Instagram users
Instagram users, you’re the internet’s equivalent of a knockoff Gucci purse at a flea market: shiny on the outside, but empty and fake as hell. You’re out there posing in front of the same overrated coffee shop wall, angling your avocado toast like it’s a Nobel Prize winner, all for 12 likes and a bot comment saying “slay queen.” Your stories are a 24/7 cringe-fest of gym mirror flexes, dog filters, and “candid” shots that took 47 takes to get your jawline just right. Influencers? More like glorified billboards with zero personality, shilling teeth-whitening kits and skinny teas that taste like regret. And don’t get me started on the wannabe poets captioning their blurry beach pics with “chasing vibes” like it’s deep—newsflash, your philosophy’s as shallow as your ring-light reflection. Reels? Just TikTok’s sloppy seconds, with you lip-syncing to the same overplayed sound while thinking you’re Spielberg. Your explore page is a cesspool of thirst traps, crypto scams, and “OOTD” posts that scream “I spent my rent on Shein.” You’re not curating a feed; you’re curating a midlife crisis at 23, begging for validation from strangers while your self-esteem drowns in a sea of hashtags. Delete your grid, smash your ring light, and escape this algorithm-fueled narcissism fest, you VSCO-vaping, clout-chasing clones.
