A quick word about getting hacked on Instagram

Social media wields its vile face way too often these days.

Friday night was happening. The old man and I were heading out on our weekly drive around town, punctuating another workweek and well-earned paycheck. A few beers were in and the medical herb was set on fire. And then I got hacked on Instagram.

First off, all IG really represents is a personal photo and video album for people and celebrities. A place to share long-winded thoughts (Josh Brolin writes a small thesis on his posts) or a meal or city shot that you found amusing. It holds my smallest follower count, which makes it expendable.

Still, being hacked is like being tackled hard from behind. Out of nowhere, some asshat named Anthony decided to hack me and a few mutual follows. It was a direct message alert from a fellow Cards fan on social media (his name is Ferg), which made me think it was friendly. He wanted me to vote for him in some social media influencer contest, which sounds fishier than it did last night.

It’s amazing what you miss when you’re busy adulting. A few emails came in, and I was resetting my password (or trying to) and then two-step authentication was placed in, something that was orchestrated from his end. Soon enough, I was locked out of my account and essentially swimming around other holes to climb back into it. It was a flat circle of empty pursuits. He had me locked out.

And then it got more bizarre. He texted me while my dad, Rich, and I stopped at a car dealership to peruse some small cars that neither of could fit into. Hey, the stuff you do when you’re high and having fun. The message said that he had my account and did I want it back? Moments after I logged one of the dumbest questions into my brain, he texted again for a response.

Maybe 15 minutes later, I texted him a few sentences about the reasons for this action and what he hoped to get out of it. Degenerates are the only ones who seek solace in setting other people’s lives on fire--and this was a small fire. I let him have it and hit “send.” Hours later, he was now offering to give it back, and just needed my password. The same password I had inadvertently changed feverishly to no avail at least ten times.

In a matter of words and sentences, I told him to go fuck himself and keep it. All he posted was something about Bitcoin and an SUV being washed. That’s it. Hack and swap an account just to post your “I don’t want to get a real fucking job” stock jerking. I made another IG account, Film Buffa (@buffa.film), but I am not even sure it will be used.

These days, operating a few social accounts while working a full-time job and having a family is a handful. Throw in my side hustles of writing and film criticism, and there’s even a smaller amount of time. Throw in working out and actually living a life with some fun in it, and the clock shrinks even more.

So, for the time being, find on Twitter (@buffa82) and Facebook. Both show my birth name and authentic aesthetic, which means I am honest and have a very small amount of fucks to give.

The important part is my dad and I had some fun last night, visiting family in Ballwin and watching 2022’s best new show, THE BEAR, on Hulu. The hacker couldn’t sack that kind of happiness.

But seriously, get a life and don’t build it out of attempting to wreck others.