Instagram has become my loyalist companion and fiercest nemesis. She is a fickle mistress. I think upon her much as the ancient and craggy sailor pines after the sea, long after his sea legs are vanished and usurped by weak gnarled things that he must hide under a hand-knit afghan, staring out the window, lost in a sea locker of memory.
She is my great white whale, my elephant in the room. If I were Herbert Melville I contest that I could write a text to rival his, at least in length. Diligently, I tend to her as I would my garden. Yet my garden, at least, does bear fruit for my labor. My Instagram leaves me with an aching void inside my chest, and knowledge that I will never yet understand her in all of her multifaceted intricacies.
Am I meant to follow back? Post pictures of my bare breast? How about the ice cream cone I consumed with such childlike joy and innocence on Saturday afternoon? If I do not already know the answer, will I ever?
Maybe someone can start a Masterclass and I can pay my hard-earned cash to make my Internet presence well-known.
How do I make Instagram work for me?