Dear Diary,
Well, well, well. My sister, the benevolent tech fairy she is, decided to DM me a life-changing website that tracks your Instagram following activity. A noble cause, really. I opened the link expecting an all-knowing oracle to reveal who has had the sheer audacity to unfollow me—but no. No list of traitors. No closure. Just a couple of flashy features hidden behind a paywall, because of course there are. At this point, the internet’s less ‘information superhighway’ and more ‘never-ending pop-up shop where your wallet goes to cry.
Now you might suggest I check my unfollowers manually. And yes, diary, technically I could. But what would that make me? Obsessed? Petty? No, thank you. If someone unfollows me, so be it. It's their life. They can walk away. I only want to know if I'm following them-so I can walk away too. Fair is fair.
Anyway, to use this glorious website, you have to make your Instagram public. Naturally, I did. Like a clown. 🤡 The second it went public, my profile turned into a tourist attraction. Instagram, in all its divine wisdom, just started accepting follow requests like it was giving out free samples.
Tell me, how do these people find me? I’m not famous. I have, what, 800 followers? Actually, 872 now—though I had 862 before this circus started. Yes, I gained 10 followers after going public for approximately 47 minutes. A truly humbling rise to fame.
And no, I don’t post anymore. I basically ghosted Instagram in 2023. The most I do is share stories, which vanish faster than people’s attention spans. So why am I suddenly so popular with... a grandpa and a shirtless soldier ?
Let’s see.
First, the Grandpa. This gentleman had the gall to slide into my DMs with a simple “Hi how are you?” Sir. SIR. I’m not your long-lost granddaughter. I don’t bake pastries. I don’t live near a bazaar. Why me? My name isn’t even remotely Turkish. Did I accidentally like a Turkish comment once and now I'm in some ancient algorithmic debt? Plus, with all the beautiful Turkish women out there, it’s comforting to know the algorithm has a wicked sense of irony .His account is private, enough to spark my curiosity, but frankly my curiosity has limits. And standards.
Then there’s the Army Guy. From my country, unfortunately. He messaged me... two black hearts. Just that. Two. like I’m supposed to read between invisible lines. His feed? Oh, it's an all about him . Him in uniform. Him without a shirt. Him with arms so pumped . I’m not against the gym, but this guy looks like he mistook his biceps for helium tanks—fully inflated and ready to float away
And his mustache. Diary. His mustache.
It looks like he glued a broom to his face and just rolled with it. I screamed. Quietly. Internally.
So now I’m stuck with a parade of strangers following me, a public profile hangover, and a sudden respect for privacy settings I didn’t have before. Maybe I’ll just remove them and deactivate my Instagram for a month so they start wondering if I vanished.. Over-the-top? Absolutely. Effective? Without a doubt. The catch? I do check the app about once a week. Which means I’ll actually have to go outside. And maybe, just maybe, touch grass.
Nature, brace yourself
Anyway. Moral of the story? Never trust a “Website You Should Know” reel. They're either paid, fake, or both. But my sister? Oh, she’ll keep sending them. And I’ll keep learning the hard way.
Counting down the days until I escape digital exile—don’t hold your breath