If you don't think reading an email you just sent is rediculous, imagine...

It's 1977. Donna Summer blares on the Hi-Fi. You just wrote that angry letter. You saunter over to the pea-green Xerox machine, make a copy, envelope the original, stamp, address, and send it on its way by dropping into the massive iron, tamper-proof mail box with 8 coats of chipped Post-Office-Blue DuraPaint located at the street corner with hundreds of scattered cigarette butts, to which you have to walk.

Upon returning, you flip on The Love Boat and have a sip of Courvoisier. You think about picking up that copy sitting on the grossly gnarled and darkly stained end-table next to you. It's just on the glass that covers the decorative nicotine-stained wickerwork underneath.

"Aw, but lemme just see..."

And you read. Like a moron, you read it.