the ocean

I've been getting pretty into Instagram lately. I actually joined it several years ago, but I didn't really understand that it could be used for anything other than putting filters on photos to make them look like you have a shitty old camera instead of a nice new one, so I didn't do much with it. My account literally consisted of some blurry, dark pictures I unsuccessfully tried to clean up from one of my Vienna trips and, for some reason, a picture of Chili's. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

But now I've begun to understand the real, celebrity-stalking uses of Instagram, and I love it. I know when the Vanderpump Rules crew takes a contractually-mandated trip to Mexico together because I can see all of the pictures hit the 'gram, and wonder if LaLa did something to her nose. I get inside insights into the production of all kinds of wonderful and terrible Hallmark movies because I've actually bothered to learn the real names of the Hallmark stable of "stars" and follow them on the app. And I have immediate access to lots of slutty photographs of vaguely famous hot people I've seen on thousands of reality shows across the years, and I straight up refuse to apologize for it.

I've also, of course, constructed an elaborate fantasy persona for my own Instagram, which seems to consist largely of traveling, drinking, and hanging out with cute dogs and children. Okay, so maybe it's not that far off from reality. But I seldom, if ever, include photos of myself in disintegrating sweatpants watching Murder, She Wrote for hours on end. No one needs that much reality.