I hold the camera up as high as I can. Hold. Smile. Damn, too much teeth. Purse my lips. Classic duck face, but it works for me. I push the button. The camera takes the selfie. My bathroom lighting is all wrong. Nothing a lot of Photoshop won’t fix though. I send the picture to my laptop. In a few clicks of the mouse. I am 10 pounds skinner. 10 years older. And standing on a beach. I post the photo on my Twitter, which also posts it to insta. And, since I’m a slut for retro social media, Facebook. One last post before I call it at night. Then I move to Twitter. It’s been an hour since I’ve looked. I scroll past political vids, trans rights, and Free Palestine. I roll my eyes. Check my posting schedule. Wednesday’s are response vids. I save a video on makeup tips. That’ll work for a good burn. Before I turn off my phone, I check my stats. My vid, ranting about how insurance companies should pay for sex toys has gone viral. I scroll through the comments, blocking anyone who made a comment about health care being legalized first. I fall asleep to the sound of likes. Serotonin is better than Melatonin. The phone is the first thing I reach for when I wake up. It’s a bright, sunny day. The perfect day for some sexy yoga vid before work. I scroll up unlocking the phone. There is a soft ding. I blink blurry, dried eyes until the screen comes into focus. There posted on Instagram is my face. Unedited. Behead. Thick wrinkles from the covers cross-crossing my face. I scream and drop the phone.