This Weird thing about Instagram...

As always, what you read here could be fact or fiction. Some parts may be notes for future books, some may be random thoughts, and some are thoughts that my other personalities are discussing in my head. Oh, and I'm a writer, not an editor. I do edit my pieces, but I'm not perfect, and neither are you.

It isn't really weird about Instagram, just patterns I'm starting to pick up. So in the beginning I would get really excited when I would get a follower when I'd post pics for Finding Jack 420 the Prequel. Then I'd wake up the next day and they'd be gone. I'd think, 'holy shit, my stuff isn't good.' Then I would close my eyes and kick that thought out of my brain. I'd like to think I'm humble, but I know my stuff is anything other than 'not good'.  So then I started thinking about the psychology of this game that everyone is playing to get famous. There are 27,098,079,797,080 glass blowers, then growers... whoa... take that and times that by about 10. Everyone is shouting 'me me me'. Some are better at it than others. So the ones that like my post possibly like it because they want me to like their page, so they like mine first. There are a lot of those. That's ok. There are jewelry makers, original artists, photographers, and social media wannabe kings and queens. All of them trying to play the game. I like games, but not as much as these people.

I also like the ones that go with nothing but sex. Those followers are mint. They like every single picture that you ever put out, for weeks and weeks. Then you start liking them. Then they turn on the juice. It's entertaining, but anyone can take a sexy pic with a joint. The joint just increases your sexuality by ten fold, so anyone that smokes with their tits hanging out or their butt in the air looks hot. I'd like to see some pics with some big girls in them. People would still like the hell out of them and they'd still be entertaining as much as a picture of trying to shove a blunt in a duck's mouth before it bites your eyes out of their sockets.

Then there are people that like my pics for the pure, wholesome content of the pictures. They don't read the hashtags or they don't understand what 420 means. I love tagging a picture of a temple with #christianity or #religion by someone. Then they drop me as soon as they see a picture of weed on Instagram. That makes me happy when that happens. I always picture some grandma or Bible wearing religious freak who dismisses the argument that there are countless references of weed in the Bible picking up their phone and seeing my name with a smile only to see two eye-stringed aliens made out of painted pipe cleaners with a giant nugget in the foreground with something like 'Fuck, that shit gets me stoned out of my gourd.' written as a meme. Moments when my sprinkled anarchy into the world becomes a picture in my brain are the really little joys in my life.

But then there are the fans. The real, true fans that like your pics on a regular basis. The ones that are always around and don't want anything from you. Those are the ones I'm going to follow. Those are the ones who I want to know and understand their lives. I have one follower that doesn't post very often, but she likes just about everything I do. She posted the other day, and it was in Spanish, which I haven't spoken on a daily basis for over 10 years. So I spent about an hour translating her post because I just didn't want to look at it and leave a meaningless comment. I wanted to understand her. I realized that I have an overwhelming need to understand people.

Oh, and this week Adam Carolla liked my favorite picture. I even said to my mom that I wanted more people to like that picture of Edgar Phillipe and not the ones of the weed leaves. And I was reminded that life is not about quantity sometimes, sometimes it's about quality.

 

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