You’re too determined to be happy all the time to entertain even a fleeting awareness of your finite existence. Tell us when you’re ready for a visit to reality, Pollyanna.
Some people gravitate toward things that make no sense. Like you. Death makes perfect sense. You don’t get it.
You’re embarrassed about your optimistic tendencies, so you drain the color from your photos to project an “art is suffering” façade to the world. The only one you’re fooling is yourself. And you will regret this self-deception when you truly do suffer — right before you die.
You’re not particularly fond of this filter. No one is. You’re just too lazy to swipe any more, which means you’re also intellectually sedentary. If your synapses ever start firing, we’ll introduce you to the concept of death.
We see you lightening the shadows, enemy of darkness. Here’s news for you: in the end, darkness always wins.
With you, there’s an unambiguous contrast between the bright and the bleak. You take both to the extremes. You will enjoy life to the fullest, and then, in your final days, you will give the specter of an eternal loss of consciousness all the pathos it deserves.
Maybe you’ve accepted your mortality a little too much. Go get an ice cream cone or something.
You are existentially beige. Upon your life’s conclusion, the Universe will say, “Meh.”
You have a propensity for Schadenfreude, especially where death is involved. Don’t be such an asshole.
You have an eye for detail — to a fault. On your deathbed, you’ll be focused on how your neck looks.
Your emotions are oversaturated. When you’re wailing from the pain of dying, everyone around you will be really, really annoyed.
You will approach your demise with wide-eyed wonder. This will make for a terrifying look on your face when you’re a corpse.
You say words like “bold” and “robust” a lot, and assume these adjectives will be used one day in a retrospective on your life. Uh, no.
Bright in the center, dark at the edges. Your pictures are like your soul — only the opposite. Death can’t come fast enough for you.
At your internment, only the worst people you’ve ever known will be coherent enough to give their respects, and they’ll use that moment to spew vitriol about gays and immigrants. It will be an ugly scene. Almost as ugly as your photos.
Aesthetically, you have a modern sensibility that’s not entirely devoid of warmth. You’re struggling to figure out how you’ll differentiate yourself when you’re a stone-cold cadaver.
You’re trying too hard. Admit that you’re a dilettante, and take comfort in knowing that the truly talented people will end up as dust, same as you.
Stop being so goddamn self-righteous.
You’ll ask that your cremated remains be scattered among a field of daffodils, even though this will steal joy from the living. That’s you — in death as in life.
Why are you so afflicted with these terminal pangs of nostalgia? Little premature, don’t you think?
You’re sophisticated, or so you imagine. It’s hard for you to picture your future self — drooling, incontinent, and festering in a pool of your own excrement.
You have no taste, so who cares about your perspective?
You only choose this filter because you like country music, and don’t realize it makes your photos look like shit. Know what else hasn’t sunk in? That you are doomed.
“Look at my beautiful life. My experiences are so intrinsically picturesque that I don’t need the contrivance of a filter.” It’s about time you know that everyone hates you, and they’ll say as much at your funeral.