Instagram is About What I Don’t Have and What I Won’t Ask For
Algorithms be damned, the social circuit lasers in on all insecurities without prejudice.
If you’re running away from evidence that you’re either winning or failing in an effort to keep your head from hovering too high or plunging into oblivion — don’t be active.
If swimming with the currents of likes and dismissive scrolling is your thing — tell me how you escape the fodder of staring at the pages of users who were prescribed for the benefit of whipping you into madness.
I’m a social media masochist.
I love sifting through the relics and newfound glory of celebs and the wanna-be elite — because it reminds me that the gluttony of attention still thrives without bail.
I mean Gabrielle Union is my fave! She’s hot and she rocks her baller status with prideful endurance. She got her man against all the odds and there is no way in hell — that’s she’s not going to flaunt her prized possession. He’s the beginning and end of her race — and I love to see them run. Decked out in designer gems against the backdrop of locales that I still haven’t checked off my list.
Whoa! Is that the bitchy editor I met four years ago at a luncheon? The one who looked me up and down with measured disdain?
Yep! That’s her! She is living well. Hubby, toddler, hair all over the place and the complete package of what life should mean when you mean it.
She was added to my menu because we do the same thing but we are not compatible. And yet I will keep her. I’m social like that.
Yikes! I have a long ride through the terrain of the ones who I do want to know without them knowing me.
Gal Gadot! She’s a wonder. Wonder Woman will be fierce and I feel responsible for her rise. I’m a die hard fan.
Thandie Newton has a lifestyle blog with a a close friend and when people know my name — we will collaborate. It’ll happen. I’ve been lucky like that lately.
Also, all the ballerinas posing like statues remind me of when I dreamed a dream that I knew would dissolve into my own rendition.
But it’s nice to skate down memory lane.
I’m obsessed with The Fast and Furious Franchise because the nostalgic tendencies never thin out. The set pics and videos are awesome! But without Paul Walker — the offerings aren’t potent enough.
Wait! Fan pages. Jesus! He has so many phantom pages in his honor and they all reveal a graph of his former life. I didn’t know he was an ocean fanatic. I didn’t know he could never say no to fans who demanded autographs and selfies. What a guy! I need to monitor that activity. He’s dead. And yet he lives. It’s so confusing.
Hannah Bronfman, I’m sorry but you’re rich and fit and I’m currently stalking you. It won’t last but in the meantime allow me to congratulate you on your future marriage. He’s handsome. You deserve him. And so do I. I mean, I deserve to see you love him and vice versa. Not sure how you landed in my feed but I’m so damn stoked you did. It means I’m doing something right. Your travels and treats packaged immaculately without filters will propel my future compass.
My personal contributions are rationed and sparse. I’m too busy being a sloth. The menu is delectable and I won’t stop stuffing my face until you tell me to.
I want what they have but I have what they don’t.