Hi. I hope all is well and you’ve come to grips with that whole Times Square body-painting thing. But that’s not why I’m writing.

I’m sure by now you’ve noticed I’m no longer following you on Instagram. Please know it isn’t you. It’s me. No, dammit, it’s you.

I started following you a couple of months ago. I was smitten with your combination of photography and text, using Instagram to tell stories. Sure, the images seem a bit on the filtered side sometimes. But even professional photographers can fall into that trap, and you are but a plucky group of entrepreneurs trying to carve out a name for yourself in the vast jungle of the Interwebz (pro tip — That name? “Times”? zzzzzzzzzz) . Still, every day I would find photos that surprised me, delighted me, made me think. It was a great relationship.

But then.

I noticed you never followed me in return. At first I thought this could just be an oversight — maybe you would do a search to pull up my latest offering. But over time, as each day I scanned my tens of followers, you were never among them. Why? I can only assume you don’t care. And if you don’t care, I don’t care.

I realize you have 402,000 followers, so it probably won’t make that much difference to you. But don’t you remember the good times we had? I was the guy in the gray shirt at the 1980 marathon. And I had a pretzel and a diet coke on the corner one day. Have you forgotten that night at the Iroquois Hotel? I even had an NYT baseball cap for a couple of years that a staff photographer gave me. I thought it meant something.

The amazing thing about the Internet (other than cat videos — have you ever seen the cat videos? it may be a secret) is that, with one click (ok, maybe two) you can disappear. When you only exist in the social media, and you’re inherently antisocial, it’s easy to become an echo. And so that’s what I’m doing.

I’m sure I’ll hit the little magnifying glass from time to time and peek in to see what you’re up to, but those days of hanging on your every square little masterpiece are over. You get off, someone else can get on, the prophet Ben Folds once said. I’m making a seat available.

I wish you the best, and I hope you figure out a way to make money at this journalism thing. Maybe publish the photos in print?

I know, I know, just kidding.

Anyhow, it was a good two months. Please follow me soon on Twitter or I will not be held responsible for the consequences.

sincerely,

your instagram ex gary

p.s. if you would like to publish this photo on instagram and give me a replacement for my new york times baseball cap, I will consider coming back. Let me know.