It was yesterday, 8pm, and I was starving. These days, my appetite seems to tend to the extremes; if I’m not famished then I can assure you my stomach is so full that any sudden movement could set off an orchestra of farts. But it’s these moments of extreme hunger that concern me most.
Okay, so I blacked out. I can’t tell you how it happened but what I can tell you is that, after being jolted awake by my buzzer, I found myself signing a $60 bill for groceries. I brought the bag into my apartment, ripped it open, and found—to my amazement—that nothing was edible. How did this happen, you ask? Seamless is how it happened.
Seamless is like that jealous friend who always encourages you to wear clothes that you know look terrible on you. Or tells you, “No way! Are you kidding?” when you ask if you need a lip wax, despite the caterpillar that’s visibly growing under your nose. You think they’re helping you out, until the very last moment, when it’s already too late, and your ego/bank account has been depleted to a nub.
Thanks to Google Chrome, I have to only type an “S” into my search bar to be immediately ushered to Seamless’s website, as if there’s a tempest due to hit at any moment, and food is running out fast. Even the rare times when I’m neither hungry nor too full — merely sated — Seamless will somehow convince me to try out the new taco spot on 6th avenue. I blame it on the bright orange “NEW!” stamped on every restaurant that has popped up in the past year—they really tap into your pleasure center with that one.
Then there are the hazards of navigating seamless while stoned, which are manifold. Like the other day, when my boyfriend offered to put our Seamless order on his credit card and I gladly accepted. I chose the food, went to checkout, added a little more tip — “He’ll never notice,” I thought. All seemed to be going swimmingly until I fell right into their trap—their credit-card-saving, blinding-colored-buttons trap. I thoughtlessly clicked submit and then put myself — finally — into debt.
And while we’re on the topic of weed, it should probably come as no surprise to most of you that weed and food binges aren’t memories one typically looks back on fondly. In fact, they’re memories best buried—something you unfortunately cannot do with ease if you’re a frequent Seamless user. Sign on and you’re instantly greeted by the disapproving glare of your entire order history. That order history section is more precarious than you might think. One time I tried clicking a restaurant from my order history and unwittingly reordered two large 16-inch pizzas and 4 blackberry rhubarb pies. I was alone.
The rare times I do intentionally visit the website on my own accord — and not as a result of weed-induced starvation—I’m always greeted by that disdainful fucker, “Welcome back, Rachel!” My bones to pick with this are twofold. One, who are you and how do you know my name? Moreover, are you privy to my late-night insomnia cookie order of 18 cookies on, I don’t know, May 17th? Yeah? Okay, good. And second—I get it. Welcome back. As in, you saw me this morning and now I’m back for round two. I GET IT.