I’m barely on Instagram, but whenever I dip my toes into its silty waters I feel I owe myself a scalding, second baptism. When I do hop on the app, I (a weak fag who has deeply internalized oppressive beauty standards) pollute my free time by hate-scrolling through Instagay feeds.
The digital intersection of capitalism and vanity, Instagram is a haven for the Gaytriarchy: it’s a channel to flaunt shirtless pics, sculpted bodies…and captions that simply don’t add up.
Sometimes coy, often offensive, and always nonsensical, these captions — per my 20+ years of reading and conjuring images based off text — in no way correspond to their thotty photographs.