Instagram got me. It bit me on the neck, and converted me into an Instaho. My fellow blogger, who incidentally happens to be the one that pushed me to bloody join Instagram, called me an Instaho yesterday. And he’s right.
I’ve got the worst case of postaphilia! I can’t seem to stop thinking about what I’ll post next. (This is why I’d stayed away from highly addictive social media for so long.) I realize I’m being extremely teenagery and going into fits of mental giggles when my pictures get likes. And I’m craving followers, like a preggers woman craves sour pickles. Heeeeeelllllpppp!!
Major WTF moment!
And that’s it. I’m the new Kylie Frikkin’ Jenner. Dear God, save my malnourished bony butt from the vampirism that’s Instagram. Do not let me get carried away. Thank you!
People have been telling me things like, “It breaks my heart to see the kinda hastags you’re using. #follow4follow? Gahhhh. Which is kinda insulting to a woman because you’re a woman and you shouldn’t have to be groveling for likes!”
Now I’ll admit, I feel bad.
Speaking of things getting me, I’m pretty sure that the spider that apparently bit me a while ago has kinda sorta reduced my biological age to maybe sixteen. Hence the pimples, and the postaphilia.
I’ll say it again, God save my butt.
Ooh and find me on Instagram @lipstickhobo. Yeah, could not come up with anything better. *giggle*