Dear Whoever Is Trying to Hack into My Instagram Account,

Hey, man. Just got that little automatic email you generated trying to hack into my Instagram account. Dude, no. You do not want to go in there. Seriously. This is for your own good.

I may not know you, but I’m confident you do not have the mental or emotional stamina to survive the torment and torture that is my Instagram account. Stop trying to guess my password and SAVE YOURSELF.

Still don’t believe me? Okay. Let me ask you this, then. Have you ever come to, somehow missing five hours you’ll never get back, staring at a blurry field of numbers that you soon realize is your bank account? But the bank account is much, much lower than you remember it being last you checked. And amidst the swarm of new charges—a fifty-dollar artisanal sunscreen here, a nonrefundable year-long subscription to something called a “Booger Box” there… Yes, it’s insect boogers you rub on your face promoted by a freakishly convincing beauty influencer. I bought endless boxes of boogers, man. You realize, oh god. It was me. I’m not okay. If you can’t weather dark moments like that, then you are not ready for access to the harrowing landscape that is my Instagram account.

It’s taken me years to build up the level of tolerance necessary to safely scroll through the minefield of targeted ads vying for my sweet, sweet credit card digits. And even guarded with my emotional shield, with that protection, I’m still vulnerable. How many body-shaping body suits can one buy before one loses the funds to feed said body and withers away to oblivion? Unfortunately, that’s a rock bottom I thought I had reached. And then I bought more. My waist looks amazing. I am dead inside. Live!

At this point, my dog has basically become a canine cocktail of every anti-itch, anti-pest, anti-anything-bad-that-could-ever-past-present-or-future-happen-to-him gel, ointment, and/or spray amalgamation. If a millennial witch tempted me with it via sponsored post, I’ve rubbed it on my dog’s butt. So many moist cures. For the love of god, don’t become this.

And the TIME. All that lost time. Scrolling and scrolling and scrolling and scrolling the doomiest doom that ever did gloom. Escape the doom and gloom, man. I have diagnosed myself with so many illnesses. If I don’t know what the fuck is going on with the stars at any given moment, hives break out all over my body, and the itching won’t subside until I read not one but five different astrologers’ takes at the very least. If I don’t, I’ll miss something. What? The fuck do I know! All I know is god forbid I miss that important prediction careening toward my fate, destined to blow up my life. My skin can’t TAKE IT. I’m a Taurus sun with a Capricorn stellium goddamnit. This isn’t a state of being anyone should willingly subject themselves to. You shouldn’t be in there. None of us should be in there.

So stay the hell away. For your own good. Your physical, mental, emotional, financial, and astrological well-being will all greatly appreciate it. I’m jealous that you’re on the outside. Take pictures. Post about your freedom. I will find you. I will follow. I will like. I will comment. I will share. I can’t stop myself. Not anymore. But you can. Just stay far the fuck away.

Yours from the deepest depths of the infinite scroll,
Rebecca