I am a quitter — a strong quitter.
I am a walk away with my head (or maybe two middle fingers) held high type, the kind to call it quits on a relationship, or a job, or a country, as soon as it becomes clear that the tides have turned against me.1
A few things I’ve walked proudly away from, beyond just relationships jobs and sovereign nations: high school, a marriage, a come-on from a boss, a crass manipulation, pushy sales-people, an apartment where people were trying to make me stay in a neighborhood I didn’t know (twice, ten years apart, the first time under a tropical deluge in the middle of the night, where I had to spend about first half hour dodging their headlights, crouched behind vehicles, my knees soaking in the current of the pouring rain, while they looked for me) — oh and Facebook. I quit Facebook in August 2018. And cigarettes. For a couple years, caffeine. Currently, almost all alcohol. And now, drum roll please, I’m quitting Amazon.
Amazon. What a many-tentacled monster. I don’t think a person without my strong history of quitting could even make the attempt, given how deep in I am. My Amazon account dates back to 1999 or 2000, and I’ve been sucked into their “subscribe and save” program for a bunch of my necessities, for years, especially pet care items and household cleaners and things like that; but even more so: for almost a quarter of a century this monstrous machine has had me in thrall to its hideous convenience: random thought about random thing I passingly desire? Look it up on Amazon: they’ll deliver it tomorrow. How do you walk away from this Omelas?
The only way to walk away is one step at a time. So I’m going to start by letting my Prime membership expire. This should make it less tempting to use Amazon, and then easier to fully cancel the entire account.
When I quit Facebook, it was important to me that it not be a “deactivating” of my account: I wanted full deletion. With Amazon, I’m looking for something similar, and for similar reasons.
When I quit Facebook, my reasoning was clear: “I didn’t feel in control of how I used it and I didn’t like how I felt when I used it.”
(Leaving Facebook was not some bold political statement, altho if it were translated into a bold political statement, I would probably agree with the language.)
My Big Quit this time has a similar feeling: I’m doing this because I don’t like how I feel when I’m impulse shopping and impulsively scoping the front porch for boxes, and all that impulsivity makes me feel very much not in control.
My Facebook disconnection was painful, but worth it: I lost touch with people I would have rather stayed in touch with. But I got my mind back, my freedom back, my TIME back — I was able to sit on the steps and enjoy the morning with my coffee and my dogs, listening to the morning birds, without thinking about what was happening on that (for me) hellsite.
“Hellsite” was of course the pet name for Twitter before it even became “X,” which I assume is a symbolic representation of two sticks rubbing together to ignite even more rubber-reeking tar-stenched fire? Instagram is basically deadly poison for teenage girls’ brains, and since all of us (male female whatever, old ageless or young) have a teenage girl living inside us, that means Instagram exists so “the thing with feathers that perches in the soul”2 will start flinging itself at windmills and skyscrapers. And then there’s TikTok — while I can only speak for my own short forays into that space, TikTok is the complete abandonment of the self to the machinations of distraction. It’s volition-suicide. Never start. It’s not worth it.
I still encounter these platforms, you see — I don’t fear them, or at least my fear is a healthy fear, like fear of buffalo or nest-protecting goshawks3 (I spotted a goshawk by my chicken coop two days ago and I can tell you the meaning of the word “vigilance.”)
At any rate, with vigilance and care, this past August (8/23) I started a new Facebook account to 1) mark my five-years-off-the-site-aversery, and 2) just to see what it’s like there now. I worried for a minute that I might get re-addicted, but I quickly realized that would not be a problem. Facebook is boring — at least what it’s showing me is boring, to me. Endless recycled memes make up 90% of it. The other 10% are pics of people’s cute kids. Those cute kids are almost worth staying for — well, at least dropping in once a week for. And then of course regaining access to FB messenger meant I could be looped into family group chats I’d previously been oblivious to. But it’s not like it was when I quit — for one thing, I’m stronger now, and for another, it’s weaker: much weaker.
I wonder, as I watch the expiration date of my “Prime” account (January 4th) get nearer and nearer, whether a day will come when Amazon has been so weakened by the changing tech landscape that I would be willing to dip a toe back in, like I did with Facebook.
Could Amazon, in five years, be a de-fanged and de-clawed pussycat, a once-wild beast who after a stroke and a lobotomy and a thorazine prescription has settled into something harmless and quaint?
I gave up on the already-dodgy predicting-the-future-game when it went haywire back around 2016, but it’s hard to imagine Amazon going the way of Facebook. A de-fanged de-clawed Facebook was not hard to imagine in 2018 — if anything I imagined its decline would happen faster than it did! I was surprised all through 2019 and 2020 that people were still using that platform (or Instagram or any “Meta” product) at all — altho it was obvious to anyone watching (reading) that, while Facebook was still claiming rising North American user numbers during those years, they were lying.
It’s hard to picture Amazon experiencing anything similar. But if they did, they would adapt to it incredibly quickly: by comparison, “Meta” has always been hobbled by its unique corporate structure which gives Mark Zuckerberg (who btw now lives with his family in a underground lair in a dormant volcano) something close to absolute dictatorial power over the company — anything so big in the hands of one person must amplify that person’s flaws into grotesquery, it’s inevitable.
Amazon’s Jeff Bezos didn’t wield that kind of control, and anyway, he stepped aside so he could spend more time sending pictures of his rocket ships to his girlfriends. =D
No, it’s clear from Amazon’s structure and its history of action that they can add and subtract workers and warehouses with inhuman (and inhumane) speed. They can also conjure and destroy markets with a whim. And at the moment they have the greatest leverage of all: they are most people’s first thought of where to get almost everything.
I mean, take a second and list the things you wouldn’t — just wouldn’t — buy on Amazon: a house? A car? A dog? This isn’t going to be a long list.
If my quitting Amazon were translated into a political statement, I would probably agree with the language. It might be something like: consumerism is destroying the earth and the value of human connection; the inconvenience of shopping in person, especially in local shops, is actually the experience of living and breathing in a human society where economics is not de facto exploitative; and no one behemoth should have so much power and control over the flow of goods and commerce in a society, it’s just plain unhealthy.
But as with quitting Facebook, my reasons are simpler than that: I didn’t like how I felt when I used it, and I didn’t feel in control of how I used it.
And, at least with Facebook, a 5 year hiatus fixed it.
So time for a new quit-venture, which will surely be filled with inconveniences both material and social: I’m quitting Amazon.
Wish me luck!!
In addition to being a quitter, I am also a relentless persister (I am large, I contain multitudes). Which gear I’m in has everything to do with context, threat assessment, and core values. Knowing when to hold them means knowing when to fold them, is what I’m saying, and I’m never afraid to fold them where angels fear to tread.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/42889/hope-is-the-thing-with-feathers-314
“The name goshawk comes from the Old English word for “goose hawk,” a reference to this raptor’s habit of preying on birds. Falconers have trained goshawks for more than 2,000 years; the birds were once called “cook’s hawk” for their success at snaring meat for the pot.” https://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/American_Goshawk/overview#
I believe in you, Amy. We dropped our Prime Membership about two years ago and never looked back. Our kids were bummed temporarily about a few missing TV shows, but they got over it. Another move you could make is to completely empty your "wallet" over there. Any credit cards they have on file, delete them. This makes an impulse buy 1 more step less convenient, and it prevents them from sneakily charging you for some upgraded service you accidentally brushed your knuckle over while listening to music you purchased. I hate that shit.
I recently started a new blank slate, non-Prime Amazon account strictly for author activity - buying my friend's books, leaving reviews, etc. But I hit a snag when I had to purchase $50 worth of merchandise before they'd ALLOW me to review a friend's book. Thankfully, I had a few more books to purchase and was able to meet the threshold, but not before I spent an hour scrolling through images of curtains for my new office space and literally wanting to vomit from the sheer oversaturation of junk products. It's way too much.
And you're right about Instagram. I go there to laugh mostly and find that I do, but not without dodging ad after ad prodding viciously at my vulnerabilities around the topics of A) anxiety/depression and B) aging like a human being. I just want to look at cats, dogs and lumpy dads doing their best. Why can't we have nice things?
I applaud your decision and have complete faith that you can do this. 💪🏼💪🏼💪🏼💪🏼💪🏼
You can do it, Amy!
My wife and I quit for years without issue. We were never hugely entrenched in the ecosystem, but just a few weeks after canceling Prime we didn't even notice. Home Depot, Best Buy, Target, and the various grocery stores (all also villains, BTW) have everything you need and more, not to mention your local shops, where you can find that elusive human connection you're seeking.
Ironically, after a similar 5-6-year embargo we rejoined Prime this year, mostly for the television content. We've certainly bought more from Amazon as a result, but not as much as you'd think. I still prefer to procure my goods at Costco, in person, and generally I find Amazon to be pretty fucking useless, given its rampant enshittification.
You've inspired me. I think we'll cancel again. :-)
Happy holidays!