This holiday season, what I’d like is some self-discipline. Not towards cookies or festive cranberry-flavored cocktails – give all those to me – but towards the incredible ease and convenience of buying every last one of my gifts on Amazon.

Last year I did not purchase a single major present that did not come from Amazon. Not one. And while I’ve been lured in by the reasonable prices and free (for a fee!) Prime shipping for years, it’s only in the last 12 months that I’ve finally realized: the reason Amazon keeps taking over the world, despite having terrible labor practices, is … me.

It’s not faceless hordes that don’t shop locally. It’s not evil data scientists hell-bent on placing frightening mini robots that listen to conversations in every household. It’s me. And millions of people exactly like me.

I’m sorry, little shops. Like everyone else, I honestly love you.

That’s why I’m stopping this Amazon Christmas present habit.

Alexa: this ends now.

Underneath my glee at the deals and the convenience, I know Amazon is not good. My soul knows it.

It was actual rabbits, in 2011, that led me down the Amazon Prime rabbit-hole in the first place. At the time, I was living in Chicago with my partner and our two pet rabbits. Now, a rabbit’s diet consists mostly of timothy hay – they go through huge amounts of the stuff, devouring strand after strand like miniature wood chippers. Pet stores sell timothy hay, but only in grudging bags that are so expensive they cause you to gasp involuntarily and stagger backwards in the “Small Pets” aisle, clutching your heart.

One icy January night, I had gotten off work late. Remembering I was out of hay for my bunnies, I dashed off the train and managed to duck inside a pet store as it was closing. I bought the largest bag of hay they had, wrapped my arms around it, and set off for home.

I slipped almost immediately. The hay bag flew into the night sky, and I landed butt-first in a slushy puddle. Still a solid 15-minute walk from my apartment, I waddled sadly and wetly home, where I re-enacted the hay fiasco with dramatic flair for my partner. She handed me a towel.

“Maybe they sell hay on Amazon,” she said. She had just gotten a student Prime membership.

We looked. Amazon sold timothy hay. It was cheap – much cheaper than the pet store – and you could get it in ten-pound bales. Ten pounds of hay for $19.99?!

I never bought hay in a store again.

It turned out a lot of things were available and cheaper on Amazon – more things than I’d realized. The face soap I use that’s hard to find was on there. The crunchy hippie lotion I like that absorbs immediately and smells like coconut milk and I’d only ever seen at random co-ops? Whoa. It was also on Amazon. The fancy disposable fountain pens I had to special-order from art stores were there, as were newly released books, magazine subscriptions, and shampoo. Socks! Makeup! Software! My use of Amazon just crept up. These were items I was going to buy anyway, and they came right to my door! The future was now, baby, and my god, my lazy ass loved living in it.

And once it dawned on me that you could buy Christmas presents, and get them wrapped, and then shipped – for free – to someone’s house … well, I never really came back from that. Christmas presents were a matter of saving my money for months and then clicking. Done.

But last year, after buying zero presents in a physical store, I didn’t feel pleased to have it all done. I felt like Christmas shopping had lost a bit (OK, all) of its magic. And I felt a little ashamed of myself.

I know Amazon’s track record for labor practices is not good … I know the average worker makes $13.68 an hour

Because underneath my glee at the deals and the convenience, I know Amazon is not good. My soul knows it. I actually fear Amazon and how it’s taking over. I am afraid of Alexa and what she means, and I am creeped out by how easily, how casually, she was embraced by millions of households.

I also know Amazon’s track record for labor practices is not good. I know the workers can’t form unions to protect themselves. I know the average worker makes $13.68 an hour [the 2017 median salary, based on Amazon’s company filing last year] and that Amazon is one of the top 20 employers of people dependent on food stamps in several US states. I know the workers are worked until they’re physically worn out; they sometimes can’t even take bathroom breaks and still meet their productivity quotas. I know that Amazon CEO Jeff Bezos’s wealth grows $3,182 every second (that’s $191,000 per minute) and that no one – no single person on this earth – should be allowed to be that rich. And what does he use it for? Humanitarian efforts? Eradicating childhood leukemia?

“The only way that I can see to deploy this much financial resource is by converting my Amazon winnings into space travel,” Bezos has said.

Space.

Travel.

Amazon thrives and grows off the back of cheap, replaceable labor. And it continues to succeed, because oh my god, it’s Tuesday at 6pm and I am exhausted and hungry and the last thing I want to do after work is go to the mall to buy a generic-yet-just-nice-enough Christmas present for the office Secret Santa exchange.

And I’m not alone. As a society, we’re all overwhelmed – pressed for time, all the time, and someone has got to do the shopping and wouldn’t it be great if we could press a little button and have the things we need and want just appear?

That exists now. And it’s completely irresistible.

I need to try and resist. Even just a little. Because I know what’s behind the blue half-smile of the Amazon Prime symbol. It’s a sea of human beings – vastly underpaid human beings who will walk up to 15 miles in a single shift to pick up the Charles Dickens biography I’m buying for my dad. They’ll pack it and ship it, and it’ll be here tomorrow, because that’s convenient for me.

I’m very, very used to this. In fact, I’m coming to expect it.

Habits – especially habits of convenience – are hard to break, but I’ve reached the point where I can’t keep pretending I don’t know what my little Amazon habit is funding.

I could do with a little less convenience, actually.

I’m starting with Christmas.

• Krista Burton is a writer for the online magazine Rookie

• This article was amended on 17 December 2018 to clarify that the reference to Amazon’s $13.68 average hourly rate was based on 2017 figures, and that calculations of Jeff Bezos’s wealth were based on his net worth, including his Amazon stock ownership, not just his company salary.