I would wager that there’s no place on God’s green—err, asphalt—earth where it’s more annoying to receive a package than in New York City. Whether an overpriced West Elm nightstand or an Amazon Prime amalgamation of flaxseed, socks and Infinite Jest, you better pray you’re actually home when that hapless delivery person arrives. If not, be prepared to drown in a sea of missed-package notices that eventually blanket your door like New Year’s Eve confetti in Times Square. Then, you’re in for a mind-numbing trip to your local post office or, gulp, the “processing facility” on the extreme outskirts of town, a rouse that’s almost certainly a setup for your murder.
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Of course, your overworked and underpaid delivery person, might also just throw fate to the wind and plop your package on your stoop. When you get that delivery notification, you better run home faster than if you were in the New York City Marathon. If you make it, the euphoria you experience when you finally grip your safe-and-sound package is perhaps only comparable to the best sex you’ve ever had. If you don’t, be prepared to live through the whole nightmare tomorrow. Is it all worth it for a stupid nightstand?