“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”
It’s an old adage that’s been helping 6-year-old losers cope with getting verbally bullied on the schoolyard and 26-year-old bloggers cope with getting textually bullied on the internet for centuries now.
“OK fine,” I said to myself after skimming through their constructive criticisms and licking my lips. “Maybe Twitter and blogging and sports and sex and the radio and real life aren’t my lane,” I rationalized. But I honestly believed that I had real potential with Instagram, and I don’t know why I licked my lips in that particular situation. Regardless, I really did think that I had a future with the gram…a different, more profitable gram this time. As my follower count (and ego) grew, I gradually started envisioning myself traversing the globe and influencing others to strive to be just as empty and wealthy as me.
I thought I could make a difference and motivate millions of people to have hotter bodies and richer parents. I wanted to use Instagram as a platform to let them know that just because they might not have designer clothes or expensive cars or access to the internet/social media, doesn’t mean that everyone else is in the world is in the same boat as them.
I truly wanted to inspire underprivileged people from third world countries to believe that it does get better. For others.
I wanted to get paid to cross things off my bucket list.
I wanted to experience the most beautiful and luxurious destinations without stressing over finances.
And I wanted to hit the slopes without worrying about spending lots of money or getting kicked out of hotels.
I wanted to flaunt my voluptuous assets on the streets of war-torn Syria while my ad deal Ray Bans simultaneously funded my Middle Eastern voyage and kept the harmful ashes out of my milk chocolate eyes. I wanted it all. I wanted every square inch of the instagram influencer lifestyle.
And I undoubtedly deserved it.
So you can imagine how ecstatic I was when I finally eclipsed 10K followers on Saturday evening, which thus, solidified myself as an official* Instagram Influencer. Yuppp. I remember opening up the app while I was attempting to savor the last, imaginary droplet of my Lower Manhattan rooftop cocktail, realizing the magnitude of my achievement, and then absolutely fucking scoffing at the bartender when he told me “that will be $24” for my Aperol Spritz. “Here’s a 50, keep the change.”
Is what I would’ve said if I was paying with cash instead of a maxed out credit card. Oh well. In my head, I officially struck gold with this milestone, and all-inclusive trips to the Maldives and 5 figure eBay bids just to accompany me at 1OAK for a night were only minutes away.
That was, until a couple hours later, when I checked my notifications and a particularly lengthy comment caught my mocha eye.
I’d be lying if I said this guy didn’t completely own my soul with this comment. He murdered me with words, and now he controls my every move. Like a helpless victim of some type of Jeff Dunham/Dahmer hybrid, I’m his (dead) puppet and he’s having his way with me.
As hard as it is to admit, he didn’t tell a single lie. He told me he’d “break” me, and like a poverty-stricken Barbie counterpart, I’m broken. He demanded me to “get off,” and like my last encounter with Vegas security guards, I was forced off line again.
And yes, I desperately craved more followers, so I took advantage of my famous “friend” Dan to make that happen. Unfortunately, lions (big cats) don’t concern themselves over the opinions of sheep (little white creatures like myself), so I couldn’t rely on him to have my back in that situation. Whatever. He had other priorities, so I guess it makes sense that he just let me get brutally murdered and chewed up by the Jeffrey Hybrid. It’s honestly fine. He couldn’t have saved me anyway. Lol.
So there’s that. I’m done trying to gain followers and “clout” on social media. I’ve already begun my search for real friends and tried seeking out support from fake friends. Peace.