How I made a twat of myself on social media

By nature, I am quite a reserved person. I am not shy by any means, but I prefer not to make a holy show of myself by throwing myself at relative strangers and gushing about how much I love them.

When I’ve had a drink or three, my quiet reserve goes out the window and I become Mrs. Drunken Gusher of Twatsville.

Last night was no exception; I contacted not one, but five people on Instagram to proclaim my undying love for them, telling them how much I wanted to be just like them. Those poor, poor people. I was like some super fan stalker telling them how much I loved their blogs and YouTube videos, and a couple had the good grace to reply with lovely messages.

I have woken up this morning with a sore head full of regrets.

The thing is though; I do wish I was like them. I am in a writing low at the moment, where I am thinking I may as well jack it all in. I want a million blog followers and a blue tick on Instagram.

I want to pose in front of walls and get a free pushchair from Mamas and Pappas for doing a snappy, two-minuet vlog on how easy it is to fold while wrangling a toddler.

I think Instagram may have ruined me, I now feel as though I can’t look it in the face. I will of course. I will check it constantly throughout the day. I will make me wish my house was all painted in either dark tones or pastels, it will make me hanker after plastic flamingo ornaments and wish I could ice cupcakes flawlessly.

I will update my hundred or so followers made up of juice plus and body wrap sellers, children’s clothes companies and a few random people from my face book with photos of my daughter with witty captions. They will scroll through and sometimes click like; 20 or more is good for me.

The next time I have a drink, I am going to hide my phone away.

 

 

 

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