Kaitlyn Pazmil ’16
As the season winds down and people begin to trade their cardigans for Patagonias and boat shoes for bean boots, the leaves change into bright shades of red, orange, and Facebook gold. Those leaves are here for a limited time only, and nothing in Heaven and Earth can stop me from getting at least three hundred Likes on my profile picture with them, so help me God.
It’s that time of the year, baby, and I’m gonna milk it for all it’s fucking worth.
Don’t act like I don’t deserve this one. I’ve been building up Like karma for months, and now I’m cashing it in. You really think I enjoyed your study abroad photos? You think I was delusional enough to Like your cliché Eiffel Tower picture without knowing you’d kick a Like my way somewhere down the line?
Don’t be so naive.
I didn’t come to a northeastern liberal arts college for some tiny two-digit Like-total on my profile picture. I’m in it to win it, and if that means making friends with the weird kid with the absurdly expensive and unnecessary camera equipment, then so be it. Other people don’t see the big picture. I do.
Photos of my friends’ Halloween costumes clogged up my newsfeed like beached seals after an oil spill. Sure, they got fifty, maybe even a hundred Likes.
I don’t get out of bed in the morning for less than a hundred and fifty Likes.
I’ve seen people in wedding photos, or in front of Filipino orphans or some shit, top two-hundred Likes, easy.
All that? Chump change compared to my profile picture magnum opus. This is gonna be the Citizen Kane of pictures on the internet, the motherfucking Ulysses of social media portraits.
Will there be a squat?
You bet your ass I’ll be in the deepest squat your weakling calves can visualize in their weakling calf-brains.
Will I be smiling?
If you don’t see every goddamn molecule of all thirty-two of my pearly whites, I’ll give your Like back, free of charge.
Will my clothes belong on the front cover of a Balenciaga catalog?
Of course they will. I don’t even care that you made the mistake of believing Balenciaga has a catalog.
The tree leaves exude fiery perfection, just begging for an absolute premium profile picture to be made out of them. You got me fucked up if you think this picture isn’t gonna be Masters-in-Photography level Grade A++ perfect. The composition will place me into perfect balance with the backdrop, which, of course, will be absolutely chock full of gorgeous foliage. The background’s perfect touch of soft-focus will pop me out of the frame and into the social ionosphere.
You already know only those train tracks in the forest can handle my dynamic, picturesque squat. You already know. Better get out of my way, because this Like train has no brakes.
I’m calling in everyone I’ve ever known for this one. High school acquaintances, middle school bullies, Mom’s friends from work; I will flip shit if I don’t get Likes from every single one of you bastards. I will canvass for Likes if I have to. I will grab your phone and type my name into the search bar if I have to. If I have to, I will #tbt all your worst middle school photos, and don’t think I won’t.
The only thing that will come close to stopping me, that will come close, is if Mark Zuckerberg himself shuts it down after Facebook reaches it’s peak the second my prof pic crests trescientos Me Gustas. I’ve got international appeal. My journey is near its climax, and you better Like me or get out of my way, for I am Icarus with sunscreen, Tantalus with a straw, Sisyphus with a goddamn wheelbarrow, and I will not be stopped.
I swear on the mountains, the rivers, the stars and the firmament, that I will provide you with the most beautiful, sharable, Facebook photons to ever hit your puny little ocular nerve.
Until I change it to a picture of me playing in the snow, in December.