I used to think monsters came from under the bed. These days, they arrive via delivery — unannounced, unwanted, and prepaid.

Online shopping, once a modern miracle, has morphed into a form of spiritual testing. Picture this: It’s a manic day at the office. Emails are pinging, meetings overlapping, and then the rider calls. Not just any rider — the dreaded kind. The ones who speak in riddles, whisper like conspiracy theorists, and hang up before you can say, “Kinsa ni, Sir?”

Pressed for time and patience, I asked, “Pila?” and paid. Only to discover, hours later, that I had funded someone else’s impulse. A phantom order, a mystery package. I didn’t need it, want it, or even recognize it. Price tag? P700. Emotional damage? Ongoing. I can almost hear my brother saying, “Awata ta, Ter!” and me shooting back to myself, “Tell that to the Marines, Mitot!”

Months later, déjà vu tried to strike again. Another call. Another mystery. But this time, I was older, wiser, and more allergic to scams. “Wala koy gi-order, Sir. Balik na lang na,” I said, firmly. That’s what growth looks like: not just refusing the package, but refusing the emotional manipulation behind it.

Of course, let’s not ignore the recurring characters in this drama — the delivery riders. We won’t name brands, but let’s say one rhymes with “tax him,” and hearing their call is like entering a game show where the prize is confusion. We rarely hear ear to ear. I have yet to meet one who’s not, shall we say… aurally challenged. The day I met a rider who heard me the first time, I nearly handed him a trophy. “Maayo kay dili bungol ang rider,” I said, like I had just discovered a unicorn.

But let’s be honest — scams aside, online shopping feeds something deeper. It’s not just about convenience. It’s about control in a chaotic world. The ability to choose, tap, and await a package gives a sense of accomplishment, even if it’s just a collapsible laundry basket I didn’t know I needed until the algorithm said I did.

Somewhere along the way, we’re not just shopping — we’re medicating. That “add to cart” moment is a dopamine pill. Checkout? Instant power trip. Delivery? A brief high that maybe, just maybe, our life is improving. Never mind that the item is a garlic press shaped like a swan. To me, it symbolizes hope.

But hope is not a strategy. Especially when it arrives COD. The truth is, online shopping exploits our cognitive shortcuts. We’re more likely to buy when the product has glowing reviews (written by bots), when it’s “on sale for the next three minutes,” or when we’re emotionally compromised — like after a bad Zoom meeting.

Even the physical act of scrolling is deceptive. It feels productive, as if browsing through 137 options for shower curtain hooks is a meaningful life task. It’s not. It’s escapism disguised as utility. And here I thought escapism was only for books and movies. Apparently, it shows up everywhere.

Fashion, however, is where I draw the line. I still believe in touching the fabric of society. Literally. I prefer physical stores. The lighting is more forgiving, the mirrors less judgmental. I only shop for fashion online when it’s through the brand’s site. Resellers? No, thank you. I already have enough trust issues, and they’re not eligible for return.

So yes, online shopping is a happy experience — with occasional bumps, bruises, and full-blown scams. It’s both a blessing and a behavioral case study. In the end, we’re not just consumers. We’re tap-conditioned creatures of convenience — which would be funny if I weren’t still tapping.

And just like that, I realized I don’t have a shopping problem. I have a hope problem — and on busy days, even my memory’s on pre-order.

Still brewing thoughts — no sugarcoating, just stories steeped in truth. No returns.