Anonymous Confession

It started so innocently, or so I told myself. A flicker of impulse, a tiny rebellion against the sheer, soul-crushing chaos that is a Costco parking lot on a Saturday afternoon. Now, it’s a habit, a secret vice that nibbles at the edges of my conscience, and sometimes, it feels like it defines me in a way I never wanted to be defined.

The frustration is universal, right? You circle and circle, past rows of hulking SUVs and minivans, each spot a coveted prize. Your eyes dart, scanning for the tell-tale glow of reverse lights, the puff of exhaust, any sign that freedom is imminent. And then you see it—a car, brake lights on, backing up ever so slowly. Your heart gives a little flutter of hope. You put on your signal, commit, positioning your car perfectly, ready to swoop in like a hawk.

That’s where I come in.

I’ll see you there, waiting. Maybe you’ve even made eye contact, a polite nod of acknowledgement, a silent agreement passing between us in the automotive jungle. I’ll make a show of it. I’ll turn on my reverse lights. I’ll ease back a few feet, just enough to confirm your belief that this is *your* moment. Your signal will flash, you’ll inch forward, engine purring with anticipation. You’ll be picturing that giant bulk pack of toilet paper, the rotisserie chicken, the free samples.

And then, I just… stop.

I turn off my reverse lights. I pull forward a little, straightening the wheels. I pick up my phone and pretend to send a vital text, or adjust my rearview mirror with exaggerated slowness, or simply stare blankly ahead, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on my lips. The moment stretches, a silent battle of wills. Your signal continues to flash, a beacon of dashed hope. You’re confused. You’re annoyed. You’re realizing, with a slowly dawning horror, that I was never leaving. I was just… messing with you.

The first time, it was an accident. I’d legitimately been about to leave, then remembered something I’d forgotten to buy. I saw the car waiting, signalled, then pulled back in. The driver’s face was a mask of disbelief and frustration. And in that instant, a strange, dark thrill shot through me. A tiny spark of power in a world where I often feel completely powerless.

Now, it’s a conscious decision. A little ritual. When the stresses of the week pile up—my impossible boss, my dwindling savings, the way my partner has been distant lately—the parking lot becomes my arena. It’s a cheap, easy hit of control. I get to decide who gets a spot, who waits, who feels that momentary surge of annoyance that I, for some twisted reason, find so satisfying. I watch the person’s face fall, the slumped shoulders, the angry wave they might give before circling off again. And for a fleeting second, the heavy weight inside me lifts.

But the relief never lasts. It’s always followed by a cold, immediate flush of shame. Who does that? What kind of person derives pleasure from such petty cruelty? It’s not funny; it’s just mean. I drive away from Costco, my trunk full of cheap goods, but my head heavy with the unspoken confession of what I just did. I replay their faces, their resigned sighs. I imagine them telling their families about the jerk in the parking lot.

I look at myself in the rearview mirror and I don’t recognize the sneer that sometimes accompanies the act. It’s a part of me I wish I could shed, this dark little shadow that finds satisfaction in another’s minor inconvenience. I know it’s not about the parking spot. It’s about something deeper, something I don’t want to face. But for now, it’s my secret, my ugly little confession.

Am I alone in this? Does anyone else ever feel that urge, even if they don’t act on it, to just… mess with people for a moment of fleeting, misguided power?