Being the hip, trendy tastemaker that I am, I have now joined the brand new social media network for Cool, Rad World Wide Web Users — it’s this thing called Instagram.
Have you heard of it?
Yeah, no, I know, I’m way behind.
There existed a technological shift in the last five years inside my brain where at one point I cared to stay on top of this stuff and then I suddenly cared less about staying on top of this stuff. I still don’t know what the fuck Snapchat is or does or if it’s just a rotating carousel of dick pics that erase themselves. I haven’t joined all your fancy Circlespaces and Tickleclicks and Humprs and Fudholes and Beerfaces and other social media networks that allow you to automatically share your blood pressure numbers or the contents of your medicine cabinets or various arty photos of your nipples. I’m sure I’ll catch up in the next 20, 30 years.
But I now have joined Instagram.
I am to understand pictures over there are called “IGGS,” as in, “EGGS,” but Instagram photos. IG photos. IGGS. I’m sure this is true and if it’s not true it will be true now, as I have said it, and clearly I am a paragon, a voyager, a true tastemaker and universal lingo designer.
Or don’t, I dunno, I posted one picture, relax.