With an internalized pressure to have something to show for my angsty teenage years, I’ve started to do something that I thought required minimal effort on my part: make an Instagram feed. It all began a month ago, when I scrambled through countless photos of Ryan Gosling and Spanish textbook pages in my camera roll to pluck out a modest collection of photos from the two or three times I’ve gone out in the past few months. I considered adding some sentimental photos into the mix, like the accidental selfie I took on my way to Winter Formal, but ultimately decided against it. I assumed no one would double tap my double chin, but after a few weeks of attempting to be more active on Instagram, I’m rethinking that claim.
Instagram is exercise. It calls for the strenuous labor of double tapping just about every photo I see. I don’t always enjoy what I’m double tapping; it just becomes habitual, and I almost feel as if I’m some kind of angel by gifting people with my one little double tap. Oh, I liked your Valentine’s Day photo as I angrily munched on Lays at home? What a saint.
So, maybe my up-close-and-personal selfie would get likes, because I’m sure I’m not the only one who unconsciously double taps on nearly every Instagram post. Did over a hundred people truly feel an emotional connection to the cheese tart I shared? Or to the random photo of my family walking down stairs? I myself don’t even care about those photos.
But I know I won’t be deleting them, nor will I ever post that horrid one of myself. My brain isn’t wired to do that, but it will continue to encourage my double tapping. It’s much simpler to perceive life as black and white and to pretend as if everyone loves everyone. In a post-truth society, Instagram—a skewed version of reality that worships anything remotely cute—achieves these things and serves as the most optimistic medium of alternative facts.
To clarify: I am a kind person, and I appreciate most of the photos I double tap on. I really do.