As I continue to literally sit out this pandemic on my couch, I spend more hours scrolling through Instagram than I’m going to admit. It used to be just photographers and African models. Then, I expanded my interests to jewelry, and now to antique jewelry specifically.

I used to be interested in antique jewelry but then I felt I had enough and forgot about it as a category of desire. I was content to wear two rings, my grandma’s and my wedding ring. I have a nice collection of Victorian tiger claw jewelry, which I have bitched about here. But Instagram triggered my lizard brain propensity to hunt-and gather. I wanted more jewelry. I needed more jewelry.

I discovered a whole bunch of antique jewelry vendors who showcased the stuff they sold on Etsy or Ruby Lane. Then I discovered vendors who only sold their pieces on Instagram, which meant a hectic competition to DM your interest. All these people called their rings “she.” This is sickening, obviously, but not enough to put me off my new obsession.

I realized that these people, mostly women, formed a community and knew each other by their first names. So a compliment from Something Something Jewels brought a reply of “Thank you Judy!” or in the case of a ring, “Yes, isn’t she a nice one?”

Then I found the worst kind of Instagram Jewelry Woman in existence: The collector (i.e., hoarder) who is just there to show off her stuff, which tends toward the dazzling and shockingly expensive. They will photograph their hands festooned with fifty thousand rings, captioning them with casual descriptions like “Saturday stack” or “Can you guess which ones are new?”

One of these collectors posted a literal stack of gold rings, a type I personally love, and remarked giddily, “I just can’t stop buying —–rings!” I restrained my self from commenting, “TRY!” I asked a friend to leave that comment but she has the same reluctance to identify herself as an asshole, and refused.

I came across a woman whose passion is mourning jewelry. She is quite scholarly about it, and has written a book on the subject. She sells the occasional piece but is mostly there to educate. Her account led me to a person who collects and sells mourning jewelry, who captioned one photo with “Love me some sad ladies and urns!” Ew, I thought. I looked at her jewelry with a mixture of envy and irritation. You can go look yourself at @yulianaeternalmourning.

I began to ponder the attraction of mourning jewelry. Victorian regalia is so romantic, let’s face it. And mourning was part of Victorian life

The average lifespan during the Victorian era was 40 to 45 years. Europe was in a near constant state of war, and cholera, typhoid, smallpox, and scarlet fever were common killers. Approximately one in three children died before the age of five, and epidemics sometimes brought that number to one in two.

Simply put, death was a constant companion in the Victorian era. Mourning jewelry brought a little solace to the survivors who had to cope with frequent losses.*

Without thinking about any of this, years ago I put some of Max’s hair into an old gold locket, and I wear it wherever I go, just to keep him with me. It was and remains “a little solace.” I’ve actually become superstitious about it…a whole other story.

So I began to feel upset about the procuring and flaunting of mourning jewelry. Yuliana was the worst of the worst, I felt. I looked at her stacked fingers and read her smug captions and decided to comment.

Naturally, she blocked me! I wish I could remember my exact comment, which was actually a stern lecture. It was something like, “Do you realize that each ring is a token of someone’s grief and loss?? Do you think the owners of those rings ever imagined that they would adorn the fingers of a stranger showing off on Istagram? I wear a piece of my son’s hair in a locket, and I’ll be damned if it ends up with a bunch of other lockets around the neck of a gloating stranger.

Oops, I pissed her off. Nobody likes a sore loser, I guess. Nobody likes real mourning, or real pain and bitterness. But when people are awful, I have to let them know. It’s my calling. That and hideous denim.

Yesterday, when I tried to like something on Instagram, I got a little boxed message that said I could not take that action. No reason and no means of further discussion. I pretended it was just a glitch, but the box meant business.

I went to google why this had happened and learned that it usually meant they thought I was a spammer or a bot or some other kind of menace. But why? Apparently, if you leave the same comment too many times, it trips some algorithm.

Did I write “LOVE!” too many times?? That’s my typical comment, along with “Beautiful” and “Gorgeous.” That’s probably because I only follow photographers, stylists, tattooers, designers, models and jewelers. And I like to be supportive.

Occasionally, if it’s a really cute guy with long earrings and tight leggings, I comment “TOO HOT FOR ME!” with some little flame emojis. Is that so wrong??

Fucking Instagram.

Why am I even there? Why do I scroll through it incessantly, even when I’m watching TV? What is so addicting about my feed? Besides my effort to avoid having thoughts, is it a desire to be liked? Do I “like” stuff in order to be liked back or to indicate that I’m a really nice person? I truly have no idea. I know it’s something about occasional rewards that causes and maintains addictive behavior.

I didn’t think of Instagram as a negative entity like Twitter, which is just a rage-and-hatred recycling machine, but clearly it is not a plus in my life. My sense of anxiety and discomfort at being locked out is proof enough.

What if I could give up Instagram! All those hours could be applied to something else. Theoretically. Maybe I would actually read the things I have bookmarked, all those essays about serious matters like “Gen Z Shopping Habits” or  “Rumination: An overview.” Maybe I could at least put my phone down.

I plan to write more, because it forces me to organize the few thoughts I still have. It may also help with my waning word retrieval function, which caused a ten minute blockage of the word cucumber when I tried to remember what a pre-pickle is called.

Would you like to help out while you’re sequestered at home, wondering where to find bread or chicken? You can either help me figure out how to get right with Instagram, or suggest topics to write about.

Thanks! LOVE! BEAUTIFUL! TOO HOT FOR ME! (flame emoji flame emoji flame emoji)

I’m just going to jump in with Adam Driver.

I know he’s not the world’s biggest threat or even irritant, but I’ve been wanting to complain about him for ages.

First off, I find it hard to remember if his name is Driver or Diver. I just had to google it. I’m sick of being corrected when I say the wrong one. Second, why is he so popular? Isn’t he a guy from the Girls TV series? Why is now the leading man in so many movies?

He is too tall and his voice is annoying. It sounds like he’s speaking through a Muppet costume. He is both too much and too little. His performance in that movie about Marriage is excruciating. I just don’t want him. Is he somehow an appendage of Adam Sandler, who I obviously also hate?

Here’s my next  choice and I don’t know if there’s an actual term for this. It’s the Instagram girl with a zillion followers who appears to offer nothing more than an array of plastic surgery and cosmetic debacles. Huge boobs, gigantic lips, voluminous hair extensions, pounds of make-up, long pointy nails and fake eyelashes. What are these girls for?? I can’t tell them apart except for the two categories of hair color. The brunettes are usually exotic/ethnic looking and the blondes look like generic porn actresses.

Speaking of Instagram, I’m also sick of the positivity posts. They’re all like,

“I’ve worked so hard the last year and there have been pitfalls along the way but I’m learning to love myself more and I’m so grateful to god for bla bla bla and I know my path is bla bla bla.”

Who gives a shit? Can’t they save this for their shrink or life coach or BFF? It’s so faux-spiritual and pointless. Do they think that social media is a cheering section for them personally? I don’t even get it but make it stop.

I would like to stop seeing the term gut-health. Nothing about gut or guts. Nothing about prebiotics or inflammation. People should only discuss their digestive system with close friends and medical experts.

As a human being and a female, I don’t need to read about how women are powerful, with a list of this year’s Most Powerful or a list of women’s accomplishments. Women make up half of the world’s population so stop trying to position them as a rare population. I mean, Jesus Christ.

I don’t want any more think pieces about tribalism. We get it already!

I don’t want to hear about your best life. I don’t want to hear about optimizing anything. I don’t want to hear about micro-dosing. I DO want to hear about which strains of weed are the best for creativity or relaxing, so hit me up if you know.

I hate myself for writing “hit me up.” So many of our trendy expressions are contagious! I now say the word “ew” with two distinct syllables, “ew-uh.” But I will never, ever, describe something good as “fire.” Ew-uh!

I’m through with tracking the latest Twitter beefs. It’s exhausting. And when I try to tell someone, “guess who everybody’s mad at on Twitter!” no one wants to know.

Obviously I’m through with wellness and self-care. Everyone needs to redirect themselves to care for OTHERS! We already care far too much about our own selves. Trust advertising to persuade us that we’ve been neglecting ourselves. It’s the greatest ruse since “rinse, repeat.”

I’m planning a list of banned words for 2020, to publish at Miista. Feel free to share yours, as well as shit you don’t want any more of. Extra points if you can explain why we have Adam Driver.