It's a Saturday night, and I'm stopped at a red light on Sunset Boulevard. My gaze travels to strangers on patios laughing, drinking and eating delicious looking meals. I'm achy from being stuffed into my driver's seat for hours. Hunger burns a hole in my stomach. My jeans are uncomfortably snug, reminding me it's an inconvenient time for another bathroom break. Many restaurants won't let me use their restroom when I'm picking up an order, so I have to hold it until one that will. My car smells like the last three things I delivered — Japanese seafood, barbecued meat and the Chick-fil-A I just dropped off at a Bel Air mansion. I'm a vegetarian.
I should log off the app and go home to my basic Hollywood one-bedroom, where budget-conscious meals I prepared myself wait in my fridge. But it's still the dinner rush, and my phone goads me with the familiar chime of incoming offers. Declining them seems like refusing money waved in my face. As someone who recovered from abusing substances years ago, I recognize the signs of being hooked: I can't stop even when I want to or when it would be in my best interest. And, through "gamification," delivery apps encourage and exploit this compulsion.
