I spend more time thinking about my Instagram than my family. And I think it reflects.

I have curated my presence on Instagram with extreme thought and caution. This is not a true reflection of my person.

Like, at all.

Anyone who has seen my at school, with dirty hair, no makeup, and a general lack of effort towards my appearance can vouch.

So why not expose myself? Isn’t that my unofficial role on the Royal Reporter?

First off, let’s talk about my profile picture.

A nice picture, right? I’m smiling and seem happy.

WRONG. I split my pants on the streets of downtown LA. Like my pants were in two. I was scared to stand up for the picture, because the people behind me would get more than they payed for.

Now this picture from a Suki Waterhouse concert. This is one of three pictures that I got of Suki the entire concert. People in front of us had their phones up 4395843 feet in the air, rendering any view of the show completely impossible.

Here is a picture of me at Versailles. Out of the three weeks I spent in Europe, this is the only picture of myself I got. In the rest of the photos, I am sweating like a pig, disheveled, and bloated. Too much pasta.

Finally, here I am in New York.

In this picture, I look so casual and nonchalant. Just strolling the streets of NYC, laughing with a careless grace.

Wrong. This photo was the result of a day-long effort to get the perfect “careless” photo. My poor sister was being forced to take about thirty thousand photos of me instead of take in the NYC scenery.

Use this as a reminder that social media is not real.

To quote Daniela Arias ’23, “If I didn’t know you and I saw your Instagram, I would think you were a really happy person.”