Insta-World: Part 2
Sarah practically collides into Clarice in her rush to receive this so-called “important” news. Breathless, Sarah locks eyes with Clarice and eagerly inquires, “So what’s the big news?” In response, Clarice sighs and shifts from one foot to another. Her gaze levels with the floor and she pre-emptively clears her throat.
“ Sooooo…promise not to get mad, but my big announcement has to do with Insta-World. Basically, they’ve recruited me to join their “Insta-Club” with full benefits as a novice member and-“
Exasperated of hearing only the intro to this disturbing speech, Sarah interrupts with: “Hold on, who’s “they” and what exactly makes you believe that this is a legitimate offer?”
Clarice rebounds in full defensive mode with: “It is legitimate. I would testify to that fact on my precious collection of “Insta-World” tabloids. I’m not as naïve as you think, Sarah.
Sarah, deadpan: You still didn’t elaborate on who “they” are.
In a spew of enthusiastic rhetoric, Clarice enumerates the details of her encounter which took place at Limewood Shopping Plaza. Upon entering the monolithic structure and its blinding presentation, she was approached by two gorgeous women from the exclusive “Insta-Colony”. They immediately complimented Clarice on her choice of attire and her overall appearance and focused on listing the merits which would make her a great potential candidate as either an insta-model or as a contestant on such soporific reality shows as “Insta-Bachelor” or “Insta-Fiance”. These two airheads truly had my friend under their spell and had completed their degenerate spiel by inviting Clarice to an orientation the following week.
After Clarice had finished gushing over this “amazing” opportunity, I was left speechless. Judging from her eagerly composed facial expression, she was expecting a euphoric reaction and that was not what even remotely ensued at all. After an incredulous silence of at least five seconds had elapsed, I erupted with: “Are you insane? This is the worst idea ever. You’re just getting sucked into this trap which promotes and idealizes extreme narcissism. This is not a decision I condone in the least and I want you to reconsider the impact that this decision will have on your present and future health and happiness. Observing that lifestyle from afar is one thing, but living it is a completely different story”.
After absorbing the bulky content of Sarah’s passionate message, Clarice is utterly defected and her bubble of enthusiasm has been significantly deflated. She angrily retorts with: “This is a progressive and liberating time period for open-minded individuals. We’re no longer expected to conform to strict gender roles and minimize the sense of empowerment that physical beauty can give us. You know what your problem is? You’re too much of a “post-modern republican” to appreciate a revolutionary shift in our culture and how people want to perceive themselves. I’m going now, but watch out Sarah…beautiful, confident people may threaten your self-worth. Goodbye”.
Stunned, Sarah continues to stand in place open-mouthed. She truly believes that her stance is the logical one and can’t believe that Clarice would be so enraptured by the manufactured charms of “Insta-World” that she would forget who she is at heart. On her way to third period studies focusing on “Human Behaviour Pre-Technology: A Psycho-Analytical Approach”, she pauses to aggressively remove a poster from the main bulletin board offering consultations to build one’s own insta-buisness. What with the bizarre nightmares and the rhapsodizing sentiments of her friend, Sarah had had enough. She deliberates sets her cortex app to “disassociate mode” and proceeds on with her day.
Despite the efficient activation of the app, Sarah’s brain still swirls with more than occasional flashbacks from that encounter. The fact is, the drone of her psychology teacher’s lecture could not eclipse her concern for Clarice’s predicament. She had heard grave rumours regarding insta-initiations and how they forced you to do such absurd and degrading things as: deactivate one’s pragmatic and emotional intelligence centers in order to allow Insta-AI (Artificial Intelligence) to saturate one’s system, engage in illicit interactions with insta-“others” who had become too entrenched in the AI universe and had never fully returned, as well as experiment with a variety of opioids and fairly dense pharmaceuticals, which could severely disrupt one’s rational mode of thinking. All this to say that Sarah was extremely worried and had no idea how to neutralize this situation. Drowning in a charcoal sea of guilt and consternation, Sarah agonizingly spends the rest of class counting down the minutes and doodling in her e-pad.
That evening, after a bland meal of cereal and toast, Sarah decides to try restoring communications across the vast passage of avoidance erected between her and Clarice. Initially sending out a few cortex “flares” aka urgent messages and receiving no response, Sarah begins to fret and attempts to send an e-telegram instead. The overall gist of the message was along the lines of: “Clarice, I just wanted to say how sorry I am for how things escalated between us today. I should have been a more patient and considerate friend and I truly apologize. I’m just looking out for your well-being. Can we please meet and talk?”
Love,
Sarah
This attempt to breach the chasm of opposition between Clarice and Sarah is also futile. As the hour is getting late and the household activities are slowly grinding to a halt, Sarah decides to tumble into blissfully detached oblivion. Exhausted from the day’s drama, her eyes shut of their own accord and she is soon drifting through nocturnal chambers of transmutation.
In contrast to the nightmares she had previously had, Sarah is the one mutating into an insta-model against her will this time. Transfixed as she watches from above a glass box, Sarah’s features are morphing from natural to artificial before her very eyes. Her typically mousy hair is growing inches in length and acquiring a sheen as glossy as a plank of varnished wood. Even her proportions are being invisibly molded into the ratio of thin:thick:thin to fit the insta-standards. Growing increasingly more alarmed, the levitating version of Sarah tries to speak but all that emits from her lips are a series of hashtags. They trail from her mouth like suffocating serpents until the entire scene is obscured from view. At this point, Sarah awakes and clutches her drenched sheets to her chest in a vain attempt at cushioning her battered consciousness.
Sarah’s thoughts struggle to coalese into concise information, but her sleep-deprived brain is nonetheless insisting she hurry to school and try to intercept Clarice. Chugging a few sips of espresso straight from the pot, Sarah jets off to school with the intent of defusing the already explosive situation.
Hours overlap into minutes and minutes melt into hours, as Clarice’s presence is nowhere to be accounted for throughout the entire school day. Now Sarah is truly panicking over Clarice’s whereabouts and wonders if something villainous could have occurred. Particularly given the exploitative and aggressive nature of Insta-World, Sarah’s devious preoccupations seem to be multiplying by the second.
Upon departing from school at the end of the day, Sarah overhears a snippet of conversation from a gaggle of eager teens swathed in head to toe Insta-World merchandise. According to their trite exchange, a big party at 340 Earnscliffe Boulevard is taking place that night and all the new Insta-recruits would be showcased/challenged to various cognitive and physical obstacles to prove their value. Sarah vowed she would infiltrate the party through her cunning ability to seamlessly embody a different character.
Friday night…a shady, industrial neighbourhood…a clandestine disguise. All is going according to Sarah’s elaborate rescue plan. Outfitted in a platinum blonde wig, a saran-wrap tight dress, stiletto heels, and about five pounds of makeup, Sarah is virtually unrecognizable. Her critical “operation” tools are concealed within several specially fabricated seams of her flamboyant ensemble. She looks every inch the insta-model on the outside, but little do outside spectators know that she is smuggling in anti-assault spray crafted from specialized antibodies extracted from the DNA of rogue insta-models and distilled into a spray, as well as an invisible microphone to amplify the volume of any suspicious exchange.
Sarah confidently enters the property with her expertly forged invitation and immediately screws a guileless smile on her face. She scopes the party for Clarice, but behind the guise of her lilac contacts, she doesn’t succeed in locating her. From her immediate vantage point, Sarah notices ostentatiously dressed individuals gyrating to extreme throwback pop ballads. She also sees some unfortunate canines being toted around like bejewelled slaves. Sarah shivers in disgust when she sees this.
What else of import in this vastly disturbing scene? Insta-World holograms and tutorials on every conceivable square inch of the party space. Zero calorie hors-d’oeuvres (what was undoubtedly a combination of potent pharmaceuticals disguised to look appetizing, and an entire area devoted to idolizing Insta-fit gurus and learning their tips to build the best version of yourself.
The anxious suspense having been built up to over-capacity, Sarah finally spots Clarice looking extremely uncomfortable in a transparent mini-dress and what appear to be stripper heels. She is sandwiched in between two brawny Insta-specimens, who seem to be urging her to perform a lap dance of sorts. They are brutishly flaunting their male bravado and exposing their bicep muscles in order to pressure Clarice into dancing to their liking.
At this point, I smoothly step in with my anti-assault spray and before either of the two guys can flex or strut like a proud peacock again, I am on them like a firefly to light. Diffusing a generous amount of my powerful substance, the two roided-up Neanderthals comically recoil and begin jumping from foot to foot like deranged monkeys. I grab Clarice’s hand, whose face registers both shock and gratitude, and before anyone else can react, we are out of that madhouse.
Giggling with both relief and the aftershock of fear, we sprint down the street until we reach a relatively secure spot and then grind to a halt. Breathless yet exhilarated, I spew out a rapid “I’m sorry-“at the same time that Clarice says, “I’m sorry too”. We both smile and resume the friendship where it left off.
