I’m removing myself from Instagram. All I get are ads for infallible gymnastics methods to get a smooth tummy, ads for colorful and expensive sneakers, restaurant accounts with incredible steaks and ladies with a penchant for showing off views and thighs in unexpected ways. Maybe it’s a reflection of my needs. Or hobbies. Phones are listening. What suits them? But I prefer to watch the evolution of my friends on their trips, their happiness in Paris, their work in London, their children eating hamburgers in Brazatortas. Networks are not what they used to be. Or he is someone who has changed. I’ve moved from Facebook, where there are more Sunday barbecues and more nephew-winning trophies, to Twitter, where there’s a message that you have to wear a helmet and if you show your face or think it might cause someone to smile and reflect. You can get an offended person to lie to your mother or complain with insults about something that is not your fault. Such people are perhaps saddened by how much pain they feel because they are both stupid and anonymous. The latest trend was Instagram. You give it away when you see that your number of followers is not increasing. No matter how much you try to trick the algorithm, the algorithm is trying to sell you something; a flight, a hotel, a jacket, some shoes. And what you want is to see those influencers with style, their avocado breakfasts, your favorite actor’s jokes, your friends taking selfies, and even a friendly politician going for a run in their pristine velociped t-shirts in the wee hours of the morning.
