Dear gracienewman@stanford.edu,
Let me explain a little something to you about unsubscribing from our emails. Every single time someone clicks that shadowed, corner button so aptly labeled “Unsubscribe”, we get a notification. Do you know what that notification says, gracienewman@stanford.edu?
It says “You’re fucking worthless.” It says “Eat shit, dirt boy.” Not literally, but it might as well. You don’t want to read our articles, gracienewman@stanford.edu? Why not? Do you think you’re better than us? You’re despicable.
You know what? It’s fine, gracienewman@stanford.edu. We’re going to write a whole article about you. It’s going to be wondrous, and tell all your dirty little secrets. And you’re not even going to see it. Listen up, loyal readers: here’s everything we could dig up about gracienewman@stanford.edu.
Living in Narnia, room 213B, we observed gracienewman@stanford.edu waking up at 10:30 AM to depart for their first class of the day. Lazy. This gave us a good five hours to dig through their personal possessions in their room, during which we found a surprising lack of condoms. Don’t practice safe sex? That’s even more embarrassing. A picture of gracienewman@stanford.edu’s boyfriend was framed on the desk – thankfully, we were able to identify the individual, and are holding him hostage at the Stanford Flipside club room. We also found adorable photos of gracienewman@stanford.edu with their parents, which we immediately burned.
A note to all readers: don’t fuck with us. We will shatter you, gnawing at the defeated person that remains. Good luck saving your boyfriend, gracienewman@stanford.edu, and welcome to the Flipside, motherfucker.
