Instagram is never effortless.

A lot goes into my Insta posts. And you might not think it because I’m not a former television star in between gigs or flogging activewear in sponsored posts, but there’s quite a bit of thought that goes into each one.

It may seem as though I don’t care about what other people think of me because my last selfie was an unflattering picture which was essentially photographic proof that I managed to accidentally get a tea bag stuck in my glasses. But that’s the thing. Projecting that you don’t care about what others think is more about impressing people than a humble brag about someone telling you that you looked hot even though you had a huuuuuge pimple.

As someone who is lacking in each of the pert butt, tight abs and fabulously pouty lip departments I use what I have to win the admiration of and validation from my peers: my stinkin’ personality.

And just like you wouldn’t post a bloated, hairy belly to a fitspo account, I don’t put sloppy posts up. I only post the wit equivalent of the perfectly-angled- tummy-sucked-in selfie to my account… which is perhaps why my posts come in drips and drabs.

For example, I’m still tossing up whether to post a photo of a dropped pizza I walked past earlier today.

I was in a bit of a rush when I walked past it the first time, but instead of catching the bus home to put my frozen groceries straight into the freezer, I walked back along the same footpath to take the photo. And I didn’t just take one. I took several.

I had a full on photo shoot in the street, much like a foodie papping their panna cotta at a café. There was a guy spraying weeds just metres away and I didn’t care.

I was hungover, laden with bags and nearly sharted poo water all over the floor at the supermarket some 15 minutes before, but I even got down low to make sure I had plenty of angles to choose from.

But when I got home, I couldn’t think of the right caption. I’m not really an emoji person because, as someone who is a totes wordy intellectual, they’re not really part of my personal brand. I couldn’t just post the photo willy nilly, because people would think it was my pizza that I dropped. I needed the caption to imply that I’m relatable and approachable while suggesting this post was something I just did without a thought – I’m not a try hard like that! I also wanted to make it clear that I was doing some hilarious street photography parody, to project that I like junk food and, most importantly, reinforce the fact that I am an observant, witty person.

And that’s quite a few objectives to cram into one or two lines of text – especially when you feel like you could vomit at any minute.

So I left it for a while.

I came back to it a few hours ago, but decided it was too hard and had a lay down instead.

Now, generally I like to follow one of the golden rules of journalism*: when in doubt, leave it out. If I’m not totally sold on a post, I abandon it.

I also ask myself the question: is this something I should just send as a Snap? Snapchats are great because they allow you to share your wit, but it doesn’t stay on the public record. So if you’ve only got a C-grade chime you know is pretty average but don’t want to waste, you can whack it on Snapchat and know that it will not destroy your social credit rating as it’s very unlikely to come up on your permanent record.

I have standards; you’ll be surprised to know. And I don’t want to drag myself down with sub-par posts. If I wouldn’t double tap it, how could I expect someone else to?

I may post embarrassing revelations, but I don’t want to humiliate myself.

But then sometimes the desire for likes overturns this. Because as someone who doesn’t do – and certainly can’t afford – drugs, getting Insta likes are the only real highs I get.

I mean, aside from crossing off an item on my to do list, I don’t have many alternative sources of euphoric rushes to sustain me through this grey mediocrity of life. Every now and then, I need that hit.

And today, as I wallow in my hungover state, I need a kick. So I’m probably going to post that pizza one anyway.

If I told you that I think that room-temperature chunk of lamb I ate off a table in a stranger’s backyard last night miiiiiight have been half-chewed by someone else, would you chuck me a pity like?

* Another golden rule? Never underestimate the disarming power of a friendly but firm “mate”.