Yesterday, I did not survive the Target bear trap. I was sucked into the Dollar Spot, and I didn’t resist the endcaps – and that pumpkin-shaped mug looks atrocious in the real world’s regular light. (Why is it that everything looks better under Target’s lighting? I need the name of their bulb guy for my bathroom lighting.) I somehow managed to make it home without the shampoo or deodorant I actually went in for. My brilliant plan? “No problem, I’ll just order it online.” That is how my obituary will begin.

There I was, staring at my computer with the Amazon store blazing back at me. I swear the second I open the app, there’s a halo of flashing lights and a full angelic choir. It’s less online shopping and more a black hole of clicking, pulling me in one suggestion at a time.

I go in for one item, ONLY ONE, and the site immediately starts whispering in my ear like a shady street hustler. “Hey, people who bought deodorant also bought a five-pack of novelty spatulas and a Himalayan salt lamp. Interested?” No, Amazon. No, I am not. Weeeell, I did read somewhere that the salt lamp is good for asthmatics and also serves as mood lighting, so technically it’s a medical device and home décor. That’s basically a two-for-one.

But then there’s the “frequently bought together” section, which is pure chaos. Shampoo, a box of bungee cords, and a six-pack of beef jerky? Who are these mythical customers, and why are they bathing, strapping, and snacking all at once? And who am I to say no to a bag of all-natural, grass-fed beef jerky? I did hear Jillian Michaels say that it was a good source of protein.

And don’t even get me started on the suggested items. I’ll be searching for conditioner, and suddenly Amazon decides I need a treadmill, a live bonsai tree, and a four-tier fondue fountain (how do they know my weakness for anything cheese? And molten, melty cheese as a dip? Add to cart.). At this point, I’m staring at my cart like an unsupervised raccoon at a Vegas buffet, feral, overstimulated, and double-fisting crab legs. Is Amazon really helping me live my best life, or just quietly preparing me for an episode of Hoarders?

Then there’s the sneaky add-ons, the little $12 items that “might go well with your order.” Suddenly, I’m debating whether I should also get a gel nail kit, a mini waffle iron, or a novelty sweatshirt that says Ask Me About My Cat. Spoiler: I don’t even own a cat. I’m deathly allergic, and they freak me out with their judging eyes and pursed lips.

By the time I finally check out, I’ve clicked through thirty-seven tabs, read 432 reviews (half of which are in another language), and convinced myself that I can’t possibly live without a bulk pack of dehydrated astronaut ice cream, a taxidermy squirrel playing the banjo, and a 12-foot inflatable Grim Reaper with red flashing eyes and waves at passing cars. Did I need them? No. Do I love all of them now? Absolutely not.

So, yes, Amazon is its own trap, an endless rabbit hole where logic goes to die, and packages arrive at my doorstep like little cardboard trophies of my weakness. Besides, if I don’t have at least six Amazon deliveries a week, the neighborhood Amazon driver might assume I’ve been kidnapped and alert the FBI.

At this rate, I’ll need all those Amazon boxes to build myself a starter home when my husband finally throws me and my orders out on the curb. Honestly, with Prime shipping, I’ll have enough cardboard in two days to construct a three-bedroom ranch with an open floor plan. The HOA may frown on it, but at least the walls will smell faintly of Yankee candles and dry shampoo.

And thank goodness I didn’t cave at Target, because my Brad Mondo shampoo only lives online. Let’s be real, regularly priced store-bought shampoo is for muggles.