It’s entertaining right up until six identical lampshades arrive at your door, proving how easily one can be lured by the promise that one item can fulfil every need. The cardboard you’re buried in becomes a quiet monument to confusion and guilt—evidence of ‘Sir Purchase-a-lot,’ that midnight algorithm that always outsmarts you.
Thoughts
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The Perils of Online Shopping at Midnight
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Rain on Pavement
The sound is oddly soothing—constant, rhythmic. It taps. It taps. A gentle cadence that lulls the mind, unhurried. The steady rain blurs old days and idle intentions, yet forgives such lapses. It taps, patient; its rhythm reassures, promising you can always try again.
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The Post That Never Came
You check the window. Then the clock. Then the door—as if that summons it. Tracking says it’s coming, but it’s really your hope you’re tracking. Waiting becomes a quiet loneliness, knowing what you expect may never arrive.
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The Great Sock Disappearance
One sock goes in. Two tumble out—never a matching pair. The washing machine’s appetite for socks is unmatched, a silent enigma. Somewhere, a universe of stray socks exists, living unworn. I wish they’d send a postcard. Once, in a moment of impulsive creativity, I paired polka dots with pinstripes and wore them to work, convinced I was starting a trend. Imagine my embarrassment when my quirky boss chuckled and asked if I dressed in the dark. Now, every trip past the laundry is a reminder: fashion risks untried become regrets.
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The Tyranny of the Self-Checkout
The self-checkout speaks like a disappointed supply teacher, and the line ‘unexpected item in the bagging area’ could test the patience of even the most saintly person. I freeze mid-scan, wave a loyalty card like a truce flag, and await the flashing beacon of judgement. An assistant appears, presses a secret blessing, and the machine forgives me for my fruit. I leave with groceries and a tiny bruise to my dignity.
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The Unsent Email
I wrote a long, tidy email full of the truths I’ve avoided for years, read it through twice, then highlighted the whole thing and pressed delete. The heat drained in the writing. What mattered stayed behind: a clearer chest, quieter shoulders, fewer rehearsed arguments. No outbox drama, no ping, just relief. Sometimes the send button isn’t part of the medicine.