Kept telling myself I wouldn't. Was just discussing with a colleague yesterday that gaining enough followers for casting to notice involves a combination of buying followers and documenting how your buttcheeks peek out from the bottom of your shorts. And I refuse to buy followers.
But another colleague asked nice when I was helping them with Facebook. And as a Xennial, I am bound by honor to lead the civilized elders to safety through the jungles of tech.
Grumbling all the way that I have better things to do with artisnal food than document it, like feeding it to my food, account made, permissions to know my location denied, permissions to access my photos denied, passive-aggressive note that I can't post without giving access, access grumblingly granted, and all of sodom and Gomorrah breaks loose.
Now, my pixelated mementos of close personal friends are kept under proverbial lock, key, and orders to destroy in the event of my death or capture.
But a greatest hits album of my commercial erotica collection is just sitting there among the rest of the galleries. Which Instagram in all its maddeningly helpful design chose to push to the front of the "would you like to share?" Line. While, remember, my colleague was right there. Directly in the line of fire while said gallery went off like a claymore packed with wobbly bits.
Rallying on with what dignity I can muster, I scroll down to a sedate picture of one of the cats. Pic selected. I scroll the filters in a futile effort to find one with word balloons to insert my radical centrist kink friendly gun nut propaganda. My efforts thwarted, I proceed to post it raw.
While my colleague attempts to replicate this, I notice a like pop up near immediately. My blood pressure spikes as I notice I already have 96 followers! What manner of buttfucking techno sorcery is this?! I ask myself. A moment passes before I realize the Facebook connection. The minions of the Zuckerbeast have raised my banner when my back was turned.
Thus is the saga of my entrance to Instagram. O will commence following as I feel like it. I still see no sense in documenting food and consider myself as having all the immediate aesthetic appeal of a lug wrench, so expect the cats to star until I can find my filters.
The saga continues...
But another colleague asked nice when I was helping them with Facebook. And as a Xennial, I am bound by honor to lead the civilized elders to safety through the jungles of tech.
Grumbling all the way that I have better things to do with artisnal food than document it, like feeding it to my food, account made, permissions to know my location denied, permissions to access my photos denied, passive-aggressive note that I can't post without giving access, access grumblingly granted, and all of sodom and Gomorrah breaks loose.
Now, my pixelated mementos of close personal friends are kept under proverbial lock, key, and orders to destroy in the event of my death or capture.
But a greatest hits album of my commercial erotica collection is just sitting there among the rest of the galleries. Which Instagram in all its maddeningly helpful design chose to push to the front of the "would you like to share?" Line. While, remember, my colleague was right there. Directly in the line of fire while said gallery went off like a claymore packed with wobbly bits.
Rallying on with what dignity I can muster, I scroll down to a sedate picture of one of the cats. Pic selected. I scroll the filters in a futile effort to find one with word balloons to insert my radical centrist kink friendly gun nut propaganda. My efforts thwarted, I proceed to post it raw.
While my colleague attempts to replicate this, I notice a like pop up near immediately. My blood pressure spikes as I notice I already have 96 followers! What manner of buttfucking techno sorcery is this?! I ask myself. A moment passes before I realize the Facebook connection. The minions of the Zuckerbeast have raised my banner when my back was turned.
Thus is the saga of my entrance to Instagram. O will commence following as I feel like it. I still see no sense in documenting food and consider myself as having all the immediate aesthetic appeal of a lug wrench, so expect the cats to star until I can find my filters.
The saga continues...
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