Sorry, Instagram, It’s Not You

It’s totally me

After more than a decade of steady engagement, I have thankfully pushed Facebook out of the equation, and I’m proud my decision was based on earlier suspicions that turned out to be even worse than any of us could’ve ever predicted.

My addiction to Twitter is so strong that I’ve never bothered to contemplate taking an extended break because of the glaring truth of my helpless dependency that goes beyond viral goals and shoutouts from esteemed blue checks. I’m greeted with a convenient screenshot of the day’s menu as part of my morning ritual, and having my fingers on the pulse of brewing trends is an appetite that demands frequent replenishment.

It’s not a shocker that I’m hooked on a platform that was designed to entrap our habitual needs with extra room for burgeoning online movements and cultures of accountability.

But when it comes to the visual splendor of Instagram that thrives purely on manifested narcissism, it’s a wonder how I developed a palette for the feted album of #bestlives and #relationshipgoals.

I’ve never taken Instagram seriously, opting instead to be an online gawker who sometimes stalks the pages of successful influencers who proudly show off their latest accomplishments to the applause of approving followers. I usually hover with promises…