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.