It’s 6:37. My alarm clock just went off. I have 23 minutes to take a shower, get dressed, and eat breakfast. I can be on time today. Then I realize, I haven’t checked Snapchat in twelve hours. Imagine all the living that people did in the  time while I was fast asleep. I want to be transported into their lives. To see the “lit” night that they all had. The Snapchats are always the same. People drinking, doing stupid stuff. Beautiful landscapes and big smiles. I am transported into their lives for a second, and I see everything that they want me to see.

When I run out of Snaps, it’s time for Instagram. The same people post similar pictures. There are food photos, laughing friends, selfies with deep quotes. Why do people post these photos? What do they prove? How has my life grown or changed since I saw what someone posted? Usually nothing changes, except for, in this instance, the sun. It has now fully risen and it is 6:58. My bus will be here in four minutes. Where did all that time go? That is the question I always ask myself. The answer is usually the same.

I am late once more. My mom drives me to school.
“What were you doing?” she asks.
“I couldn’t find any clothes,” I reply. That was sort of true. I couldn’t find my laundry basket, but it took me two minutes to find it, while social media took me 21 minutes.
That is my perpetual morning routine. When I get to school, I usually feel bad for forcing my mom to take me. However, it never stops me from doing the same exact thing the next morning. 
When I get to school people are sitting by their lockers frantically finishing homework, listening to music, staring like zombies at their phones, talking to friends or a combination of all four. I am usually rushing around, trying to figure out which classes I have because I am so frazzled from yet another distressing morning. I would think I could get used to it, but I never seem to.

First period starts and I am actually on time. (Go me!) I sit next to my friend.
“How was your weekend?” I ask. In reality, I pretty much know everything about it. She went to a party, danced, and screamed crazy things, which the rest of the inebriated people around her thought were hilarious.

We both ignore this fact. Maybe she forgot that the highlights were on her Snapchat story. Maybe she doesn’t care and would like to relive the blurry moments of the “weekend she will never forget”.

“It was pretty good” she responds. “I went to a party and hung out with some friends.”

“Sounds fun,” I say. 
I wonder why she simplified everything. Maybe she realized that I already know, what she wanted all of her “friends” to know. Maybe she feels bad that I wasn’t invited. Who knows. Snapchat and real life seem to intertwine as one. We don’t even need to talk about our experiences in person anymore. Everyone knows who went to the party and what happened through Snaps. Why should we talk about it?
I go to my next class. We have a sub. No one wants to do work. Kids run around the classroom. They talk to their friends. Someone even jumps out of the window. Of course no one can be present relishing the chaos. Everyone has their phones out, recording the outrageousness that is going on. The rebellious children keep on going. They feel almost famous. They have made it to so many different people’s stories. Everyone will know that they took a bold step and jumped out of the window. Because you know, if it’s not on Snapchat, did it really happen?

After school, I go to my friend’s house. Hungrily we peer into her freezer for any trace of food to cure our grumbling stomachs. Thank goodness she has ice cream! I haven’t posted a picture of food in almost a week, and my Instagram theme is really lacking. We scoop out large spheres of this creamy dessert. Then I go get strawberries, chocolate sauce, and sprinkles. Once my ice cream reaches the epitome of beauty, it is photo ready. The chocolate sauce ripples in thick ribbons over the pale white ice cream. The strawberries give my still life a pop of color to contrasts the silky white of the ice cream. I make sure I am using natural lighting so my phone won’t leave a shadow on my new glorious creation. When I had snap the perfect picture I posted it to the gram, anxious to find out the amount of likes I will get. After I upload my picture, I give the ice cream to my friend. All of the extra calories from the milk and sugar aren’t worth a few moments of pleasure. Besides, I needed to lose twenty pounds so my thighs wouldn’t touch. After all, girls with thigh gaps are the most beautiful and happy. Everything comes easy to them.

Just look at any Instagram of a model or a newly “Instagram famous” girl. Their pages are full of pictures of them with smiles plastered onto their faces. There are pictures of them at the beach in bikinis. The bright light from the sun makes their bodies glisten. They usually stand lazily smiling, while looking away from the camera. They want to make sure the focus in not on their, face, but space between their legs. The gap is a windows which show you a slice of the world. Surely that is the key to their happiness. I want their lives with every ounce of my being. They have it all. 

I leave my friend’s house when my mom picks me up. We spent the afternoon watching YouTube videos, laughing in our own worlds. I couldn't stop laughing at one of the jokes a YouTuber told. I started to wheeze and salty tears began to slowly trickle down my cheeks. Of course my friend whipped out her phone and recorded me. This moment was just too funny not to share with all of the rest of our friends. Everyone needs to be here with us in that very moment, to see me lose it laughing. Nothing can just be between us. Where would the personal validation be in that? 

I get into my mom’s car. We ride silently. I go on my phone to check how many likes I have gotten so far on my Instagram picture. 65 likes in an hour? Why so few? Was the light not right? How is this picture different from my last post of ice cream? Why did that one get so many more likes? Whatever, it still has time to get to one hundred. Any post with less than one hundred likes gets deleted from my page. I have to show the world how popular I am. Otherwise what would be the point of my existence? 
My likes on Instagram are the validation that I am a worthwhile person. They make me feel better about myself, and I have pity on those without a large following. Surely, this is the only way to be happy.
I get ready for bed, all the while blasting Vampire Weekend and texting friends. I cannot stand silence because then, I actually have to think about myself and what I am doing. It is much easier to live without inward reflection. The only thing that matters is the face that I show the rest of the world.

Once I finish brushing my teeth and applying Proactiv (who cares if I am bleaching and putting toxic chemicals on my skin, as long I don't break out and am selfie ready, life is good) I get into bed. I take out my phone and scroll through Instagram, for what is probably the 20th time today. I am so invested in other’s lives. I want to see what they are doing and where they are. I am so convinced that this perfect image that they post is what their life is actually like. It is a double standard. Obviously my Instagram isn't a depiction of my life, but theirs certainly is.

 I spend the next hour looking at beautiful faces of models, wishing I was them. I feel bad about myself because no, my legs and stomach don't look like theirs. I want everything that they have, but I forget that they only post what they want me to see. Who knows if they are insecure just like me? Who knows what their relationships with their friends are really like? No one except for them. You can create an image of yourself online and no one can know who you actually are or what you want. It is all smoke and mirrors.
                

I waste so much of my life scrolling through images of others’ lives, and never change my own. Somehow, I can always justify the time I spend online.

“You worked really hard this week,” I tell myself. “You deserve it.”

No matter what reason I give myself for my internet use, I always feel so guilty afterwards. It is a self defeating process. I know I am wasting my time, but for some reason I don’t have the willpower to stop. That is, until tonight.

I am scrolling through Instagram, just as I so every night. It is 10:36 and I have already been on Instagram for 30 minutes, when I come across a a photo which catches my attention. It is black and white drawing. There is a man reading a newspaper in his hand. He also has a TV with the words "consume" shackled to his foot. There are the words "Modern Slave" on top in bold letters on the top of the cartoon.

For some reason this cartoon changes everything. I look at for about two minutes, conceptualizing the message it is portraying. I see myself as the person in the cartoon. I see how powerless I have been. I spend hours seeking connection through a screen, while I am sitting alone.

I close my Instagram app, and turn off my phone and hear the click of the lock screen. A blank piece of glass stares back at me. It hits me. This inanimate object has been controlling my life. It is nothing more than some glass and wires, yet it dictates how I spend my time, and what I think about. I truly am its slave. But I don’t have to be.

The next morning I wake up at the same time I always do, 6:37. The post that I saw last night, still etched into my mind. Out of habit, I reach for my phone on my windowsill. I feel its cool, smooth back on the palm of my hand. I stare at the blank screen for a moment and then drop it into my bag and get dressed. For the first time all year, I get on my bus, and have time to go to my locker. With my shoulders back and my books in hand, I walk to class.