Dear Gmail: I would love to consider including David Gillner. More than anything in this world, I would love to do that. In fact, that is all I think of. I consider including him at the dinner table when I count the plates. I consider including him when I find a piece of great new music, and when I hear Danish on the train and wonder what it means. I consider including him in the group of us traveling together, and in the list of Christmas presents, and the people who should be wishing me a happy birthday. I consider including David Gillner in choosing the names for my children and writing my eulogy. I consider including him in the tally of who should ride in which car to the funeral, only to realize it is his.
The thing these days, however, is that I can't include him. I wish your fancy algorithms were right this time, but death does not figure too well in your formula. How about if you consider fucking yourself.
