I Bought Gum, and All I Got Was This Treaty of Versailles
There are few moments in life that prepare you for being handed a receipt from CVS.
You walk in for toothpaste, or gum, or shampoo — something small, something simple, so I went to CVS. I bought gum.
One pack. No points, no BOGO offers, no charitable donations rounded up to the nearest dollar. Just gum.
What I received in return was not a receipt so much as a punishment wrapped in thermal paper. A scroll. A document of such grandiose length and complexity, I half-expected it to be written in Latin and notarized by a robed figure holding a wax seal.
It was not merely proof of purchase. It was an existential challenge. A test of will, patience, and spatial reasoning.
And like all great works of American bureaucracy, it began with optimism and ended with confusion.
The Receipt as Modern Literature
The CVS receipt is not just a record of commerce. It is, arguably, the last surviving relic of serialized American literature. Dickensian in length. Kafkaesque in logic.
It begins innocently:
“Thank you for shopping CVS!”
By the middle, you’re confronted with conditional savings so elaborate they read like IRS loopholes:
“$1 off shampoo with purchase of 17 qualifying products, excluding Sundays, holidays, and any time Mercury is in retrograde.”
And it ends in a quiet despair familiar to anyone who has ever thought, I’ll definitely use this coupon next time, only to find it expired three days ago, sometime between lunch and existential crisis.
These receipts aren’t just long. They’re epic.
Odyssean. Biblical. Tolstoyan.
They could be broken into volumes:
Volume I: The Transaction
Volume II: The Coupons You’ll Never Understand
Volume III: The Expiration Dates That Will Haunt You Forever
Somewhere in the subtext: a chilling reminder that you’ll be back.
The Psychology of Pointless Loyalty
No one wakes up and says, “Today, I will pledge my loyalty to CVS.”
It just… happens. Slowly. Subtly. Through conditioning.
First, they give you a card.
Then, they give you points.
Then, they give you ExtraBucks, a currency so baffling it might as well be pegged to the ruble.
And then they give you receipts. Long receipts. Receipts that seem to whisper, You belong to us now.
We don’t go back because we love CVS. We go back because we’re halfway through a loyalty program we didn’t understand when we signed up and still don’t, but now feel emotionally obligated to finish.
We chase the rewards. We chase the discounts. We chase the dopamine hit of “You saved 38¢ today!” while ignoring the $11 we spent on something we didn’t need just to get it.
It’s not shopping. It’s Stockholm Syndrome. With coupons.
Coupons as Passive-Aggressive Performance Art
Coupons used to be straightforward.
“Here’s a dollar off this thing. Go wild.”
Today’s CVS coupons are performance art. Experimental theater. Psychological warfare disguised as savings.
The offers are confusing. The conditions are impossible.
“$2 off if combined with other offers, excluding other offers, and only redeemable during an equinox.”
Expiration dates are cruelly timed.
You’ll find the coupon when it’s too late. You’ll feel the shame.
You’ll think, Next time, I’ll be better. You won’t.
CVS coupons don’t want you to save money. They want you to reflect on your choices. They want you to grow. To suffer. To mature into the kind of person who finally figures out how to use them… just before you die.
The Receipt as Mirror of Society
The CVS receipt is a perfect metaphor for modern life:
Excessive, unnecessary, inefficient, yet somehow normalized through sheer repetition.
We have accepted the absurdity because we’re too tired to fight it.
We carry our receipts like monks bearing sacred texts, carefully folding them into smaller and smaller squares until they fit into the emotional junk drawer where we keep expired gift cards and unsent thank-you notes.
This is not just a receipt. It is a commentary on consumption. On ritual. On the human tendency to tolerate small indignities because this is just how things are now.
We accept too much.
Too much paper.
Too many apps.
Too many loyalty programs.
Too many points we’ll never redeem because we forgot our login.
The CVS receipt isn’t the problem.
It’s the symptom.
Environmental Hypocrisy, or, How to Kill a Tree for 30% Off Mouthwash
Somewhere in CVS headquarters, there is likely a sign:
“Sustainability: Our Commitment to the Planet.”
Right next to it, a printer the size of a Ford Fiesta churns out receipts long enough to choke a sequoia.
They sell reusable bags. They sell biodegradable products.
But their receipts? Deforestation in list form.
You need a paper shredder just to reclaim your kitchen counter. Fortunately, CVS sells those too.
It’s a perfect business model:
Create the problem. Sell the solution. Offer a coupon. Print another receipt. Repeat until the sun burns out.
The Great Paper Shredder Irony of 2025
One day, you’ll reach a breaking point.
You’ll clean out that drawer. You’ll find the stack.
Receipts folded, crumpled, frayed at the edges. Coupons expired. Offers missed. Rewards unclaimed.
You’ll laugh. You’ll weep. You’ll shred.
And there, in the dustbin of your suburban despair, among the shredded remains of years of meaningless transactions, you’ll realize:
You’ve been trying to escape this receipt since 2014.
You’ll vow to change.
You’ll go digital.
You’ll refuse the paper.
You’ll download the app.
And then one day, you’ll walk into CVS for toothpaste.
You’ll decline the paper receipt.
You’ll smile at your small rebellion.
And as you leave, your phone will ping.
“Your receipt is ready. View online.”
Congratulations. You’re free.
But only until your next purchase.
#CVSReceipts #ModernLife #ConsumerCulture #TooMuchPaper #LoyaltyProgramsAreALie #EfficiencyFail #CorporateNonsense #EverydayRidiculousness #WhyAreWeLikeThis