Let me preface this by saying I am not anti-technology. I’m not one of those people who wants to bring back cassette tapes, dial-up internet, or the Black Death just because it’s “retro.” No, I quite like the idea of online shopping. It’s just the reality of online shopping I object to. A reality that appears to have been designed by a committee of caffeinated toddlers with a fetish for captcha codes.

Theoretically, online shopping is a modern miracle. You click a few buttons, money disappears from your account (possibly via Luxembourg), and then a package magically appears at your door, containing—if the algorithm gods smile upon you—the thing you actually ordered. Usually it’s some nightmare version of that thing, made of polyester and what feels like a kick in the bollocks.

Take, for example, the simple task of buying socks. This should not be difficult. Humans have been wrapping bits of cloth around their feet since the Roman Empire. And yet here I am, twenty minutes deep into an existential crisis on Amazon, trying to decipher the difference between “breathable athletic no-show ankle liners” and “moisture-wicking foot gloves for performance enhancement.”

They’re socks. I want socks. I don’t want my feet to be enhanced. I want them to be warm, dry, and unscented.

But online retailers disagree. They want you to think sock shopping is a lifestyle choice. An expression of your soul. Are you a “bold argyle adventurer” or a “minimalist ribbed innovator”? But I just want socks that don’t collapse into a damp, wrinkled wad inside my shoe like a defeated jellyfish.

Then there’s the sizing. Oh, the sizing. I clicked on a pair of socks advertised as “One Size Fits All.” But in the size chart it said, “Fits shoe size 6-12, depending on foot shape, planetary alignment, and whether love is smiling to all Scorpios.”

And the reviews. Good lord, the reviews. You learn things about people in sock reviews that no human should know. “Gave me blisters after my divorce.” “Great socks, wore them to court.” “Fit perfectly but my cat choked on the packaging.” None of this helps. I don’t want a Greek chorus of emotionally unstable sock poets. I want a pair that doesn’t disintegrate faster than my will to live.

After three hours of scrolling through vaguely sinister product descriptions—“These socks cradle your feet like a mother’s touch”—I finally order something, only to be informed it will arrive between Tuesday and the heat death of the universe.

Three weeks later, a package turns up. I open it, trembling with anticipation, and find… a USB-powered foot massager shaped like a rabbit. No socks. No explanation. Just a note that says “Enjoy your purchase!” I am not enjoying it. I am terrified of it.

In conclusion, online shopping is a cruel joke, a hall of mirrors made entirely of false hope and prime memberships. The local sock shop might have smelled faintly of damp carpet and you had to interact with a fellow human being, but at least when I went in and said “socks,” the human being gave me socks. No mystery, no algorithms, no unsolicited rabbit massagers.

And yes, I still wore them. Because the return process involves printing something, and I haven’t owned a printer since 2007.