According to my Instagram feed, I am not doing enough. Not spending enough, not saying enough, not taking enough care. I feel more sure of this than anything. And it’s bringing out an irrationality I’m not proud of: one afternoon, in between screengrabs of masked men snatching civilians from their homes, videos of wellness influencers evangelising “anti-trauma” hip stretches, and carousels of political action items disguised as catchy memes, I am served a targeted ad for a “Don’t Talk to Me About AI or I’ll Kill Myself” crochet pattern; and even though I have never crocheted anything in my life, I find myself looking up the materials to get started … on Etsy to avoid supporting any big, Maga-oriented corporations.
It’s overwhelming, this general pressure, palpable not only on social media but throughout the larger culture: today’s most urgent issues, from technological end times to tight hips, can only be solved by squeezing as much into the day as humanly possible.
Could be done, you know? Rather than writing angsty stuff for The G’s wimmins pages.
Ah, yes, forgot, they’ve got to fill the space between the ads with something or other, don’t they?
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