I recently returned to Instagram. The world of social media just got bigger. Now I have websites inviting me to look at the perfectly photographed lives of everyone I’ve emailed in the last century.
Thank you, Instagram, for reintroducing me to my favorite ex-boyfriend, his gorgeous new boyfriend, and their impossibly cute new puppy. That album totes made my day.
I hate you, Instagram.
I know you’ve probably never had an ex-given that you’re a website, so let me explain this to you like you’re made out of ones and zeroes. According to my ex-boyfriend fantasy, which is 100% accurate, all my exes went into a grief so palpable they could barely stand up after we broke up. They did eventually find happiness, but listen carefully, you idiotic sack of pixels: I said they found HAPPINESS. They did not find new boyfriends who apparently belong on the cover of playgirl. This is a critical part of my fantasy, and nobody, not even a Pinterest wannabe like you, is allowed to shatter my imaginings.
Sure, in the deeper recesses of my mind, I know all my exes have moved on. I never said I was stupid. I said I was irrational. There’s a difference, and you’ve fucked up my denialism royally. I want my exes to have all the joy they deserve (except for that one asshole. You know the one. Thank you for showing me how boring his life is today, by the way).
I even want my exes to find true love. Kind of. Mostly.
I just want to pretend they haven’t.
Do you think Pinterest pulled the shit you did today, Instagram? Nope. Pinterest showed me 549 indigo bedrooms, 54 homemade teddy bears, and a picture of a boat. Do you know what that did for my day? Made it better, which is more than I can say for your contribution. There’s a reason only 129 of my Facebook friends use your network, and I’m guessing it has something to do with too many ex-boyfriends and not enough eggshell window treatments.