Please stop leaving posts on my blog with links to alleged naked photos of Miley Cyrus, Paris Hilton, Britney Spears and other celebrities.
First of all, I don't want to see any of them naked, mostly because I'm old enough to be the biological father of any one of them. Second, blogger makes it pretty damn easy to filter out spam, so you're wasting your time while wasting little to none of mine. Third--and arguably most important--hardly anyone reads this blog anyway, so you're talking to an empty room.
In short: go find somewhere more populated and entertaining to waste your time, spammers. This house is clean.
Showing posts with label Spam. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Spam. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Spam-tastic!
Last year, I wrote an essay about all the spam this site gets. Then, I wrote another one. I guess I thought that if I pointed out to the spammers that they're aiming at a completely inappropriate audience, they might pause for a moment--just a moment--and reconsider throwing unsolicited e-mails about home loans (when I don't have the money for property, especially now that I don't have a job), auto insurance (when I don't have a car or even a driver's license) and erectile dysfunction (not really my problem, but thank you ever so for asking).
How entirely naive of me.
Of course, I still get messages about all of the above. Maybe even more, as if they're punishing me for having borached the subject in the first place. But I've also gotten several new tasty (read: nasty and annoying) flavors of e-mail as well:
Click Here for Your Free (PRODUCT NAME HERE). Whether it's a MotoRazr or a BlackBerry or a Sony laptop or just about any software program you can name, spammers are willing to throw 'em at you. Or, at least, pretend to throw 'em at you, just as long as the promise of free gets you to visit their Web site. Or, at least, click on the link provided and have your computer be infected by a virus that turns it into a monster with rows and rows of razor-sharp teeth that leaps off of your desk, lands in your lap and bites your dick off. Or, y'know, just screws up your computer something awful.
Free Subscriptions. Dudes, get it straight: I don't watch Oprah Winfrey's TV show. I don't read her magazine. I don't really like her and generally go out of my way to avoid her. So sending me message after message after message offering me a free subscription to O is not terribly likely to do anything else except piss me off.
YOU'VE WON THE LOTTERY!!! Don't you have to actually enter a lottery in order to win? Or, as the saying goes, "You have to be in it to win it." Nobody just randomly picks your e-mail address out of the billions out here on the Internet and awards you millions of dollars or pounds sterling or euros just because.
And if you're going to bother trying to scam people out of their personal information--social security number, direct deposit info, etc.--it might help you sound slightly more legitimate if your spelling and grammar aren't, you know, horrid. Hire somebody who can spell. Or, if you don't want to pay someone, at least have someone proofread your e-mail before you drop your grimy little finger on the "send" button. You just might get more suckers...er, "contest winners" to pay attention to you that way.
Er...excuse me? Sometimes, just the subject line of a spam e-mail is enough to get me rolling my eyes and shaking my head. Example: One message's subject line promised I could increase my "volume of cum 500%." Which I should care about...why? I mean, why would I need 500% more spermatazoa? What would I--or anyone else--do with that much semen, aside from making a mint in the adult film industry or being the most popular donor at the sperm bank? Or, as Arron so eloquently put it over on He Gu!, "500%?! Wow, I think I would be scurred of getting dehydrated."
Find a "Special Friend" Tonight! Only they don't use the word "special." It's usually "horny" or "fuck" or some variation thereof. And the volume (see? here we go with "volume" again) of these e-mails has only increased since I wrote about the idea of hiring an escort.
For the record: I wouldn't mind getting laid again at least once more before I die. And as JB has said on many an occasion, "You're far too young to have gone this long without." Can't argue with him there. But if I were to explore alternative methods of arranging a hookup, it sure as hell wouldn't be through an anonymous e-mail link sent to me at random. And if you think all I want to do is see pictures of naked pictures, think again--even if that were my goal, which it's not (because that only fuels the frustration), there are plenty of sites I can go to and indulge my more prurient interests without running the risk of infecting my iMac with any of the nasty viruses currently infecting the Web. Even on the Internet, one must play safe.
Of course, I understand that writing about spam won't prevent it from finding its way into my inbox. Quite the opposite: It'll likely only increase the amount I dump into the trash every day. But it's still disheartening to know that the majority of traffic to this site isn't human at all, but Web searching mechanisms gloming onto key words in essays or reviews and generating junk mail based on those key words--that 199 out of every 200 e-mails sent to this address aren't from a person sharing an opinion, a thought, a complaint or a joke, but a Googlebot intent on either selling me something I don't need or want, or doing my computer grievous harm.
Then again...I did get another essay out of it, now didn't I?
How entirely naive of me.
Of course, I still get messages about all of the above. Maybe even more, as if they're punishing me for having borached the subject in the first place. But I've also gotten several new tasty (read: nasty and annoying) flavors of e-mail as well:
Click Here for Your Free (PRODUCT NAME HERE). Whether it's a MotoRazr or a BlackBerry or a Sony laptop or just about any software program you can name, spammers are willing to throw 'em at you. Or, at least, pretend to throw 'em at you, just as long as the promise of free gets you to visit their Web site. Or, at least, click on the link provided and have your computer be infected by a virus that turns it into a monster with rows and rows of razor-sharp teeth that leaps off of your desk, lands in your lap and bites your dick off. Or, y'know, just screws up your computer something awful.
Free Subscriptions. Dudes, get it straight: I don't watch Oprah Winfrey's TV show. I don't read her magazine. I don't really like her and generally go out of my way to avoid her. So sending me message after message after message offering me a free subscription to O is not terribly likely to do anything else except piss me off.
YOU'VE WON THE LOTTERY!!! Don't you have to actually enter a lottery in order to win? Or, as the saying goes, "You have to be in it to win it." Nobody just randomly picks your e-mail address out of the billions out here on the Internet and awards you millions of dollars or pounds sterling or euros just because.
And if you're going to bother trying to scam people out of their personal information--social security number, direct deposit info, etc.--it might help you sound slightly more legitimate if your spelling and grammar aren't, you know, horrid. Hire somebody who can spell. Or, if you don't want to pay someone, at least have someone proofread your e-mail before you drop your grimy little finger on the "send" button. You just might get more suckers...er, "contest winners" to pay attention to you that way.
Er...excuse me? Sometimes, just the subject line of a spam e-mail is enough to get me rolling my eyes and shaking my head. Example: One message's subject line promised I could increase my "volume of cum 500%." Which I should care about...why? I mean, why would I need 500% more spermatazoa? What would I--or anyone else--do with that much semen, aside from making a mint in the adult film industry or being the most popular donor at the sperm bank? Or, as Arron so eloquently put it over on He Gu!, "500%?! Wow, I think I would be scurred of getting dehydrated."
Find a "Special Friend" Tonight! Only they don't use the word "special." It's usually "horny" or "fuck" or some variation thereof. And the volume (see? here we go with "volume" again) of these e-mails has only increased since I wrote about the idea of hiring an escort.
For the record: I wouldn't mind getting laid again at least once more before I die. And as JB has said on many an occasion, "You're far too young to have gone this long without." Can't argue with him there. But if I were to explore alternative methods of arranging a hookup, it sure as hell wouldn't be through an anonymous e-mail link sent to me at random. And if you think all I want to do is see pictures of naked pictures, think again--even if that were my goal, which it's not (because that only fuels the frustration), there are plenty of sites I can go to and indulge my more prurient interests without running the risk of infecting my iMac with any of the nasty viruses currently infecting the Web. Even on the Internet, one must play safe.
Of course, I understand that writing about spam won't prevent it from finding its way into my inbox. Quite the opposite: It'll likely only increase the amount I dump into the trash every day. But it's still disheartening to know that the majority of traffic to this site isn't human at all, but Web searching mechanisms gloming onto key words in essays or reviews and generating junk mail based on those key words--that 199 out of every 200 e-mails sent to this address aren't from a person sharing an opinion, a thought, a complaint or a joke, but a Googlebot intent on either selling me something I don't need or want, or doing my computer grievous harm.
Then again...I did get another essay out of it, now didn't I?
Monday, April 26, 2004
Leftover Spam
Last month, I wrote about the junk mail that piles up in my mailbox like leaves on an autumn lawn, though not nearly so picturesque or colorful.
And still the spam keeps coming in ever-increasing volume and even less entertaining forms:
Prescription Drugs. Now, I realize that Americans are thoroughly screwed when it comes to prescription drugs. The companies that manufacture said drugs charge premium prices for them, with their stated reasoning being that since they spent the cash to research and develope the drugs, they're entitled to charge whatever they want to in order to recoup their expenses. Okay. I get that. But when the choice for some Americans--especially seniors whose sole income is likely their Social Security check--is between paying for drugs they need to survive or, say, rent and food, something is way out of whack. The funny thing, though, is that these same drugs are available for a lot less in other countries. And when one of those countries is as tantilizingly close as right over our northern border--yeah, Canada, I'm talking about you--who can blame anyone for taking a little trip to save a good chunk of change? Even as expensive as gas is these days (and will increasingly become over the impending summer months), you'd still save money driving to Toronto or Montreal for your prescriptions than if you walked to your neighborhood Walgreens or CVS.
All that said, would I buy prescription drugs from a site that clogged up my mailbox with blind solicitations? Two words: Fuck. No.
Software/Hardware. I'm an old-fashioned sort in many ways, but one of the most prominent manifestations of this personality trait (flaw?) is that there are certain things I won't buy online. DVDs? Sure. Books? Why not? Porn? Not so much anymore--"When masturbation's lost its charm, you're fuckin' lazy," or so Green Day sang--but when I did buy, I did quite a bit of it via e-mail. But a printer for Polly Jean? Or software that I can't be certain would be compatible with her delicate innards? I'd be more likely to walk down my crumbling back porch, pile up what little paper money I have, douse it with lighter fluid (which I do have, despite the fact that I don't smoke much more than three cigarettes a year) and light the pile up.
Hi. Oh, but this fascinates--and infuriates--me to no end. My e-mailbox has been crammed to capacity lately with messages from addresses I've never heard from--all of them with attachments that they want me to pop open. Now, I may be an idiot in many ways--spending money recklessly, falling in love unwisely, working at a dead-end job eons longer than I ever should have--but even I am not addled enough to double-click a ZIP or EXE file from someone I don't know. Shit, I won't even do that from someone I do know unless I'm expecting an attachment from a friend. Once, Sailor J sent me a scan of Richard Roeper (said by far too many to be my celebrity twin) with his arm around a woman who was a dead ringer for a mutual friend and former co-worker. But she had titled her e-mail "Hi" and I had to to ask her, "What the bloody hell are you thinking? Don't you know that assholes are sending e-mails like that to spread viruses?" She confessed that she didn't know, and I felt bad for going off, especially since she's one of the few readers I have left.
But the sheer volume of these infected e-mails--sometimes as many as a dozen a day--surprised me. So I asked out tech at work what the blue fuck was going on. "The virus-writing community..." Wait...there's a virus-writing community? Do they get together for coffee or have conventions? "...is having a competition to see who can write the nastiest virus and cause the most damage on the Net." How absolutely darling. It's hard enough to maintain a site on the Web without these evil rat bastards trying to take me and Polly Jean down for the count. And to make things extra special, it appears that some of this dicksmacks have appropriated Adoresixtyfour.com's address to send some of these infected e-mails (or so I'm lead to believe, from the "mail delivery failure" notices I get from places like Canada, Great Britain and Hungary).
There's little more disheartening these days than seeing that my e-mailbox has a dozen messages in it, but not one of them is from a friend I haven't heard from in a bit, a close associate who's read the latest update and enjoyed, or some random stranger passing along a rare compliment. When only spammers are paying attention to you--and scant attention at that--it might just be time to pull the plug once and for all.
The spammers would have plenty of other, more tasty targets--they wouldn't miss me at all.
And still the spam keeps coming in ever-increasing volume and even less entertaining forms:
Prescription Drugs. Now, I realize that Americans are thoroughly screwed when it comes to prescription drugs. The companies that manufacture said drugs charge premium prices for them, with their stated reasoning being that since they spent the cash to research and develope the drugs, they're entitled to charge whatever they want to in order to recoup their expenses. Okay. I get that. But when the choice for some Americans--especially seniors whose sole income is likely their Social Security check--is between paying for drugs they need to survive or, say, rent and food, something is way out of whack. The funny thing, though, is that these same drugs are available for a lot less in other countries. And when one of those countries is as tantilizingly close as right over our northern border--yeah, Canada, I'm talking about you--who can blame anyone for taking a little trip to save a good chunk of change? Even as expensive as gas is these days (and will increasingly become over the impending summer months), you'd still save money driving to Toronto or Montreal for your prescriptions than if you walked to your neighborhood Walgreens or CVS.
All that said, would I buy prescription drugs from a site that clogged up my mailbox with blind solicitations? Two words: Fuck. No.
Software/Hardware. I'm an old-fashioned sort in many ways, but one of the most prominent manifestations of this personality trait (flaw?) is that there are certain things I won't buy online. DVDs? Sure. Books? Why not? Porn? Not so much anymore--"When masturbation's lost its charm, you're fuckin' lazy," or so Green Day sang--but when I did buy, I did quite a bit of it via e-mail. But a printer for Polly Jean? Or software that I can't be certain would be compatible with her delicate innards? I'd be more likely to walk down my crumbling back porch, pile up what little paper money I have, douse it with lighter fluid (which I do have, despite the fact that I don't smoke much more than three cigarettes a year) and light the pile up.
Hi. Oh, but this fascinates--and infuriates--me to no end. My e-mailbox has been crammed to capacity lately with messages from addresses I've never heard from--all of them with attachments that they want me to pop open. Now, I may be an idiot in many ways--spending money recklessly, falling in love unwisely, working at a dead-end job eons longer than I ever should have--but even I am not addled enough to double-click a ZIP or EXE file from someone I don't know. Shit, I won't even do that from someone I do know unless I'm expecting an attachment from a friend. Once, Sailor J sent me a scan of Richard Roeper (said by far too many to be my celebrity twin) with his arm around a woman who was a dead ringer for a mutual friend and former co-worker. But she had titled her e-mail "Hi" and I had to to ask her, "What the bloody hell are you thinking? Don't you know that assholes are sending e-mails like that to spread viruses?" She confessed that she didn't know, and I felt bad for going off, especially since she's one of the few readers I have left.
But the sheer volume of these infected e-mails--sometimes as many as a dozen a day--surprised me. So I asked out tech at work what the blue fuck was going on. "The virus-writing community..." Wait...there's a virus-writing community? Do they get together for coffee or have conventions? "...is having a competition to see who can write the nastiest virus and cause the most damage on the Net." How absolutely darling. It's hard enough to maintain a site on the Web without these evil rat bastards trying to take me and Polly Jean down for the count. And to make things extra special, it appears that some of this dicksmacks have appropriated Adoresixtyfour.com's address to send some of these infected e-mails (or so I'm lead to believe, from the "mail delivery failure" notices I get from places like Canada, Great Britain and Hungary).
There's little more disheartening these days than seeing that my e-mailbox has a dozen messages in it, but not one of them is from a friend I haven't heard from in a bit, a close associate who's read the latest update and enjoyed, or some random stranger passing along a rare compliment. When only spammers are paying attention to you--and scant attention at that--it might just be time to pull the plug once and for all.
The spammers would have plenty of other, more tasty targets--they wouldn't miss me at all.
Friday, March 5, 2004
Spam Sandwich
This site doesn't get much e-mail--hell, it doesn't get much traffic of any kind, really. But like everyone else with an e-mail address, I get junk mail. Lots of it. For every message from a reader, I get ten from solicitors of one flavor or another. I just wish the flavors came in more varieties:
Penis Enlargement. There must be a lot of guys out there with tiny dicks. Or, at least, guys who think their cranks are minuscule. Because a majority of the spam I get is about penis enlargement, with such subtle subject lines as "Hey Adoresixtyfour make you're cock ENORMOUS" or "My wife loves me my King Dong." (Yes, their grammar and spelling are sterling, too.) And while I'm touched by the concern for the welfare of my male member, I'm sorry to report that their entreaties and efforts are badly wasted here. For one thing, size was never an issue for me--none of my girlfriends ever complained about any lack of length or width, and one, upon seeing my penis for the very first time, said, "Oh my God...it's HUGE!" I do not say this to boast in the least--it is not, in fact, anything remotely close to "HUGE!" Maybe it was the perspective from which she viewed that most private part of me, or maybe, compared to those she'd seen before, it was, indeed, larger than what she'd experienced previously. Whatever the case, it certainly didn't need enlargement. But on another, more pertinant point: My sex life ended about eight years ago, so even if my cock were dragging along the sidewalk behind me (wait...it hurts to even think that!), I haven't met any woman in recent memory who wanted to touch any such portion of my anatomy, much less who actually gave a damn how big it is.
Erectile Dysfunction. Apparently, not only do guys on the Information Superhighway have little wicks, but they can't keep their candles up, either. This was also never a problem for me: the last time I had sex (or the last time I can remember, anyway--give me a damn break, it's been nearly a decade), I was able to go for 45 minutes without coming down. And, again, my sex life, like Generalisimo Francisco Franco, is still dead (and about nearly as long, too). So stop offering me perpetual hard-ons, kids. They're wasted on me.
Paris Hilton. Okay, I didn't give a shit about the hard-partying elder heir to the Hilton Hotels fortune before she filmed herself honking the bobo of Shannen Doherty's ex (a tape which somehow made it out onto the Internet--an accident, I'm sure) or before she and the fugly daughter of Lionel Ritchie starred on a "reality" show in which they treated average, decent, hard-working citizens with less regard and more contempt than they would show for the flop dropping out of her little yipping dog's ass. And I still don't. So go away. Now.
Auto/Homeowners Insurance. Look, dicksmacks. I don't own a car. Never have. Probably never will. And the only way I'll ever be able to afford property in this God-forsaken city is if I (a) bribe the right alderman, (b) hit it big in the Lotto or (c) purchase an empty lot in a gang-/drug-infested neighborhood, dig a hole in the middle of it with my bare hands and call it home. And even if I did own a car or a house, I wouldn't be dumb enough to go without insurance. Then again, spammers think I have a microscopic trouser snake that I can't keep up, so maybe they really do think I'd be dumb enough to drive or buy property without insurance. But would I be dumb enough to buy insurance from somebody I couldn't look in the eye? Nobody's that dumb...are they?
"YOUR ASSISTANCE IS URGENTLY NEEDED." Why, certainly, I'd just love to give my phone number, address, social security number, savings account routing info, etc., to someone who randomly e-mails me out of the blue. Does anyone actually fall for this nonsense? Somebody must have, because I get at least one of these pleas a month, usually from a "gentleman" who claims to be someone called Bates Alan, a Nigerian dying from emphysema who needs help getting his money out of his country and into the hands of people who can use it to help others. For one thing, I had a dear uncle die a slow, painful death from emphysema, so I don't find its use in an obvious scam to be particularly amusing. For another, "Bates Alan"? I know I'm a stupid American and all, but I'm also a movie buff: Alan Bates was a longtime British character actor; the use of his name in this scheme is even more idiotic when you consider that he died recently, therefore putting his name in the news and under the noses even of people who don't frequent the Internet Movie Database. So not only are you a disgusting ratfuck, but a stupid one as well. Don't ever let me catch you, "Bates Alan"--I'll use your kneecaps for my Saturday morning oatmeal.
RE: Account suspended. The messages look official enough, with the eBay or PayPal logos (sometimes both, since eBay recently bought PayPal) prominently displayed with their basic layout, colors and fonts used. But why would they be asking for my password and my credit card number when they already have...oh, of course. It's because the messages aren't from eBay or PayPal or any other reputable organization that would jeapordize its reputation by soliciting such information via e-mail. They're from ripoff artists who want to steal my identity or, at the very least, run up thousands of dollars in charges on my Visa or DiscoverCard. Thanks so much, but I can take a wrecking ball to my credit rating without any help from knotheads like you. Really.
Whatever happened to people I know or love--or, in rare cases, both--sending me "Hey, how's it going?" or "I just got this fab job!" or "Just wanted to say hi...so, hi"? Why are the majority of the e-mails I get from people I not only don't know, but don't ever want to know? Is e-mail now just another means of shoving a hand into my pocket to take what little I have left? Is the Internet, as a means of hearing from people you care about, about to be as obsolete as letterwriting and making calls on anything but a cellphone? Or is the volume of this shit just dispiriting?
I don't know. My head hurts. And I think I just got another spam from somebodyoffering me Viagra again. Or computer equipment. Or a share in a Brazilian goldmine. Or....
Penis Enlargement. There must be a lot of guys out there with tiny dicks. Or, at least, guys who think their cranks are minuscule. Because a majority of the spam I get is about penis enlargement, with such subtle subject lines as "Hey Adoresixtyfour make you're cock ENORMOUS" or "My wife loves me my King Dong." (Yes, their grammar and spelling are sterling, too.) And while I'm touched by the concern for the welfare of my male member, I'm sorry to report that their entreaties and efforts are badly wasted here. For one thing, size was never an issue for me--none of my girlfriends ever complained about any lack of length or width, and one, upon seeing my penis for the very first time, said, "Oh my God...it's HUGE!" I do not say this to boast in the least--it is not, in fact, anything remotely close to "HUGE!" Maybe it was the perspective from which she viewed that most private part of me, or maybe, compared to those she'd seen before, it was, indeed, larger than what she'd experienced previously. Whatever the case, it certainly didn't need enlargement. But on another, more pertinant point: My sex life ended about eight years ago, so even if my cock were dragging along the sidewalk behind me (wait...it hurts to even think that!), I haven't met any woman in recent memory who wanted to touch any such portion of my anatomy, much less who actually gave a damn how big it is.
Erectile Dysfunction. Apparently, not only do guys on the Information Superhighway have little wicks, but they can't keep their candles up, either. This was also never a problem for me: the last time I had sex (or the last time I can remember, anyway--give me a damn break, it's been nearly a decade), I was able to go for 45 minutes without coming down. And, again, my sex life, like Generalisimo Francisco Franco, is still dead (and about nearly as long, too). So stop offering me perpetual hard-ons, kids. They're wasted on me.
Paris Hilton. Okay, I didn't give a shit about the hard-partying elder heir to the Hilton Hotels fortune before she filmed herself honking the bobo of Shannen Doherty's ex (a tape which somehow made it out onto the Internet--an accident, I'm sure) or before she and the fugly daughter of Lionel Ritchie starred on a "reality" show in which they treated average, decent, hard-working citizens with less regard and more contempt than they would show for the flop dropping out of her little yipping dog's ass. And I still don't. So go away. Now.
Auto/Homeowners Insurance. Look, dicksmacks. I don't own a car. Never have. Probably never will. And the only way I'll ever be able to afford property in this God-forsaken city is if I (a) bribe the right alderman, (b) hit it big in the Lotto or (c) purchase an empty lot in a gang-/drug-infested neighborhood, dig a hole in the middle of it with my bare hands and call it home. And even if I did own a car or a house, I wouldn't be dumb enough to go without insurance. Then again, spammers think I have a microscopic trouser snake that I can't keep up, so maybe they really do think I'd be dumb enough to drive or buy property without insurance. But would I be dumb enough to buy insurance from somebody I couldn't look in the eye? Nobody's that dumb...are they?
"YOUR ASSISTANCE IS URGENTLY NEEDED." Why, certainly, I'd just love to give my phone number, address, social security number, savings account routing info, etc., to someone who randomly e-mails me out of the blue. Does anyone actually fall for this nonsense? Somebody must have, because I get at least one of these pleas a month, usually from a "gentleman" who claims to be someone called Bates Alan, a Nigerian dying from emphysema who needs help getting his money out of his country and into the hands of people who can use it to help others. For one thing, I had a dear uncle die a slow, painful death from emphysema, so I don't find its use in an obvious scam to be particularly amusing. For another, "Bates Alan"? I know I'm a stupid American and all, but I'm also a movie buff: Alan Bates was a longtime British character actor; the use of his name in this scheme is even more idiotic when you consider that he died recently, therefore putting his name in the news and under the noses even of people who don't frequent the Internet Movie Database. So not only are you a disgusting ratfuck, but a stupid one as well. Don't ever let me catch you, "Bates Alan"--I'll use your kneecaps for my Saturday morning oatmeal.
RE: Account suspended. The messages look official enough, with the eBay or PayPal logos (sometimes both, since eBay recently bought PayPal) prominently displayed with their basic layout, colors and fonts used. But why would they be asking for my password and my credit card number when they already have...oh, of course. It's because the messages aren't from eBay or PayPal or any other reputable organization that would jeapordize its reputation by soliciting such information via e-mail. They're from ripoff artists who want to steal my identity or, at the very least, run up thousands of dollars in charges on my Visa or DiscoverCard. Thanks so much, but I can take a wrecking ball to my credit rating without any help from knotheads like you. Really.
Whatever happened to people I know or love--or, in rare cases, both--sending me "Hey, how's it going?" or "I just got this fab job!" or "Just wanted to say hi...so, hi"? Why are the majority of the e-mails I get from people I not only don't know, but don't ever want to know? Is e-mail now just another means of shoving a hand into my pocket to take what little I have left? Is the Internet, as a means of hearing from people you care about, about to be as obsolete as letterwriting and making calls on anything but a cellphone? Or is the volume of this shit just dispiriting?
I don't know. My head hurts. And I think I just got another spam from somebodyoffering me Viagra again. Or computer equipment. Or a share in a Brazilian goldmine. Or....
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