THE RETURN OF TAM TAM: TALKING IG, PHOTOSHOP, & KYLIE'S DUCKBILL

So I know I said I'd start blogging again like a hundred times before, and I'd do a little post here or there and then get totally sidetracked, but this time it's for real—I'm BACK, bitches! After years of absence and incessant requests to return, Leah and I decided to stop fucking around and pick up where we left off. Since my hands are still full due to other work obligations, I'll only be posting once a week on Wednesdays, but quality over quantity, always. Let's get to it!

 

 

When I sat down the other week with Leah to have our meeting about the website, the conversation somehow kept diverting to Kylie Jenner—namely her (now) signature inflated lips. If you've seen the Radar article about the difference between her public appearance photos vs. the Instagram photos she'll post in the same day, it is a little shocking. Look, we've all been guilty of doing a little touching up on ourselves for the Internet, especially when all you have to do is press a few buttons or throw on a filter. Nobody should be shamed for deleting a pimple or smoothing over a little dark circle now and again—the embarrassment is on you bitches who literally mock our intelligence by posting photos where your face is so airbrushed that it looks translucent. You're not low. At all.

 

 

 
What kills me most is how these Hollywood broads spend literal hours of their day in hair and makeup, then still need to use $1.99 apps to airbrush and slim their faces. They have $300-a-session personal trainers and get their asses injected and order up exotic semen facials and still slim their waists and blow up their asses like we're too stupid to notice the warped furniture in the background. If anything, these stupid apps are for us normal bitches who don't have hired Glam Squads at the ready, but ultimately, the whole thing is just depressing.

 

 

 
At the end of the day you can lie all you want to the Internet and your followers, but you can't lie to yourself. As an admitted Instagram addict and Selfie Queen myself, I'm certainly no stranger to uploading lots of photos, and I love a subtle filter for mood or aesthetic purposes, but pulling in my waist or enhancing my tits? Come on brah, I have a boyfriend who lays down with me at night—like he couldn't tell the difference?! You know what I do instead of Photoshop if my selfie comes out shitty? TAKE ANOTHER ONE. Take a better one! Maybe lay off and don't take one for two seconds of your life. That's another thing: the urgency to post. The necessity to be seen. At this point I think most of us are so conditioned to iPhones and the Internet ruling our lives that we don't even realize we're thinking this way and being so compulsive, it's just a subconscious void that constantly needs to be filled.

 

 

 
So maybe I'm a victim, but at least I'm lucid. I mean, what ever happened to being attracted by "flaws" and natural beauty? It baffles me that some women would want to blur away beautiful freckles or other defining characteristics to look like every other boring bitch on the cover of a magazine. Now more than ever, little girls and boys are being raised under the impression that labor-intensively Photoshopped celebrities are the standard of beauty. When I'm watching shitty reality shows with my man like Love And Hip-Hop, I've realized sometimes he can't even tell when a chicks ass or tits are obviously fake. For women who don't pay for ours, that shit is so infuriating! 

 

After we digressed from talking about Kylie's mouth (BTW I love all the girls that stick up for her online like, "It's just lip-liner you guys!") Leah and I started talking about another huge Instagram topic of mine—keeping your kids from falling into the trap. Sometimes I'll literally get down on a knee and thank God that I didn't have Instagram when I was in junior high or high school, because who the fuck knows what kind of long-term trauma that would have brought on. All those weird phases you go through, all that dark shit you experience, all in one screen-shot-able place for everyone to see and ruin your adolescent life with? FUCK OUTTA HERE. Like it wasn't hard enough being an awkward loser or a hot ass mess without an online presence to show for it.

 

 

 
Being that Leah has a daughter, I asked what her approach to the IG situation would be, a question I actually ask all my mom friends now. I just find it so interesting—sometimes I wonder how I'd handle it myself and I really have no idea. I just know that if I had grown up with that shit, I probably would've been on it super early. A frightening thought. Leah plans to keep Kiki off it for as long as possible, but if I was going out and being a craze at 14-years-old in 2004…does that mean the kids are going out at 12 now?! Or maybe this generation is more sensible. And I'm not totally opposed to kids on Instagram either. I recently came across a little girls page who used it to photograph and tell stories of her toys, even uploading little videos of herself playing. It almost brought me to happy tears—knowing there's still that beautiful innocence in children who know nothing about vanity and just wanna introduce their My Little Pony to their Monster High dolls. If you can't keep your kids offline, then encourage them to use it as a creative platform; hopefully that kind of artistic introduction would lead to more mature "Instagram behavior" in the future.

 

 

 
Some of you may be thinking, "What are you talking about? You post risqué photos on IG all the time, aren't you the prime example of what little girls shouldn't be copying?" Well aside from being an intelligent, self-respecting 24-year-old adult woman who can do whatever she likes with her grown body, I have a plethora of other things to say on that subject as well—but we're just gonna have to save that for next week.

 

 

Kisses!
TAM TAM

 

 

3 comments

By Lucille Skjarstad, on

very well said. welcome back, tab.

By the real , on

loved you even when u was a chubby girl boo lol its about the mentality not the outter fly that shit all wears away in time but who you are never will

By Cracotte, on

Hell of a comeback. Je te kiffe

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