Oct 3, 2015

Pic or It Didn't Happen

      I still remember how anxious I was before revealing a certain piece of information about myself to my best friend and due to the nervousness stemming from the forthcoming revelation, I still haven’t broken the news to my mom or my brother, not to mention that my father would probably die if he knew. They all most likely already suspect something's up but it’s never been openly talked about. No, I’m not talking about coming out, because I'm much more comfortable sharing my (bi)sexual preferences with basically anyone than disclosing the following piece of information with the people closest to me. And that is … that … I … I … have an Instagram profile.
     So when I finally was at a point when I couldn't hide the fact any longer and I simply had to tell my friend, I nonchalantly woven that into our conversation about a week ago and I got the reaction which I dreaded and expected (and truth be told, right(ful)ly so) when she said, “You what? You’re on Instagram?? You? On Instagram?? So what, now you’re gonna start posting a billion selfies and stuff, huh?” and then she burst out laughing. As I said, I was right to predict such a response and she was right to give it because honestly, there’s a million reasons why one wouldn't and shouldn't want to be on Instagram, where – at least in my case – there’s only one for it and my boyfriend made it painfully obvious a while back. This is how:
     Boyfriend: “You need an Instagram account.”
     Me: “No.”
     Boyfriend: “Yes, you do.”
     Me: “No.”
     Boyfriend: “Yeeeees, you do.”
     Me: “No.”
     Boyfriend: “Yes. You. DO.”
     Me: “No.”
     Boyfriend: “Yesyoudoyesyoudoyesyoudo!”
     Me: “No.”
     Boyfriend. “Oh, COME ON.”
     Me: “Why??”
     Boyfriend: “To promote your blog.”
     Me: “No.”
     Boyfriend: “Yes, you do. You need an Instagram account.”
     Me: “No.”
     And so it went on for days. Well, actually weeks, because I’m a tough cookie. But when I eventually broke (after some blackmailing and coaxing and then finally point-blank threatening that he’d set it up and ran it for me with or without my permission), I gave in, reluctantly as you may imagine, and then actually changed my mind a couple of times after the account was set up which led to me (ALMOST) crying when I tried to delete it but found out that there’s a bunch of shit you have to do and verify and ask (grovel) for if you want the profile eradicated because by creating an account you’re basically selling your soul to the  Instagram   devil  Instragram. And so now … I … I … have and Instagram profile. Even though I have a ton of arguments against it. But which exactly are those?
      Well, I'm not fond of Instagram for essentially the same reasons why I'm not fond of social media in general: because despite the fact that being a part of something doesn't necessarily mean that you are like everyone else, I still don't like to be associated with the mentality entwined with social media and that particular mindset can nicely be illustrated with a quote I heard years ago which still makes my stomach turn. It's from a trailer for a documentary entitled American Blogger, in which a girl says, "If we're not sharing it, if we're just keeping it private ... why are we experiencing it?" Honestly ... I just threw up in my mouth a little, because that has to be the vapidest, most self-absorbed, most moronic piece of shit I've ever heard. You experience stuff because you need to experience stuff for your own personal growth and development and enrichment, you dumb fuck, not for other people to see it. It's all for you.
     Sure, people are social creatures, we want to and need to feel connected with and be validated by other people — granted, some more than others, but that is the natural and innate tendency of the human psyche deriving from the need to blah blah blah. That's all fine and dandy but it has nothing, I repeat NOTHING to do with Instagram. Instagram, on the contrary, has everything to do with self-promotion, vainness, self-validation and/or blowing smoke up already-too-big egos' asses. That's the truth. Not sharing your experiences for your human psyche to feel fulfilled.
     Yes, our race has shared, commemorated and celebrated happy moments in our lives since forever probably, but sharing a picture of a cup of coffee you've just had? Or a picture of some pants you've just bought? Or a ton of pictures of yourself day after day after day? Come on, people. Want to know something about your Monday through Sunday selfies? They're pointless and here's why: I've gotten my driver's license in 2004 and I don't need to renew it until 2066. That's 62 years, 62 years the state doesn't want to see a fresh selfie from me, that's how much the state doesn't care. And guess what? I don't care either. If you haven't just shaven off all of your hair, gotten a glass eye, treated yourself to a new grill, gotten a nose job or something along those lines, I don't need to see your face in about a year, because I don't care. Ok?
     And while we're on the subject, I don't care what you had for breakfast either. Or lunch or dinner or all the snacks in between. I don't care what you're drinking at the moment or how you take (pictures of) your coffee. I don't care about the new soap you've bought or the outfit you're going out in. Just had a baby? Wonderful, congratulations! Graduated from college? Kudos to you, that's frigging awesome! Just ran a marathon? You're a fucking legend, I bow down to you! But other than that? I. Don't. Care.
     Now you're probably thinking, all pouty and sulky, "Well, you're just one (stupid) person, I have 3 hundred/3 thousand/30 thousand/300 thousand followers who say otherwise," but guess what? Even they're in the minority, because even though I'm just one person, I'm far from being the only one. Consider this: the most followed person on Instagram has 49 million followers, but there are over 7 billion people on the planet — there are roughly 7,322,000,000 people who don't care about the most followed person on Instagram. Sure, not all of those people have Internet access, some 7 don't, but other 7,321,999,993 people (give or take) choose not to care. Shocking, right? So in the grand scheme of things, no one cares about your Tuesday selfie, your morning smoothie, your fitness struggles or your new bag. This pic-or-it-didn't-happen mentality needs to stop. Pic or no pic, it DID happen and so what, get over yourself. If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, it still makes a sound and if you don't take a picture and post it on Instagram, you still ate your spicy lemon-herb chicken breasts on a bed of I don't give a fuck. So stop taking nonsensical pictures, put your phone down and go experience shit, because there IS a point in doing just that. Fuck.

     P.S.: As for the pictures, they're all fabricated, I don't eat like that, I don't think shopping is my cardio and I don't even drink coffee, which just goes to show, perception is reality — if you fall for it. I've taken all of the shots in one grueling afternoon and I think they're a perfect example of the following: just because you physically can (contort your body to) take a picture of something, that still doesn't mean that you should. So don't. Really. Don't.

     Thanks for stopping by and looking and reading (obviously) my mishmash jumble of pot-pourri-like craziness, it means the world to me. Therefore, you're welcome to pop by again next week to see what's new on the blog — I post once a week every week, most likely on Wednesdays. But beware, I'm not signing and sealing that in blood so your best bet is to follow FPS via email (or Bloglovin, Twitter, Instagram or Google+) to never miss an update. Or simply come by again sometimes!