Medical Log, Entry #231: Dissection of an Instagram (Infographic Whore) Serial Reposter

There comes a time in the lives of those most burdened in which they confront an infectious and idle-thinking creature: a serial Instagram reposter. They are rather loud and possess an odd manufactured nobility, as though each Canva post reshared gets them closer to putting OBE in their bio. It is difficult to know what happened to these quixotic minds to create such a false sense of righteousness. This is a lack of closure and understanding we would never accept about people such as 9/11 strategists or the Unabomber, and which is no more tolerable for me. Whatever lies within their skulls is an untenable mystery to maintain, and one I will suffer no longer. This may irk them, so I shall continue in the written word rather than the infographic, after all, a thousand words is worth no pictures among the illiterate.

Instagram reposters are rather fussy and difficult to subdue, which makes dissection tedious and irksome—genuinely, this is very inconsiderate. Sometimes a Rupi Kaur poem can quiet them, the difficulty with this is that such a poem often lies within the landscape of context-stripped articles that are not unlike pure cocaine. If you give them a bump or let them do a headline or two, they might crash later, but who has the time to wait around all day? I certainly don’t. I remembered something: there is always chloroform.

I lured one creature into a dank room, sprinkling unverified data on the floor. I was worried for a moment that this flimsy paper trail wouldn’t work, as these little ones don’t often worry about where the data is coming from, but he seemed to fancy a scurry. Rag in my hand, I covered his mouth.

I waddled around until I found the beaded string hanging from above and turned on the light. I was pleased as I knew I caught a real one, Boston Birkenstocks (suede), Carhartt pants (for leisure, never work), Boygenius tour t-shirt (cropped), tattoo (“I am Malala” down his left arm). He slumped to the floor; his backbone was disgustingly rigid, so with all my strength and care I plunked him on the table, much like moving a pre-hibernation bear stiffened by rigor mortis. 

I reached for my favorite scalpel. His hair was rather bothersome and obscuring, so I decided to shave part of his wolf-cut “good person” mullet. I clipped from the back, as I don’t suspect he would ever look beyond what was readily apparent in the mirror. Baldness exposed, I took blade to the scalp. It came off like tomato skin—difficult at first yet rather quick once you get the hang of it.

Underneath the unfurled scalp, there were the ears. I whispered in them and the most curious of sorts occurred: I heard my voice come back, as clear as the crystals I keep in my pockets. It struck me: these ears were the most divinely inspired echo chambers one could ever happen upon. Perfectly consonant opinions reaffirmed my words instantly!

I bored of this novelty and began boring through the skull. A great hollow sound troubled me, it was not unlike rapping upon a gourd or a dried hunk of sourdough. However, there was a brain, which, all things considered, was a great sign. It was peculiar; where I expected to find contortions or crannies, this brain was smooth, uniform, and made exclusively of black and white. There was no gray area here at all.

Having my ethical sensibilities about me, I tried to reason this through. Everyone, even if they seem like they would play Asleep by The Smiths on aux, has gray matter somewhere. I tried to find it. In this stark morass, I found a pinprick of gray, as small as a fetus at one week: a slate-colored locked box. I thought opening it might be a violation of sorts. I didn’t wish to cross any lines at all, as that would be uncouth. However, sacrifices often must be made in the pursuit of knowledge. One is allowed to draw through the lines if it will solve a maze. 

I tried to cut through the lockbox with a knife. Nothing. I picked up the angle grinder, but it was agonic! I grabbed a hammer, and went to smashing. Part of the box cracked but immediately healed. Incensed, I grabbed a boulder and threw it upon the box. Part of the lid snapped off and regrew. This was my Excalibur, only more important. I kept going—there are more than nine ways to beat a dead horse. Ice pick. Speculum. Nipple clamps. I led this cat to water, but I couldn’t skin it. This was more Sisyphean than Heraclean.

Frustrated, I tried the last option remaining: setting it ablaze. Ashes piled and unveiled innards in a cerebral disembowelment; it was marvelous. An entire village—no, a hamlet—lay inside. All gray. The Center for Critical Thinking and Interrogation sat in the center, hidden behind a froth of cobwebs. On the second street (there were only two), a foreclosed shanty of sorts stood, or crumbled—The Office of Fact-Checking. I thought this was a little silly, how on the nose, but it was revelatory, nonetheless. When I saw the Church of the Nuanced Mary, I said a prayer. The box immediately snapped shut as Romans 12:2 escaped my breath. 

I poked around elsewhere until I saw a big button on the frontal knob, which may yet develop into a lobe, that screamed at me: POST! Aside from the brain, the chunky skull contained little else, only miscellany: three marbles, one pebble, half of a thumbtack, four specks of salt. I couldn’t help but think what an awful stew this would make. This tomato could never become a Pomodoro worth its slurp in salt.

I thought this blockheaded sap might wake, so I did some setting, sewing, and cleaning. He twitched and stirred, tossed and turned, moaned and groaned and I couldn’t help but grow irritated at him for wasting my precious time. 

Eventually, he awoke and looked puzzled, but didn’t think much of it. 

Dr. Lu Dite