I want to delete my Facebook so fucking bad. Without sounding like an asshole, the only reason I have one is to shamelessly self promote and cyber stalk.
Instagram however, is like a slutty little sister. On one hand she drives me nuts – but at the same time makes me feel better about my life. Sure you may have to take her to planned parenthood on a weekday but she will also capture you looking your best with a protruding clavicle and a fresh blow dry #MAYFAIRFILTERBITCH. It’s an internal battle I am just not mature enough to handle. The problem with our generation is that we think what we are eating, wearing, cooking, looking at from traffic, or how we looked as babies all are both interesting and relevant to others. The truth is no one really gives a fuck – we are in this social media clusterfuck for our own benefit and publicity.
I am 100% guilty of this.
98% of photos on my Instagram have been posed, propped and assembled with perfect lighting. I will let meals get cold finding just the right angle to display my domesticity with the perfect shot of my homemade linguini and clams. Does this make me a fucking loser? Most definitely.
If I were clever enough to understand Photoshop I would let myself go and live solely through my warped reality of Instagram. I could Photoshop myself in Aruba with Adriana Lima’s body sipping a chi chi despite the fact that I am really home alone raping a baguette with butter. I would get this 5 pound weave out of my scalp and give it back to the Ukranian hooker who sold it for a pretty penny (albeit a hooker who’s been taking her fish oil because this hair is shiny as fuck #omega3).
Social media makes our daily doings seem glamorous and unintentionally pushes us to try harder. We now pay more attention to garnishing our homemade meals with basil, embellishing our outfits for a #ootd gram and have seriously upped our nail game. So in reality… it’s just making us better dressed, better housewives and better at forming relationships with the Vietnamese. “Flowa fo yo nail?” No bitch, unless I am under the age of 6 or have some type of crippling mental disability I don’t want a fucking flower.
In the real world we can’t edit, brighten, caption or add music to our moments in time. We get pimples, wear sweatpants, drink mojitos out of things other than mason jars or are only seen in a bikini after a small bout of the stomach flu. Essentially, it’s all just a curated highlights collection of our life. As much as it would be a real hoot and a half to upload a picture of an allergic reaction after a faulty bikini wax – I would much rather broadcast my new Gucci shoes I had to sell an ovary for.
So go ahead bitch, stand in front of a rustic brick wall, look out into the distance while someone “candidly” snaps a pic of the outfit you spent 4 hours putting together #fallfashion. Lose a finger in the process of julienning fresh chives to garnish your store-bought lentil soup #homemade. Awkwardly hold a kiss until you get the perfectly loving snap of you and your boyfriend of 2 weeks who has a small penis and an even smaller savings account #truelove #mcm and always remember… everything looks better with a filter.
@jackieschimmel … #iwokeuplikethis