/ This post is in English; for the Chinese version review, please click on the link below）：-
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When My Street-Vendor Soul Met Shopee Store-to-Store and Ascended
I’m scrolling my phone with my zombie eyes, half-asleep, half-alive, when suddenly I see the words: “Shopee Store-to-Store.”
My pupils dilate like neon bulbs at Shilin Night Market. I scream inside my skull: “I want this. NOW.”
Instantly, my body time-travels back to my teenage grind—13 years old, runaway kid, hustling for rent. I’ve been hustling since before I could legally order a beer. Scratch that—since before I could legally ride a scooter.
Thirteen years old, runaway, broke but stubborn, I decided to fund my own survival by becoming a one-woman corporation. No board members, no investors, no coffee breaks. Just me, my busted spine, and the streets of Shilin Night Market.
Picture it: I’m this scrawny teenage girl carrying boxes bigger than my ego, selling clothes and cheap accessories at night, running an online store during the day, burning both ends of the candle until the candle of my body calls alerts on me.
I’m dragging bags and bags of wholesale clothes to the post office. My back is breaking like a grandma at the temple fair. Tape ripping, cardboard stabbing, fingers stick together like tragic origami.
The rain is pouring, my sweat dripping, customers nagging, and me—an insomniac child CEO with scoliosis in the making. Every psychic on the street is stopping me like:
“Girl, you got spirits following you.”
No, Auntie, that’s just my exhaustion. But hey, at least I can still find humour in this situation.
Fast-forward to today: There it is—a Shopee Store-to-Store joint right in my hood. I almost kneel on the sidewalk like it’s the Virgin Mary of logistics.
Inside, I approach the self-pickup locker, trembling. Phone number, verification code—My fingers are tapping like James Bond disarming a bomb. The door pops open.
And there it is: my package, lying there like a newborn child, a holy relic, a middle finger to every sleepless night I spent licking envelopes and praying to survive.
I cradle the parcel like Simba on Pride Rock. My inner soundtrack: Circle of Life, but remixed with EDM because, come on, this is Shopee.
I whisper to myself, “Thank you, machine, thank you, fluorescent lights, thank you for treating me like a human being instead of a tape-mummified postal slave.”
Walking home, clutching my order, I’m not just carrying a package. I’m carrying redemption. I’m carrying the ghost of my past hustle, finally laughing at me.
Every step feels like a victory march: me, the ex-night-market insomniac hustler, reborn as a queen of convenience. Life finally makes sense—not because I got my order, but because I didn’t have to tape my fingers together to get it.
When My Street-Vendor Soul Finally Ascended at Shopee Store-to-Store
Rent in Taipei isn’t cute, my friend. So I juggled two businesses like a circus act—Only no applause, just scoliosis and back pain.
And when I say I worked 24/7, I mean it. Sleep? Overrated. Rest? For rich people. I was a child CEO, insomniac by trade.
Even ghosts were probably looking at me like,
“Damn girl, sit down.”
Every. Single. Day. I’d drag my stock to the post office like a mule, not because I liked the cardio, but because I was cheap. Why pay for boxes, tape, and bubble wrap when I could squat at the post office counter, MacGyver my packaging out of their supplies, and save literally ONE TWD? A cent is a cent. That’s called hustler math.
Of course, my body was wrecked. 腰痠背痛 became my middle name. Psychics on the street would stop me, wave me down like traffic cops, and whisper with dramatic eyebrows,
“Girl, you’re being followed.”
Me: “Yeah, by back pain, debt collectors, and crippling insomnia.”
So when I finally stumble across an article online one sleepless night—Shopee is announcing this thing called Dian Dao Dian (Store-to-Store pickup)—I nearly choke on my instant noodles.
A service where buyers can just order, pick it up at a convenience-like spot, no human suffering required? No postal counter screaming “Next!” No tape-induced blisters? No, carrying my box mountain like a knockoff Atlas?
My eyeballs light up brighter than a night market jackpot machine.
If this service had existed back in my hustler days, I would’ve still had kneecaps, probably. Maybe even functioning shoulders. But back then, no such thing. Just me vs. the packaging tape wars.
Still, curiosity kills me. I gotta try it. So when I spot a Shopee Store-to-Store pickup joint in my hood, I damn near fall to my knees right there on the sidewalk.
This isn’t just a storefront—this is the logistical promised land.
I walk in, palms sweating like I’m about to confess my sins. A row of shiny lockers greets me, humming with possibility. I punch in my phone number and verification code with the urgency of James Bond cutting the red wire.
The screen flashes green. The locker door pops open.
Inside, my package sits quietly, glowing like the holy grail, like Simba held aloft on Pride Rock, like a fat middle finger raised to every night I dragged cardboard to the post office.
I swear I hear angel choirs. Or maybe that’s just the convenience store microwave heating up siu mai.
I pick it up with trembling hands, and I feel… lighter. Not because the package is small, but because my soul just dropped 10kg of regret.
The memories flood back: me, duct-taped into poverty, the sleepless nights, the ghosts, the psychics, the times I smelled like bubble wrap and desperation.
Now? One code, one locker, one moment of pure dignity. I’ve transformed from a struggling entrepreneur to a dignified customer, and it feels empowering and respectful.
I cradle the package to my chest like it’s my long-lost child. People are staring. Do I care? Not even a little. They don’t know what I’ve survived.
As I leave the store, I’m basically levitating. Every step feels like a victory parade. I’ve triumphed over my past struggles and emerged victorious.
I, the ex-night-market mule, now reborn as a queen of modern convenience. I don’t need an entourage—this box is my trophy.
And the best part? Shopee gives me five whole days to pick it up. FIVE DAYS. Do you know what that means to someone who used to race the post office clock? Sprinting like a stray dog chasing a scooter? It means freedom. It means choice. It means I can procrastinate in peace.
Even better, some of these spots are “Smart Pickup Stores.” Self-service, baby. No awkward cashier side-eyes, no explaining, just me and the locker in an intimate logistical romance. I type, I beep, I claim, I leave.
Efficiency so sexy I might write it a love letter.
Walking home, I clutch my package tight, and I’m laughing—actually laughing—at how ridiculous my past life was.
I used to think success meant suffering, that grinding meant glory. But no, sometimes success is just not bleeding from a cardboard cut. Sometimes glory is just opening a locker and going home.
I whisper to myself: “This… this is what civilization was meant to be.” Not flying cars, not AI girlfriends, but convenient pickup.
And in that moment, I feel like all my past selves—the teenage vendor with blistered hands, the insomniac packaging goblin at the post office, the girl flagged down by psychics who mistook exhaustion for haunting—they’re all standing behind me, slow-clapping.
Because Shopee Store-to-Store didn’t just deliver a parcel. It delivered redemption. It delivered dignity. It delivered me, laughing in the face of my hustling trauma.
So yeah. 5 stars. Would recommend. Would sell my soul for it. But luckily, I don’t have to—I just have to click “Store-to-Store” at checkout.
