Have you ever tried to psychoanalyze yourself using the contents of your saved folder on Instagram? Given that the capability to save photos is a relatively new one, I’m going to go with no, then take it one step further and suggest that I am opening your eyes to a brand new anthropological modus operandi; another way to expound upon your self-centeredness without being so forthright about it. Here we log photos, not taken for or by us, that have left enough of an impact on our respective experiences to warrant the logging of said photos. That has to say something about who we are, doesn’t it? Often when I save pictures, I do it pretty mindlessly, only to return to my saved tab days or weeks later to find that I can’t even recall having stumbled upon the photos in that folder, which always makes them feel like they are very revealing. Like I am exposing a new truth about myself. Take this picture, saved six photos ago, for example.
Where was I, intellectually speaking, when I logged this post? I think two babies were screaming in the room next door even though they had just been fed, which led me to believe that my breast milk is garbage. But I also couldn’t go back in there and feed them again because the grocery store was calling with the conviction of a siren. We were out of swiss cheese. Out of swiss cheese and swimming in a bath of cracked eggs. I am a terrible caretaker. And then the loud-ass intercom rang. Who was here? Did I sign up for an off-site meeting with team members and forget? I am never going to figure out work-life balance. I am never going to be able to go back to work full-time. If I do, my kids will forget me. They will hate me. Everyone hates me. I hate — and just then, voila: fake news!
Now, let’s explore the most recent cluster of photos loitering in my saved tab.
There are cherry dice, which indicate a severe jonesing for summer weather and perhaps, too, a quick trip to Vegas. Idk.
There is Picasso’s fish bowl. A sure cry for fresh fish caught seaside somewhere, probably in Europe. I can almost feel the sand between my toes.
Which appropriately brings me to this:
And this? To this I say what is perhaps my greatest contribution to the hashtags of Instagram: #lovesummerhateeverythingelse. Melt my skin!
Also, tho, is the bathing suit named after Amelia or what? Moving on to the next cluster:
Incidentally, I am subconsciously soul-searching — attempting to determine who I am right now, stylistically speaking, and if these photos demonstrate anything it is obviously that I’d like to occupy a state of mind wherein I live on a prairie not far from where Pollyanna once dwelled. There are tigers on my porch, rollerskating is the preferred method of transportation, I am capable — a breadwinner at worst, and quite the literate water jug hustler at best. If I must, nay, when I must re-enter the city, I am ready in a purple and red-ass tie. Did you also notice that I logged a photo of MYSELF? What kind of vain-ass witch am I? Also, I still hate pants. Love a rogue pinky toe, though.
You see? And finally, the most recent photo saved in my tab without questions says the following:
I’M STILL ON MATERNITY LEAVE, WHO WANTS TO DAY DRINK? RSVP.
Feature image by Solid & Striped.