i'd rather eat a dictionary than follow you on instagram

why it’ll never be "casual" again, why we shouldn’t swap handles with strangers, and why unfollowing feels brutal

My personal 2007 Britney moment resulted in deleting all my social media in a fit of existential crisis. I was 20, a sophomore in college, and when I finally made a new Instagram account to promote my YouTube and whatever this is, my following list consisted of a few friends, stan Twitter mutuals, and a handful of niche brands that would never acknowledge my existence. 

I will be the first to say that the relationship that lies between Instagram and I is far too liberal. For an individual that unabashedly wants to do the whole influencer thing and partake in the occasional “#ad”, I find myself way too comfortable in heading to the Instagram create story feature to give my unsolicited opinion on a C-list celebrity that I’ve spotted in a bar in New York City. Did I enter a state of euphoria when my friends and I finally realized the indistinct, 6-foot figure we were sitting across from all night was G-Eazy? Yes. 

Did I run to my Instagram to tell my followers that he resembled a “mangy mangled mutt?” 

Well, yes. 

In my defense, he did look pretty disheveled. In his defense, it was the most harrowing time of night. 4:00 AM.  

The point is that I find it enjoyable and amusing to engage with others through this medium, appreciating the interactions it generates. Sue me. While the main feed on Instagram offers a more permanent and polished view, Stories embrace the ephemeral, providing a more relaxed opportunity to share. Ultimately, the fleeting nature of Stories means that whatever you post will vanish in 24 hours—so who cares? 

I don’t have a close friends story on Instagram. Or, I should say— I don’t use the feature. If I come up with something funny or random to share, it usually goes straight into my public story. If I’m questioning whether it’s appropriate or debating whether it should be restricted to close friends, it probably shouldn’t be posted at all. 

When I hang out with friends or mutuals, they often comment on my occasional word vomit on Instagram stories, but then admit they're hesitant to use the platform, especially stories, in the same way. I never quite understood it—why not?

Instagram has transformed into a social platform marked by excessive formality. Every post is curated, every story gets meticulously archived into an aesthetically pleasing collection of Highlights, and mere 8-worded captions take hours and the opinions of an entire group chat to develop. It makes sense. Everyone now has a personal brand and after all, the eyes need to eat. We used to exclusively follow friends and family on Instagram. It was once considered odd for someone we barely knew to seek to follow one of our accounts. Now, I can put money on your follower list likely consisting of former managers, old Hinge matches, and distant sorority members that you haven’t spoken to in 6 years. 

People have now turned to the safety of their Close Friends stories to share the most mundane details— an off-center selfie in bed or what they made for dinner and this is why. The culture has been yearning for the resurgence of authenticity and disregard when it comes to posting on social media. Instagram no longer feels casual. People are scared to post! On a platform that is 100% customizable and controllable by the user, people are afraid to share their own photos! 

Content originally intended for a select “Close friends” audience (disparaging comments about a coworker or boss, sneak peeks of personal projects, etc.) has largely shifted away from (semi)-public posts and is now confined to DMs and group chats. Granted, this change reflects a growing awareness of the permanence and accessibility of what we share online. And that may be the primary cause of all this. This shift may stem from witnessing acquaintances and strangers face repercussions for their online posts time and time again. Maybe none of us deem it worth the risk anymore.

That’s a topic (and article) for another time. Examining that issue further would require far more anthropological research, analysis, and discernment—tasks beyond my jurisdiction and pay grade.

The reason why Instagram was and felt so casual a decade ago to where we could post our lunch (directly from the app’s camera, I should add) and slap the Abu Dhabi filter on it was because we were primarily connected with friends, family, and those within our immediate circles.

When your Instagram followers include distant acquaintances, friends of friends you've met a handful of times or random connections from a club bathroom, it feels as if you’re essentially broadcasting your life and thoughts to a bunch of strangers because… you're essentially broadcasting your life and thoughts to a bunch of strangers. It would be thoughtless of me to not include the fact that this is the beauty and irony of social media—your posts can gain traction, ending up on the Explore page and (if your accounts are public) can be found by anyone willing to search hard enough.

Social media was originally envisioned as a space for genuine community—a network of friends, colleagues, and like-minded individuals with whom you could share thoughts, memes, and messages. Even as your following grows to include internet mutuals you've never met but share a common interest with (whether it be fan fiction or fantasy football), the ideal remains: a space where you feel comfortable engaging with others who share your interests and perspectives. There are folks I've never met in real life. but we’ve had incredibly intimate chats about everything under the sun, from mental health (usually a lack thereof) to the haphazard state of my bowels. 

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How (and Why) Instagram Will Always Be My Laid-Back Digital Playground

When someone looks at my Instagram and sees my follower-to-following ratio, a common reaction I get is usually being called “Hollywood" or assuming I’ve followed and then unfollowed people to boost or maintain my follower count. I find that notion equal parts insane and amusing because it’s so far from the truth. I simply don’t follow people I don’t know. Or want to know. 

If we met on a night out and spoke for all but thirty minutes, I probably wouldn’t follow you. If the only thing that broke the awkward silence between us—caused by our mutual friends drifting away or engaging with each other—was you asking for my Instagram, I probably won’t follow you. If the only thing we share in common is our location for the afternoon or evening, I probably won't follow you. If I check out your Instagram and it's nothing but pictures of your dog and your annual trip to your grandparent’s beach house, I’m probably not going to follow you. Which seems like a reasonable approach, right?

Was that last one harsh? 

If I meet someone once, twice, or even three times, I’m not following them on Instagram. The same goes for a random Hinge match—I’m not following them. 

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Unfollowing: The New Social Sin

Unfollowing someone (and removing them as your follower) can seem unnecessary or specifically hurtful when the person hasn't done anything to you explicitly. There's no outright need. However, when you look at the list of people following you, many of whom you barely know, it becomes clear how much of your content is being passively digested by strangers or distant acquaintances. It's completely unsurprising that this creates the feeling of being "watched," which may explain the rise of the notion of "monitoring spirits" online. The truth is, you don't have some mystical or spiritually malevolent presence lurking on your Instagram—your page is simply full of people you haven’t spoken to in years. Naturally, they’ll observe without engaging, because they don’t know you anymore, and you no longer know them. 

@lilmeowchick555 on tiktok

With lines and boundaries being delineated, social media has become uncomfortably personal. We’ve flown too close to the sun. The word “friend” easily slips out when referring to someone we merely follow and we don’t do hurtful or offensive things to our friends, right? At least not intentionally. Unfollowing someone is now seen as a social faux pas or moral wrongdoing, as it cuts off their (digital) access to us. The agreement and metaphorical contract that was once mutually signed has now been breached. It's viewed as a deliberately rude act, which explains why people regularly use apps to track and monitor when they’ve been unfollowed. No one wants to be seen as a "fan." If you're going to sever the digital connection, the expectation is not to leave someone stuck on a swing ride with no one there to push.

@iamvboogie on tiktok

Circumstances and sentiments like this should serve as a call to action to allow certain social interactions and the moments we share with others to exist only within the context of that encounter. Not every connection needs to be cemented by following each other on Instagram, especially when the reality is that you probably will never see each other again. These interactions are often meant to be transient—a meaningful conversation, a shared experience, or even just a fun night out—without the need for further engagement. Following someone just to like their posts every once in a while does not deepen the connection; it often just prolongs a sense of obligation to maintain a relationship that has already run its natural course. Some moments are made to be ephemeral and appreciated for what they were, without the need for inauthentic, prolonged digital attachment.

If the idea of posting on your own social media makes you anxious, remember: a digital cleanse isn’t a crime.

Your social media should be your playground. If this is a nightclub, you’re the bouncer. It’s perfectly ok to fine-tune the list of those who can and can’t come in.

Besides, if anyone notices your grand faux pas, their attention span will have moved on by the time they get their next notification. 

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