![]() ![]() Sure, I could always click “ignore conversation” and immediately send all chain emails to my junk folder, but I had an even better idea. Just as I was about to let go of my $1,000 MacBook Air, I was struck by an idea. Without hesitating, I grabbed my laptop and ran to the dumpster, ready to throw it in - anything just to stop the influx of emails into my inbox and madness into my psyche. ![]() I woke up screaming and shaking from head to toe. “Ping,” he chuckled, his pupils suddenly far too round and the same color red as the new mail notification. I made a joke about our RA, and he opened his mouth to laugh, but an unsettlingly familiar noise came out instead. I was standing outside my room talking to the cute boy from down the hall. Outlook followed me into my dreams that night. “PING.” Am I going insane? “PING.” Is it normal to feel this angry over a listserv? “PING.” “PING.” “PING.” Please God, how do I make it stop? Instead of taking the logical route and simply not clicking “reply all” on an email chain of thousands of students, my peers felt the need to send their frustration on a one-way, non-refundable trip to all of our inboxes.ĭon’t they realize they’re just making the problem worse? I wanted to scream but found that my voice was lost over the roar of Outlook. I scrolled in awe, not wanting to believe how flawed we are - as both humans and students. Others basked in the glory of it all, sending memes or taking the opportunity to make a deez nuts joke. The golden rule of “ask three friends before asking the teacher” seemingly didn’t apply, as everyone had a question they felt the need to share with the class. The emails came in massive waves, moving faster than a first-year near the burrito bowl station at 5:01 p.m. “I will report your emails,” one public policy student typed, her fingers buzzing with the anticipation of finally delivering liberty and justice for all.īut it was to no avail. I don’t want to receive these emails,” another implored desperately. “Why am I on this?” one inquisitive student pondered to his 8,000 peers. Without even realizing it, my body had been classically conditioned to respond to Outlook’s chime, and the little red dot next to the blue icon instantly filled my armpits with sweat and my heart with anticipation.īut instead of reading a job offer from a high-paying internship or the (no bueno) result of my last Spanish test, I found myself squinting at email after email of what looked like straight gibberish. It was at this moment that I understood the true power Pavlov had over his dog. “Ping.” “Ping.” “Ping.” “Ping.”Īt a loss for words, I ran over to my laptop and clicked on my email. I remember the day vividly - I was sitting in my Morrison dorm room, absentmindedly reorganizing my hand sanitizer and disposable mask collection, when all of a sudden I heard a familiar noise. ![]() When thousands of UNC students accidentally get emailed an Outlook listserv chain, some fight, some take flight and some respond “take me out of this.”įor those of you who don’t know about the listserv emails I’m referring to, consider yourselves lucky. ![]() But I’d like to introduce a third reaction to the kind of danger that only Outlook email services can supply. This instinct is as innately human as it gets.Īll of history has proven, time and time again, that the two Fs are wired into our brains as intricately as a COMP 110 class. Some prefer to run at the first warning sign, while others stick it out and clench their fists. Beyond the pre-loved duds, Grey Moon - a repeat winner in this category - also stocks contemporary giftables including branded totes and stickers, crystals, incense and handcrafted jewelry.We all have our own fight or flight response when we sense danger. In keeping with its online roots, the compact shop on wheels posts regular merchandise updates, notifying its 10,000-plus Instagram followers about arrivals spanning from well-worn vintage tees and denim cutoffs to enamel pins and '60s-era bowling shirts. Initially an Instagram e-tailer that gave way to a pop-up in a shipping container, Grey Moon is now housed in a lovingly refurbished 1969 Avion Travelcade trailer parked at the Shops at Broadway News. In six short years, married duo Natalie Medina and Colin Bass have turned their sustainable small business Grey Moon Vintage into a must-stop shop for Alamo City nostalgics. ![]()
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