Taking pictures of food.

Someone once said to me, when we were eating burgers in a restaurant, watching people at another table stand in every position imaginable to take photos of their own burgers, that over half of millennials don’t get to eat hot food, because by the time they’re done taking photos of their food, it’s cold!

Wow. That was a whopper of a sentence.

Anyway. By the time I munched this chocolate cake, it was still warm, thankfully. Although my arm has cramped from trying to take a good photo of a mediocre cake!

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This cake is deceiving. It looks tasty but it actually has a strong olive oil taste to it. I think I added too much. Next time I will use less!

Why do we do it, though? Why do we take photos of our food? Why do we share it on social media? What is the psychology behind it? What do we hope to gain from it?

I admit, I do take photos of my food from time to time. When it looks good, when I am especially proud of it, or when I just am enamoured by the deliciousness of it all. I don’t always share it on social media, and when I do, I insert it into a blog. It is not informative at all. I have not shared the recipe (I will leave a link to it, however!), I am not posting to talk about its contents or reveal the decadent history of cake.

I am just posting to say, ‘Hey! I made cake! Check it out!

Is that so bad?

Is it so deplorable that an entire generation of people just want to share what their food looks like, to other people who will double tap that photo and nod to themselves, thinking, ‘I want me some of that burger. I wonder where they got it from.’

But whoops, they won’t need to ask, because the location is geotagged! Some great advertising right there! I will admit, all the restaurants I have been to in the past six months (well, three, to be exact) have been because one or other of my friends had posted a photo of what the food looked like there, along with a comment on the taste.

And because I am a glutton, I thought, ‘hey, I want me some of that burger.’

 

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A Man

A strange man was staring intently at something on the pavement.

I stopped to see what he was looking at.

He glanced at me, and in his eyes, I saw something that I didn’t care to examine.

Then he lifted his hat, put it back on his head, and walked off, lighting a cigarette.

His footsteps sounded gravelly on the pavement, which was slick with the drizzle that had rained down for the past hour.

The heavens were grey.

The houses huddled together.

A faint haze clouded the world, just so you couldn’t make out what was in the distance, but you couldn’t be entirely sure it was a fog.

‘What were you looking at?.’

The man vanished into the not-fog.

And there was nothing on the pavement.

I hurried along, feeling self conscious, somehow. Why did I stop. I don’t know.

I was expecting to see a dead rabbit, it’s body ripped apart so the insides spilled out and plastered onto the elements.

I was expecting to see a hole leading right down to the other side of the world, assuming the world was round, that is.

I was expecting to see the secrets of life in an open book. Why else would a man be so fascinated?

I don’t know.

Why was the strange man staring at the pavement?

When I got home, my roommate told me that sometimes people have private thoughts which the world has no business trying to get a hold of.

‘You can’t just pick up the phone, Penny, and ask what’s up.’

But you can, that is what phones are for.

I really wanted to know.

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Is Your Blog ‘Personal’?

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The fact of the matter is, I don’t think I would want my mother to read this blog.

I’ve talked to my mother about this blog, and about blogging, but she hasn’t expressed interest in reading it, and I have never offered to have her read it. I have written things here that she might not completely understand or might disapprove of, and, unknowingly, because I am writing into the bottomless void that is the internet, I have been very honest with myself here.

This means that if people from my everyday life were to find this blog, I would feel a little vulnerable and laid bare.

The reason I am writing this now is because somebody from my real life has found this blog. They kindly let me know they found it, and apologised for reading it because they knew I would be mortified. They assured me they didn’t read any further when they realised I might not like them to read, which I appreciated greatly.

I did feel a little shaky and suddenly not so comfortable.

It’s funny.

It’s like somebody found my personal diary. But this isn’t what I would call a personal diary.

I feel exposed and as though somebody has looked deeper inside my emotional exoskeleton. Which is an odd feeling to have because this is a public place so anybody, really, can see it. Except I am probably assuming that nobody I know will see it, therefore allowing myself a little more freedom of expression. Isn’t that peculiar? That I would tell complete strangers things I wouldn’t dream of telling people I know?

Obviously I removed a post. It was a post I was a little dubious about writing because it really did come from a deep, dark place inside me and I am not comfortable about having somebody I know come across that.

I guess this was a niggle for me. It still is a niggle for me. I contemplated changing my blog, but the reality of it is that I don’t really want to start a new blog. I like this blog. I have been blogging here for two years now, and the empty ‘New Post’ place has become a place of inspiration and literary brainstorming.

What do you think about privacy and being emotionally honest? Do you share your blog with your family and friends? Or do you do what I do, and keep it to yourself, as it is more ‘private’ (ironic since you’re posting on a public domain!)?