Living as I do in a small town, I do a lot of shopping online. I love that shit. No crowds, no lines, and they bring it right to your door. Sometimes they even gift wrap it for you.
But there’s one tiny little problem with online shopping: the tracking numbers.
To illustrate my point, and because I’ve used up all my good words slogging through the middle of my novel draft, I drew these in between hitting refresh on the courier’s website.
Getting packages in the mail before tracking numbers:
Even that fucking box is happy.
And getting packages in the mail after tracking numbers:
Tip: hitting ‘refresh’ every eleven seconds is not as helpful as you might think.
Note that it takes the same amount of time either way. The package arrives at your house no fucking faster. But I can’t shake the feeling that, if I keep checking, I’ll make that damn box move out of the sorting room. As if there’s a little sensor on it that goes off when someone checks on it for the seven thousandth time and the people who work there go, “Well, shit, we’d better get this one on the truck right away because there’s an impatient asshole out looking for it.” More likely, if there were such sensors, those would be the packages destined to be dropped, shaken, deliberately sat on, and then lost, because you are an impatient asshole. And nobody likes that guy. Nobody.
Still can’t stop clicking it, though. If you need me, I’ll be over here, tracking the package after every sentence that I write.
Bare Knuckle Writer 