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Dear Instagram, Feminism,

Dear Instagram,

I am proof positive that you are going to tell me, babycakes, “You’re not a baby, you’re  an almost 34 year-old woman” get that straight. But here goes…

As a social media platform I find you to be absolutely exquisitely jazzy.

I am a writer who bleeds for the visual. Your uncanny knack for culling spirited individuals into your digital lair is beyond impressive. I’ll give you more than $5 on that. I’ll slip a $20 under your MAC.

Thousands of randy folk (at least in my stream) give their all to you. They bust it wide open, let Santa, Yahweh, and your neighborhood grocer see it. And in return you grant them with flows of followers. From food porn pioneers, to crossfit maniacs, to BlackGirlsWithLongNaturalHair devotees, to negroes that shudder with a prayer for hazel eyes and thick thighs, religiously. This is their play/battleground.

Am I getting candid. Well, may I? Thanks.

I came to you from the jump being beautifully boring,              me.

I am the perpetual girl on the left.

I am a home body. I don’t twerk (but I am that miss thang, that can dance all night). I don’t live with fashion bloggers. I only own a Nikon 3100 DSLR and Canon EOS Rebel film camera. I don’t have the good fortune to venture to Rome with only a notebook, little white dress, and a clicky pen.

Selfies at my abode, Starbucks snapshots, my writing space, whipped up waffles, and books I am reading, shit like that was my styl-o.

However, one day it got stupid hot in the Instagram green room and I wanted to shed my specs, and flex.

Ya’ know. Be in the “in” crowd. (Don’t get me wrong, I know that boring bellas can be cool too, but there’s a difference between cool and popular).

UN-Naturally, I went down to casting and got a new me.

I let my curious case of “seek to seek” come home to roost.

I courted when in Rome….

Why? Hmmm, let’s examine the allure.

All those with crazy sick followers make their uploads all about abs, ass, and angelic naughty beauty (insert for beauty = tough as nails fashionistas with wardrobes from somewhere that aint Old Navy, Tinseltown/Harlem fat cats, and indie “photographers” that just so happen to be shaking hands with Kendrick Lamar, cause they bumped into him at 2 in the afternoon). And NO, I don’t follow celebrities, except Tracee Ellis Ross because she is drippingly gorgeous and positive, otherwise these are real peeps.

After leaving casting I nixed the (so real me) handle: writercjjohnson

I legally changed my name to: missfitrunnercjjohnson

And that’s when shit got real…

Look me in the eyes when I say this! I.AM.A.RUNNER.

I’ve been one for more than 20 years. I can run for a solid hour like a champ. Hell, I went to college doin’ this stuff.

The more I posted about it, the more I got inquiries about my regimen. Therefore my follows almost doubled in a month. Don’t get geeked about that, I only have like 102.3 followers.

I posted pics of my six pack, post workouts, actual workouts, you name it, if I was sweatin’ it, Instagram was in it.

I even considered getting a certification to be a personal trainer (I thought shoot, every writer needs a side hustle) so I began to ramp up for the Power House of fitness.

But

A couple of weeks ago I asked myself, what the fuck am I doing?

Am I a natural born runner? Yes.

But I’ve never had any fancy inclinations of making money from what I know about the science of running. I most sincerely doubt that I could ever convince “coach” someone to love running the way I do.

But most importantly, I am a writer. That is simply, poetically, me.

I let my mind go ape shit. (or mush depending on how you wanna call it)

I got so caught up in following other runners/ProFitGirls/personal coaches/healthnuts/ and receiving their adoration in return, that I single-handedly blinded my own end game.

I even found myself following random beautiful people, losing entire blocks of 20 minutes of my day, when all that did in return was make me feel even more un-beautiful.

At the end of the day (I think that phrase is so funny) I am a writer/producer.

How in the hell was I furthering my agenda as a creative writer if I was growing slightly obsessed with getting kudos for my physique and athletic game? Huh, Instagram? All the zany deeds that folks eat up I was giving it to them (FOR FREE) all to your liking I am sure.

I quit you.

For a couple weeks anyways.

Well, I did cheat a little, by uploading 2 posts about an interview that I was doing about my book with another poet-preneur, but that’s it. No “liking” or 20 minute wasting.

I had to take a step back. Talk to my Mom in the sky, look beyond mirrors, and smile inward.

Initially I was going to press “delete, delete, delete” 

I can’t live up to your hype I said. I am not plump enough. I will starve if I stay.

I thought: people here just thrive on the perceived, the superficial.

Boring bellas like me get no play. Just like in real life I suppose. (art imitating life)

However, after about 18 days I’ve taken a breather.

I say FUCK IT. Who cares if I am just a writer with ambitions to write/produce/direct on the small screen?

As I grow more seasoned, I should know better. I should be balls to wall wise enough to ration that being the real you, in the long run, works. There is someone out there that will eat you up with a spoon. It just takes patience.

I friend of mine put on, ironically enough, Facebook a few years ago “Be the best version of you.” While I thought, hells yeah, at the time. I realize that my recent bout with you (Insta) truly tested if I had ingrained in me that line of thought or not.

The shit is scary to think that I didn’t. But, I am being a grown woman aboutthesitutation. I am owning up to it. I didn’t embody and employ the philosophy above.

But get this. Move over. Coming Through. I am staying a little while longer.

I am going to stop following those that only followed me because I posted a picture of me in my boy shorts and sports bra, and clamor to more writers, intellects, producers, readers, artists, cinematographers, creatives and lovers. You know those folks Instagram. The people that originally made you who you are today…(don’t ever forget that)

I am boring, bald, and whip smart, with a mind that spins out of its skull with creative projects to cross off my list.

I’ll use you the way you use US. Are we cool?

Perfect.

LOVE Ya TONS,

A Lady Sings The (Writer) Blues

BTW: I threw missfitrunnercjjohnson out the window and have claimed: poeticallycjjohnson as the real me

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