Hey, just a quick comment to say that while you’ve been busy filling social media with pictures of your exotic trips this summer, I’ve been busy doing something else: looking at them and trying not to puke. Please don’t take that personally. It’s just that seeing you enjoy life on #vacay makes me sick.
Like yesterday when I saw the pictures you posted of yourself in front of the Eiffel Tower with the caption “Tres jolie!” Tres gross would have been more accurate. Seriously, the cat hair covered futon I was sitting on at the time, the one in my basement apartment in Columbus, Ohio where I’ve been staying ever since I was kicked out of my last place for “excessive fish cooking,” is way prettier than that stupid metal tower. Needless to say, I did not hit “like.”
The photos you shared last week from Italy were even worse. Do you really think anyone with a brain wants to see sundrenched images of your “yummy!” gelato that you ate “for breakfast, lunch and dinner”? No, they don’t, because it’s sickening. I almost lost my lunch upon seeing your hand hold those tiny cups filled with the exquisite Italian ice cream that’s not available anywhere else in the world and probably tastes like angel skin. And good thing I didn’t actually lose my lunch because then I would have been out the $5 I spent on Nacho Fries at that Taco Bell I go to on my sad days. (Also, please note that I didn’t post a picture of my Nacho Fries because unlike you, I don’t always feel the need to show off.) (Also my fingers were too greasy to hold my phone.)
To recap: the field of lavender you posed in near Tuscany? Ugly. Your view from your hotel room on the Amalfi Coast? Hideous. The picture where you’re posing next to Rodin’s The Thinker posed like The Thinker? Gag me with an unoriginal spoon, Becky. Honestly, given the choice to slowly drive past a multiple vehicle crash on the interstate that’s located just 100 yards away from my basement apartment in Columbus, Ohio or to see your face covered in yet another ray of European sunlight? I’ll happily take the accident.
I know you may think that I’m being a little harsh, but that’s just because I don’t think you’re really enjoying your trip around the world on a seemingly limitless budget as much as you’re pretending you are. I know you, friend. I mean, not in real life, but I know you from Instagram because you don’t have your account set to “private.” And what I see in your photos is hidden despair behind your eyes that are behind your $300 sunglasses. The ones you bought from that artisan in Lyon who you posed with in a field of sunflowers. Remember that picture? All four of my cats puked up hairballs the size of Buicks when I showed them that eyesore.
I hope you understand why I won’t be liking or commenting on your pictures until you’re back home. I just don’t have the stomach for it. One more “How is this my life?” post where you’re riding a horse on a sunlit beach, and I’ll wind up in the ER with a raging case of intestional distress asking the nurse “How is this my insurance?” I chugged an entire bottle of Pepto after watching your wine tasting in Rome Instastory.
Anyway, please don’t think I’m saying all of this because I’m jealous. I’m not at all. In fact, I’ve had a totes amaze summer myself cleaning out those repossessed mobile homes down by the reservoir. No, I definitely don’t begrudge you and your ability to photograph well and not need five Vaseline filters like I do. It’s just that after looking at picture after picture after picture all summer long, I feel sorry for you.
Because your vacation looks disgusting.