. No biggie, just a bunch of letters.
Baklava!! Beat that, bitch!
Like I said, just a bunch of letters…That you have to give EVERY SINGLE PERSON YOU EVER TALK TO.
“Yes, Ma’am. I’m sorry your son isn’t feeling well. Could you tell me your email address for security purposes and we‘ll get you right over to the advice nurse.”
Yeah sure, it’s…andrea…
Most of you probably can’t even relate to this because you have real jobs with real work emails. Us “freelancers” don’t have that luxury. Sure we could create any random Hotmail account, or get a gmail barcode, but we’re old school. There ain’t no numbers in my username, biatch.
Anyway, being OG means you got them OG cookie crumbs following you around. We bought a tac light last year and now these guys think we’re besties. Two emails a day. No, thank you, screw me once…
I’m drowning in junk emails! But I can’t just delete it all. There has to be very important emails buried in that virtual hoard. There’s diamonds in that rough. I’m talking about baseball game snack schedules, PTA agendas, and birthday pictures. What the hell do I do? Just start a new email? What if my long lost cousin that I’ve never spoken to wants to start a relationship? How will they ever contact me?
**Side note: They could call my parents. My parents have had the same phone number all my life (209) 823-8817. Give ‘em a call. LOL. My mom even gave us our own phone line in high school. It was listed in the phone book as “The Hayes Children,” I shit you not. “Hey, let’s call that cute sophomore girl, what’s her number? Look her up…she’s under “Hayes Children.”
Anyway, this virtual mountain of data is bringing me down. I think I’m almost ready to consider letting it go. I will be making a huge sacrifice. I will have to say goodbye to those baby pictures I never got a chance to open, those amazing deals, and I’ll have to give up the email evidence of that one time you said that one thing and now you’re totally wrong… Just know I know.
If only I could transfer them to a recycle bin that held on to them forever. Just in case. My heart is racing just thinking about the risk involved. No, I’m not ready. Not today, Satan.
Maybe I’ll do it. If I get 200 visitors I’ll delete all and I’ll even live stream the ensuing panic attack. Maybe.
P.S. Did you notice how our six year old created a folder named “Mom and dad” and put all of our shit in there?!
Wow Miles, I’m so sorry MY apps on MY phone were making it difficult for you to access piano tiles and monster legends. Sometimes I don’t know who’s in charge of who over here. It gets kinda hard to tell.