I have reached a point in adulthood where I no longer believe major corporations are fully operated by humans. I’m not saying there are no humans involved. I’m just saying somewhere between the warehouse, the shipping label, customer service, and the mysterious “awaiting carrier pickup” phase… society appears to hand operations over to woodland creatures and hope for the best.

It started innocently enough. A swimsuit. Not a yacht. Not a designer purse. Not nuclear launch codes. A twenty-three-dollar swimsuit from Kohl’s. Now listen. I shop at Kohl’s constantly. Towels. Shoes. Squishmallows. Random seasonal decor I absolutely did not need but suddenly couldn’t live without. Half my household has probably been funded by Kohl’s Cash and poor impulse control. So when my swimsuit disappeared into the void, I figured it would be easy. A quick chat. A simple refund. A normal human interaction.

That was my first mistake. Because according to the tracking information, the item was in a magical phase called: “Awaiting Carrier Pickup.” For WEEKS. Not moving. Not scanning. Not existing in physical reality. Just spiritually lingering somewhere between the warehouse and another dimension.

At first I thought maybe it was delayed. Then I thought maybe the carrier lost it. Then, after my fourth customer service response, I developed a new theory entirely: The logistics hubs are being run by raccoons. Not metaphorically. Actual raccoons. Tiny little trash pandas wearing reflective safety vests and scanning random boxes with sticky fingers while a squirrel named Kevin panic-hoards swimsuits behind aisle seven.

It’s the only explanation. Because every response I got felt less like a conversation and more like an enchanted NPC dialogue loop in a low-budget video game. “Your package shows delivered.” Ma’am. That was the SHORTS. We are discussing the SWIMSUIT. Different item. Different tracking. Different dimension apparently.

Then came the macros. Ohhhh the macros. Corporate customer service has discovered the art of sounding emotionally supportive while accomplishing absolutely nothing. “I completely understand your frustration.” Do you though, BrendaBot 3000? Do you truly understand my frustration while actively responding to the wrong item entirely?

At one point they sent me a message that said: “I would REALLY love to process a replacement order for you at no cost.” And I just stared at my phone. Because nobody talks like that naturally. That wasn’t a person. That was either AI or a woman forced by corporate policy to communicate entirely through prewritten emotional support fortune cookies.

Meanwhile somewhere in America, a goblin with a barcode scanner is using my swimsuit as a hammock. And honestly? This isn’t even my first encounter with the woodland logistics syndicate. Thanksgiving should have taught me that.

The Great Wine Fiasco of 2025 already revealed the cracks in society. That incident alone nearly convinced me modern infrastructure is held together by: one exhausted mother, two underpaid employees, duct tape, caffeine, and a possum with administrative privileges. But this? This confirmed it. Because after HOURS of chatbot purgatory and copy-paste empathy paragraphs, something magical happened.

A unicorn appeared. And naturally… it was a woman. Of course it was. Not a flashy woman either. Not some dramatic movie entrance with wind blowing through her hair. No. This was the kind of woman who probably had: a migraine, an iced coffee she forgot to drink, three unopened emails labeled URGENT, and almonds in her purse because lunch became a myth around 2014. But unlike the others… she LOOKED. Actually looked. And within approximately eleven seconds she said: “Hold on. That tracking belongs to the shorts.” EXACTLY. THANK YOU, DIANE. YOU SEE THE VISION.

Suddenly the mystery unraveled. The swimsuit had never shipped. The warehouse lost it. The refund was processed. Civilization survived another day. And honestly, maybe that’s the real reason unicorns are so rare now. They’re too busy fixing disasters created by raccoons with access to shipping labels.

At this point I fully believe society functions only because exhausted women continue quietly solving problems while the rest of us scream into automated chat systems and Kevin the squirrel loses another package.