Instagram is, for me, the hottest, stickiest, most aspirationally delectable, most egoically satisfying, least stressful social network.

I contribute to it thoughtfully and haphazardly, eagerly and casually. (Follow my meager contributions @schildkrout.) I feel like a pedestrian artist when I post, which is all I am and all I need to be.

Everything on earth is equal here: the fluorescent postmodern city and the smirking eskimo, Miley Cyrus with her penis pizzas and this kid all unstoppable on a Chicago half-pipe, this man-eating hammerhead and my now-old student’s baby in a clown costume. All in a day’s work. A hundred strange glimpses — small gifts in opposition to the ubiquitous forces of solipsism and myopia.

It brings me closer to the best of what my friends are giving to the Internet.

I see better because of it, recognizing the nostalgia that’s already built into things. How everything is arranged, just so.

I explore, I putz, I gasp here and there — and I laugh my ass off. Daily.

And yet, I think Instagram could be a good bit better.