It starts with a whisper. A distant grumble. The polite, almost apologetic announcement of hunger. You don’t notice it at first. You’re too busy. You’ve got things to do, tabs to close, an inbox filled with messages that don’t actually require responses but linger ominously, anyway. And then, suddenly, it’s a roar.
You are starving.
But cooking is a nonstarter. You’d have to check the fridge, confirm that it’s an unholy wasteland of expired condiments and regret, and then—God help you—actually prepare something. That would mean dishes. And right now, you would rather do anything else than deal with dishes. No, there is only one path forward. One button to push.
DoorDash.
It’s so simple. It’s so frictionless. Tap, tap, tap. Done. And yet, you know. You know. The financial self-sabotage lurking beneath that little red icon is not subtle. It is overt. It is devastating. It is the $14 burrito that will cost $42 when the dust settles.
You scroll. You debate. You think about getting something slightly healthier. But this isn’t a decision made by the rational part of your brain. This is survival. You want something hot, something immediate, something that will comfort you like a weighted blanket made entirely of melted cheese. And then you see it—the thing you didn’t know you needed but now must have. A bacon cheeseburger. Maybe fries. No, definitely fries. You add it to the cart. You stare at the subtotal. It seems… fine. Reasonable, even. You move forward.
And then the reckoning begins.
There’s a delivery fee. Of course there’s a delivery fee. It’s not much, just a few bucks. And tax. Naturally. But then, there’s the service fee, an amount so arbitrary it feels like a prank. Why is it $6.52? Why not a flat percentage? What is this math? You don’t know. You don’t ask. Because the alternative is to question everything, and that’s not why you’re here.
Then the tip. You want to be a good person. You are a good person. You slide the suggested amount higher, higher, until you feel morally superior but also slightly aggrieved. But wait—there’s more. A “small order” fee because you had the audacity to only want one meal and not commit to a week’s worth of leftovers. Fine. Whatever. Just finish this.
The total: $47.84
You stare at the screen. You stare at your reflection in the black mirror of your phone. You consider your life choices. And then you press Place Order.
Because at this point, you’re too deep. The moment of financial prudence has passed. You’ve already imagined eating the burger. You can feel the salt hitting your bloodstream. The regret is irrelevant now.
The wait begins. The tracker updates with a little animated icon of your hero—the dasher—departing the restaurant, weaving through traffic, risking life and limb to bring you sustenance. You watch the slow, excruciating progress like a kid waiting for Santa.
And then, finally, it arrives. You fling open the door, grab the bag like it contains the Holy Grail, and race to the kitchen. You pull out your meal. It’s smaller than you expected. The fries are cold. The burger looks… fine. You take a bite.
It’s good.
Not $47.84 good. But good.
You sigh. You eat. You close the app, knowing full well that in three days, or maybe even tomorrow, you’ll do it all over again.
