DoorDash: The Hangover Hero or Just More Debt?

DoorDash is trending, they say.

No shit.

Like I needed Google to tell me.

My bank statement already did.

My kids, too. "Dad, can we get pizza again?"

Again? It was only three nights ago. Two, if you count that time I ordered Chinese because the thought of standing up was a personal affront to my skull.

DoorDash. The modern man's crutch.

Mine, at least.

Sunday morning. The light through the blinds is a direct assault on my retinas. Each beat of my heart is a tiny drum solo behind my eyeballs.

Breakfast.

My wife is giving me the look. The one that says, 'Don't even think about touching those bacon strips after last night.'

Fine.

DoorDash to the rescue.

Two McMuffins. A coffee. Maybe a hash brown. For me.

And a couple of fruit cups for the kids. So I don't look like a total monster.

Twenty minutes later, a stranger hands me a grease-stained bag. My hero.

No eye contact required.

No small talk. Just transactional relief.

Twenty bucks, minimum. For food I could've walked across the street for.

Or made myself. If I wasn't busy trying to re-attach my brain stem.

Convenience. That's what they sell.

What I buy is a momentary reprieve from adulting.

A few minutes of quiet while the kids devour their nuggets.

Another expense. Another reason the savings account looks like a sad joke.

But a hot sandwich and a cold soda? Worth it.

Every time.

Until the next time I check the bank balance. Then it's just another regret.

Like the fourth whiskey sour. But tastier.

And less likely to end in a drunken text to an ex.

So yeah, DoorDash. It trends because we're all broken. Or hungover. Or both.

Probably both.