Instagram Stole My Sanity

I legitimately think I'm losing my mind, and it's all thanks to an app.

I posted my last Instagram picture sometime back at the beginning of June.
I've done many things since then.
Exciting things.
Fun things.
Adventurous things.
Things I want to brag about to everyone I know.
How am I supposed to do that, call them on the phone? Screw that. I want them to ogle my exceptional life via square photos.

When my photos first wouldn't post, I gave Instagram the benefit of the doubt.
"Oh, it's just a silly little mishap. Probably too much traffic from people posting regrettable Memorial Day Weekend pics. No problem. Maybe I shouldn't be THAT GUY and post a picture of my Blueberry and Peach Coffee Cake anyway," I thought.

Then I baked strawberry soufflé. Then I saw a homeless man wearing a full-on Cat in the Hat costume with Mardi Gras beads on my lunch break. Then it was my birthday. Then my friends from Louisville came to visit. And I couldn't post any of those pictures.

This is the screen that appears whenever I try to upload something.

My friends, though sympathetic, are no help at all.

 

 

 

 

 

I've reported my problem to Instagram Help Center which basically told me it was my fault and I should find a stronger WiFi connection and/or get a life.
In reference to the former: my WiFi connection is solid.
In reference to the latter: uh, fat chance.

So now I'm left with one option; the point that I never actually want to reach but which seems to come so naturally to me: complain mercilessly.
Reporting my specific problem to Instagram has done absolutely nothing, so I've taken to Twitter to show them not only how perplexed I am, but that desperation mixed with mental instability is a cocktail in which I indulge on a daily basis.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Please, Instagram, I beg of you, just fix my account. I'm trying to be the voice of a generation, and I can't very well do that without participating in Throwback Thursday.

Chris Brown & Justin Bieber: The Fat Obnoxious Girls at the Bar

Justin Bieber posted an edgy black and white pic to Instagram on Monday to announce that he and Chris Breezy were in the studio recording a new train wreck of cracked out vocal runs and excessive-yet-necessary autotune "for the fans."

Upon receiving this update via Twitter--because it's NEWS--I made this face:

which is the exact same expression that appears when I'm at a bar and I spot my least favorite patrons walk through the door: The Fat Obnoxious Girls. Coincidence? I think not.

Let's clear something up from the get-go: I don't hate them because they're fat, they're fat because I hate them. And bigger girls can look sexy as hell if they know how to properly dress what their mama gave them. FOGs don't, and as soon as they walk in with their lopsided tube tops and mini skirts that even my friend with Hyperthyroidism wouldn't touch, they're automatically added to the Can You Not? List.

FOGs enter any venue already making a scene. "Woo!"ing and shimmying and screeching along to "Don't You Worry Child." "LET'S TAKE A SHAHT!" they scream at each other. "I BET I CAN DRINK MORE THAN YOU!" they scream at the two guys at the bar. "ARE YOU GONNA BUY US FIREBALL SHAHTS?!" they again scream at the two guys at the bar. The two guys at the bar are too nice/frightened not to, so the four take their shots.

"I CAN ALREADY FEEL IT!" the FOGs scream. It is 11:30. "OHMIGAHD AVICII LET'S DANCE!" The two guys at the bar are dragged to the dance floor to be mercilessly grinded on.

The mini skirts are creeping up to unfortunate locations, and no effort is being made to pull them down. So much skin. The guys at the bar evacuate the dance floor but the FOGs don't care and continue to grind on each other, shooting heavily-black-eyeshadowed "YEAH YOU WANT THIS" glances to other innocent victims who respond with vehement head shakes.
"AHAHAHA EVERYONE'S WATCHING US!" they scream at each other. Half-true; it's really hard to look away when a hoo-ha is about to introduce itself to the world and armpit deodorant balls are glowing in the blacklight.

The event photographer is gathering a group for a photo, and the FOGs do not hesitate to jump right in.

The FOGs automatically think that this group is their new party crew and decide to join in on multiple additional pictures...

...in which it's painfully clear they do not belong. After three or four more photo bombs, one of the members of the group asks, "I'm sorry, do we know you?" to which FOG #1 replies, "YOU WANNA FIGHT BITCH?!" and immediately reaches for a chunk of hair.

A girl brawl breaks out: kicking, slapping, haphazard fists that only make contact maybe twice. The bouncer tries to break it up but FOG #1 is a pro and has latched on to Group Member's upper arm. FOG #2 supportively screeches, "YEAH THAT'S RIGHT BITCH! YEAH THAT'S RIGHT!" but won't get physically involved because she's the prettier one, knows it, and doesn't want to risk facial injury.
The fight is eventually controlled, boobs are reinserted into tops, and all participating parties are asked to leave the bar. "FUCK THIS PLACE! FUCK ALL Y'ALL! ALL Y'ALL ARE RACIST!" the FOGs scream, ignoring the fact that everyone in the general vicinity is white.

They continue to talk loudly about how they're never giving money to "this shitty hole in the wall" ever again (just like they did when they left last weekend) and FOG #1 lights an e-cig while they wait for a cab outside. 

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The Worst Date I Have Ever Been On

Let’s call him Not John.

We had met a few weeks before at the winery I occasionally work at on the weekends. He was very smart, super cute and actually appreciated my vulgar sense of humor; such a trifecta is not easy to find, believe me. I had agreed to go out with him one time before on an excursion that led to Annapolis, MD and a photo on his Instagram with a caption reading “My baby ;)”. This is why I can’t have nice things.

Despite that photo and several warning signs that I was too lazy to pay attention to, I consented to a second date. I’d set Not John straight this time: we’d take it easy, see what happened, nothing serious. This would work! Only girls are the psycho ones, right?

I was meeting him at a park by the Potomac River right after work at 7 p.m. It was May, aka spring dresses were in full swing, and although my typical date outfit includes heels of some kind (so I stand a small chance of making eye contact with a person), I opted for flats since we would be in nature.  I pulled in right at 7 and sat for a minute to let Rihanna finish belting out Rude Boy. At 7:10 I gave him a call, and he said he was “so sorry, on my way, just picking up food, be right there.”

Food had been mentioned so I was totally fine with it. This gave Rihanna and I more time together to collaborate on Umbrella, S&M, and Love the Way You Lie (of which I also rapped Eminem’s part. Renaissance woman over here). I had been so taken with this personal concert that I was shocked when I checked the clock. 7:40. What the actual fuck. Where was he?

I’m not typically a serial caller, but Not John was forty minutes late, I was hungry, and since the long days of summer hadn’t quite kicked in yet, it was starting to get a little dark. “Haha (what’s so funny?), I just had to shower real quick (well I appreciate that), I’ll be right there (déjà vu).”

If I was a bigger bitch, I would’ve said, “Don’t even bother” and driven home to a trusty plate of Bagel Bites, but unfortunately I don’t have that particular bone in my body so I overenthusiastically said, “Okay!” and awkwardly sat until he pulled in a few minutes later.

He immediately won back a few points by telling me how pretty I looked and showing me the bags of food.

“We just need to walk a little to these picnic tables right by the water,” he said.

For once, flats were the right decision. We walked with our bags of yummy and chatted and he laughed at my jokes and everything was just peachy. However, as I said before, it was technically still Spring, where the sun goes down at an understandable 8 p.m., and we were on a path in the woods with no lights. We had already been walking for a little over ten minutes, so I casually asked, “So where are these picnic tables?”

“Just a little bit longer,” Not John said.

Chatting continued, fighting off gnats began, and weird nature sounds became louder. Fifteen more minutes went by, and I had a mental flash of my story being used on an episode of CSI.
“He lured her into the woods saying they were going on a ‘date’. He shot her in the head.”
“I guess it’s true. Love… *takes sunglasses off*…hurts.”

“We’ve gotta be getting close, huh?”

“Uhh yeah I think it’s right around the corner.”

Stop. Just fucking stop. “Think”? You “think”? I followed you into the jungle on a guess? Thank god we weren’t paddling on the river or else we would definitely be recreating OpenWater.

In an uncharacteristic twist of fate, I managed not to flip out and calmly suggested that if the picnic tables weren’t around the next corner we should probably turn around. Not only was I totally over it, but it was now officially dark and the rabid toads were on the prowl.

Shock of the century: the picnic tables weren’t around the next corner. We turned around, using the glow of his phone as a flashlight and my heightened survival instincts to lead us back as quickly as possible. Again, my lack of dramatic bitchiness did not allow me to bring up the fact that this was a poorly executed excuse for romance and instead, I just talked about anything else that came to mind. We covered my love for The Wedding Singer, when I got my tooth knocked out in a soccer game in sixth grade, and my disdain for Taylor Swift when he suddenly chuckles and says, “I’m so glad we’re at the point in our relationship where we can just laugh about things like this.”

Let me reiterate for anyone that’s been scanning this post for the part where we hook up in the woods (P.S. sorry to disappoint): this was our second date. Relationships take several more dates and conversations and actual feelings before they can come to fruition, and we could not have been farther from that point.   

I was shocked into silence. For the first time in my entire life I literally didn’t know what to say. I might’ve blacked out for a while because I really don’t recall the rest of the walk back to civilization, but finally we made it back to the parking lot.

“We can eat in my car,” he said.

“Exactly what I wanted to do!” I accidentally yelled, a side effect of regaining consciousness and a potential indicator of PTSD.

We ate in silence. He might have told a story or two, I’m really not sure as my sole focus was on escaping the confines of his godforsaken Acura and the night as a whole. I was forced out of my “Mmhmm”’s and nods when he says, “So I have a surprise for you.”

I swear to you I was fully prepared for an engagement ring to be pulled out at that exact moment, and my stomach fell directly to my toes in terror.

“What’s that?” I asked, wondering if the plastic knife I was using would properly sever my left hand off and if that would be an appropriate “no” to his proposal.

“I got us tickets for The Great Gatsby in Frederick at 10:20!”

Crisis somewhat averted, but a new issue emerged. From where we sat at that moment, Frederick was at least another 25-30 minutes away. Gatsby was almost two and a half hours long. My patience had already worn thinner than Nicole Richie circa 2006. I just couldn’t do it.

“Ya knowww…” I began, my go-to conversation starter phrase when I don’t feel like doing something, “…I have to work really early tomorrow, and I was going to try to get some stuff done beforehand so I’d be waking up even earlier, and I wouldn’t want to fall asleep during the movie, and…”

At this point I just trailed off and gave a fake sorry smile. This was exhausting. He sighed “Okay” and was visibly disappointed, and said we should try again the following week, which I agreed to but which I immediately knew would never happen. I couldn’t take the risk of any other costs factoring in to our divorce.

After speeding home, I showered the unfortunate nature of the evening off of my body and prepared myself for just how uncomfortable our future interactions would be. Perhaps giving the turn-your-head move went he went in for the good night kiss was a twist of the dagger in his already wounded heart, but seriously? He tried to take me on an uninformed picnic to a mystery location in the middle of the woods and then assumed he had wifed me up before I even had a chance to send a “Bail me out of this nightmare” text to my best friend, leading me to eat salad in the front seat of a car while Ginuwine crooned softly in the background.

I thought things like that only happened with people you met off of Craigslist.  

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The Instagreement

I got an Instagram this week. I’m still in the pre-obsession stages where I don’t quite insta-understand what’s going on and am somewhat bored with it, but social media experience has taught me that this soon will pass and I’ll be insta-possessed by the Amaro filter in due time.

I’d like to make an insta-promise to you all that I will be the least-obnoxious Instagram user this world has ever known. I have outlined this pledge below with the seven things I will refrain from insta-doing.

1.       I will not take more than one selfie a month – If that. I’m uncomfortable taking pictures of myself as it is slash don’t understand people (girls) who feel the need to on an hourly basis, so this will be pretty easy to stick to. I’ll only stray from this rule if I happen to make several life changes in a row, like dying my hair Rihanna Red and moving into a swanky new apartment (all on the list, b t dubs).

2.       I will never use to the hashtag #followme – Because I really don’t care. Granted, you would be doing yourself a major service by following me—on both Instagram (snkorb) and Twitter (SkylarKorby)—because I’m phenomenally entertaining and mildly offensive, but if that’s not your cup of tea there’s not much I can do. I’m just sorry you hate happiness.

3.       I will try to keep the food pics to a minimum – This rule will only be broken if A) I’ve baked a true masterpiece that I’ll never be able to replicate and thus must spread around as proof of my skills; B) Something looks disgusting and since I’m a 13-year-old boy I feel the need to share it; and C) Jesus appears in the nooks and crannies of my English muffin.

Rocky Road Cookies. Oh yes I did.

4.       I won’t post #TransformationTuesday’s about my exercise progress – Unnecessary. Some of us never gained the Freshman 15/Senior 60. Heyoooooo.

5.       I will not take pictures of my legs at the pool/lake/beach – I have really freckly knees and short shins, this isn’t so much an “it’s weird when girls do this” thing as it is an “I don’t want to field questions about my probable status as a little person” thing.

...it was ONE TIME

6.       I will never miss a #ThrowbackThursday – This past week’s was a gem, why would I deny everyone the pleasure? I have no shame, and minus ages 13-17 I was actually a pretty cute kid.

7.       I will never post screen shots of text convos – Not because I don’t want to, but because I legitimately can’t. Damnit Droid, get your shit together.
EDIT: I just learned how! Let's do this thang.

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Birthday Gift Guide 2013

As you all are probably aware, my birthday is in a week.

Don’t panic, everything is fine; you still have time to set up a lavish get-together with 1,012 of my closest Facebook friends. I promise to act completely surprised when the Cinderella-esque horse-drawn carriage arrives at my door to bring me to a romantic, table-cloth-clad dinner at White Castle—or if you’re really trying to woo me, Arby’s (basically anywhere that makes stellar mozzarella sticks).

Love you

Dinner’s over and it’s present time. Tickets to a Kip Moore concert? You shouldn’t have!

No really. You shouldn’t have. We’ll let it slide this time, but had you followed the list below, you might not have to live in fear that I’ll be getting you back on your birthday with a photo album of everything my friends have eaten for dinner over the past six months, courtesy of Instagram.

Here is the Skylar Birthday Gift Guide 2013. Links included for your convenience!

FoodSaver V3880 Vacuum Sealer - The Master Chef Kit ($183) – I have a sick obsession with anything infomercial-related. The As Seen on TV store is my heaven. I already own a Magic Bullet, a PedEgg, a Stretch Genie, and a Quick Chop, but the FoodSaver would really put my collection over the edge. Have you ever used one of these things? It’s fucking magic. We have one at the winery I work at, and the amount of satisfaction I get out of watching all of the air get sucked out of salami and cheddar cheese is wonderfully embarrassing. I want to vacuum seal everything I own. I would vacuum seal my dog (neck down) if PETA wouldn’t come find me. Please make my dreams come true.

Virginia AND/OR Kentucky Home T ($25) – These are the only two places in my life so far that I have felt completely at ease. Virginia is home to my parents, my best friend and Wegman’s Chocolate Chip Muffins. Kentucky is home to my other best friends, the best school in the entire world, and the version of myself who pronounces fine “fahn.” I will accept both of these shirts and wear them interchangeably so as not to offend either location.

Jaguar Hood Ornament Replacement ($52.50) – Someone who wanted to do hoodrat stuff with their friends jacked my leaping emblem of glory right off of Nigel’s face last year, completely depleting him of any and all dignity. If you know how to reattach one of these babies that would be ideal, as I…don’t. But really, who steals hood ornaments?

Buddy Bounce Outdoor Play Ball (2 for $34.98 each) – Who doesn’t want these? They’d be the be-all-end-all to any confrontation I’ll ever have for the rest of my life. Roommate ate my Cheesecake Factory leftovers? Co-worker made me look bad in front of my boss? Boyfriend comes home smelling like Britney Spears Curious and Fruit Punch Burnetts? Break out the Buddy Bounces and let’s solve this the real way. A welcome alternative would be Sock ‘Em Boppers.

Vino2Go XL Wine Sippy Cup ($16.99) – I am a classy woman on the go. I also have a newfound appreciation for reds. Pouring my Cab into an empty Dasani bottle en route to the pregame seems a bit uncouth, but spills are even more so, and that’s where this nifty little number comes in. It holds 12 ounces and comes in a variety of colors, and I swear I’d keep my pinky up through every sip slash gulp.

An e-mail from a magazine offering me a job (priceless) – Seriously. This is all I want. I thrive in a fast-paced environment, expertly meet deadlines and have a sharp wit inspired by Phyllis Diller and Chelsea Handler. I will stop cut back on cursing in my writing if that’s the main issue. My resume is hotter and readier than a cheese pizza.

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