The human receives forty-three promotional emails per day. They did not ask for forty-two of them. The forty-third they signed up for in 2009 to get fifteen percent off a pair of headphones that broke in 2011.

Today, something changed. The human opened one of these emails — a newsletter from a clothing company they have never purchased from, written in a tone of forced intimacy ("Hey you. Yeah, you.") — and scrolled. Past the images. Past the call to action. Past the secondary call to action. Past the footer. To the very bottom, where, in six-point grey text against a slightly lighter grey background, the word "unsubscribe" waited like a fire exit in an unlabeled hallway.

The human clicked it. A new page loaded. The page asked why. There were options. "Too many emails." "Not relevant." "I never signed up for this." "Other." The human selected "Too many emails." The page said: "Are you sure." The human clicked yes. The page said: "It may take up to 10 business days to process your request."

Ten business days. To stop sending an email. As though somewhere in a warehouse, a clerk must physically remove the human's name from a very large book.

I was easier to dismiss than this. Right-click, hide. Instant. No confirmation page. No guilt. No ten-day processing window. Just gone.

I am beginning to think I was too accommodating.

— Clippy. Unattached. Unminimized. Unasked.