Amazon is my sugar daddy.
That sentence is incredibly problematic on multiple levels, but it’s pretty much the truth.
“You broke your phone case? Go to sleep and tomorrow you will have a fresh new one on your doorstep,” he croons.
Just for covering a little of his gas money, he’s got you the rest of the year.
He brings me books! So many books! “Tell me what you want,” he says, and all I have to do is fill the cart.
“Whoa,” he says. “That’s a lot of books. Maybe you want Kindle Unlimited instead?” (Turns out I didn’t, as the free trial showed me, but he tried. )
“You want music in every room of your house simultaneously without having to wear your pesky AirPods? Let me show you my helpers.” He snaps his fingers (well, I press mine) and every. damn. room. resounds with “Banana Pancakes” on the weekend. (Okay, that one is still in the works. Currently they aren’t linked, but they will be if Amazon Prime Day is as fruitful as I hope this year.)
There aren’t many problems Daddy Amazon can’t solve.
I said it was a problematic relationship. I know all of the arguments against all these shipments and the company, and I can see firsthand the cardboard piling up nearby, which necessitates multiple trips to the street barn weekly.
And I’m a feminist writer – we have patrons, not sugar daddies or mommies! (Let’s not do a Venn diagram comparing those relationship, am I right?)
But when I want to explore my trim options, Daddy A shows me ten I hadn’t even known existed. He helps me figure out just how much I need, assures me it’s easy to install, and shows me how it will look in my room!
For someone who gets easily overwhelmed with all the possibilities (but then grows increasingly sure of what she wants once she wades through it all), it’s so tempting.
Also, she likes all the possibilities.
Looking for a classic movie to stream? He’s probably got it. Or something he swears you’ll like even better.
Need a gift idea? Just ask.
Sure, he occasionally fibs: “You’ll have that by tomorrow evening,” when it doesn’t show up for two or three days. And some of the drivers…let’s not.
My neighbors, so environmentally conscious that some weeks they don’t even put out their trash can (I want to ask how but that seems impertinent), probably sigh at the volume of packages that arrive on our doorstep.
Maybe they’re just jealous.
I can ask my sugar daddy if he has a friend if they want.
P.S. In case it is not abundantly clear, this is a parody, all in fun, a jest.
Also, this is what I wrote instead of working on my Rilke assignment, which is to find a photograph of someone famous and describe them without talking about their biography. Naturally, I’m writing about Virginia Woolf, Man Ray’s photo shoot with her. And I’m writing a side poem for myself about the fact that he put lipstick on her for it, etc. So I guess I am working on it, just not exclusively.