If Instagram has taught us one thing, it’s this: Give humans a place to freely communicate with pictures alone, and they will inevitably fill it with tits and arse.
What started out as a sweet little photo-sharing app for sunsets and smiles has turned into a cesspit of desperate vanity.
If humanity had a collective photo album, it’d be filled with sexy selfies, duck-face group pics, cleavage close-ups, pole dancing shots, and naked famous arses.
And I don’t like what that says about us. Do you?
What troubles me is the influence these bared bottoms, pouts, and cleavage chasms have on ordinary people and the way they perceive themselves. And how they want their friends, family, and strangers to perceive them.
These are the unspoken rules of Instagram now: You must look hot at all times. You must appear bang-able no matter what the context. You must shove sex appeal into every photograph, regardless of whether it’s appropriate, tactful, or sensical. You must seize every possible opportunity to showcase your cleavage, tan thighs, bikini bod, bodacious booty, and Bambi eyes.
The imperative, above all else, is to compile photographic evidence of your attractiveness.
Maybe this is to do with our primal desire to be desired. I’m not immune to that desire; I’ve posted a casual elevator selfie in my time and secretly waited for validation via the ‘likes’ of my friends and randoms.
But I call bullshit on people making every single activity sexy – whether it’s attending a funeral, going out with girlfriends, hanging at home, or spending time with family.