A Letter To People Who Scroll Through My Photos When I Was Only Showing You One

Hi Aunt Karen,

As you recall, when I recently handed over my phone, I had consented to show you one picture. It was the only sober photo from my sorority formal, which I thought you would find cute. Naturally, you did. However, that was not an invitation to start swiping to your heart’s content and view the blackout photoshoot that followed, or any of the other items I have stored.

While I understand the curiosity and blissful ignorance about what you might find, most people understand that skimming through someone’s phone albums is like walking through a minefield. There are screenshots of text conversations no one was ever meant to see, over 500 selfies, and of course some occasional dick pics received from many suitors over the years. That last category isn’t even my fault, and frankly I don’t feel the need to explain myself.

After all, this isn’t a public gallery. This is some private shit that was never intended for a wide audience. You know what the difference between someone’s phone album and a Facebook album is? Literally everything. Blood, sweat and tears. Hours of editing. You’ve got to respect those boundaries.

There isn’t anything in particular that I’m worried you’ll find, but the longer you browse, the more anxiety I get. I save a lot of random shit and then forget about it, and I can’t be held accountable for every Buzzfeed quiz result I found amusing at one point. This is supposed to be a safe space.

If none of this is making sense to you, think of it this way: would you go through someone’s dirty laundry without their permission? Or even want to? The answer should be a wholehearted “no,” Karen. And I don’t like how you hesitated there.

Anyways, if you want to know what’s going on in my life, let it be heavily filtered through me. We’ll both be much happier that way, and able to make eye contact during Thanksgiving dinner.

Give us our fucking phones back now,
The Betches


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