Instagram is an obsession about 12 hours old in my head, tapping away at the sides of my skull; Did someone else like my picture? Did they comment? A friend request? But no, as a new member, few follow me to date, despite my rapid flow of posts of everything from flowers to cats to friends to eighty-year-old wedding photos. Why did I take a blurry picture of the eighty-year-old wedding photos? Because I hoped that someone else would catch a glimpse of the beauty she held in her face, and finally grasp what has become of this world.
But I've been talking too much about Janet. Let's talk about Instagram.
Earlier yesterday, when a good friend took a picture of me sitting on a bench and posted it online, I worried, because most of her friends (the ones viewing the photo) don't really, um, how to say this politely? Like me. Or so I thought. Maybe I was just anxious and made some assumptions, because within minutes, people liked the photo! Her friends! The photo! Of me! And that's why I registered, because there's nothing like a notification that you're looking good. It's like getting a daily email that says, "You're awesome." I wonder if you actually can get an email like that. I bet so. This idea is so intrinsic to human nature that I can't be the first of think of it.
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