As funny as some photos can be, think twice about allowing yourself to be tagged in questionable photos.

When I moved to L.A. a few years ago, my sister hung out with a couple of people with big followings. I'd hang out with them, too, and eventually was tagged in a picture with Acacia Brinley, who does a lot on YouTube. She got me from, like, 6,000 to 17,000 followers over a couple of days.

I was tagged early as the prototypical white player, the guy with the intangibles - the smart player, the guy who did all the right things.

'Priced to sell' - just the phrase makes me smile. When a dealer says all the items in his booth are priced to sell, he means he's tagged them as aggressively as he can to get you to buy them. Don't worry, though, I still haggle. You have to. That's the point of a flea market.

We've come to expect so little from online privacy measures that public displays of concern about the matter are more or less for show. Being devastated to discover you've been tagged in somebody else's photo has an air of the melodramatic about it at this point.

George Murphy tagged that name 'Butch' on me years ago. We were all at a party and he went around tagging names on people that didn't fit them.

You try to be yourself, do only what you've always done and like to do, and right away, you're tagged as an oddball.

Even though I've been tagged as a scorer and a guy who shoots a lot, I'm a guy that makes the best plays that I possibly can.

It feels good to be tagged as a talented, versatile actor.

I have been tagged mischievous since childhood and was known as a prankster.

I didn't know we'd been tagged as posh. I went to a state school in London, so maybe people think I have a posh voice and that's where it comes from?

Behind the scenes, I'm friends with everyone at work, but without a doubt, my best friend is Bray Wyatt. The man pretty much brought me into the industry when they tagged me up with The Wyatt Family; it was my seventh match I'd ever had. I didn't know the difference between a headlock and a beetle throw.

Fortunately for me, my mother loved travel. Our first non-beach family trip abroad - to England, France, and Switzerland - came when I was 11, and thereafter, we often tagged along on my father's European business trips.

I have this game with my friends: When we go out, if 'Treat yo' self' is tagged within the last six minutes on Twitter, they buy lunch. If not, I buy. They always buy.

We live in a world now where everything is tweeted and Instagrammed and tagged and now, God help us, Vined. Calling out grievances over Twitter has become an industry norm.

In America, to be ID'd - sorted, tagged, and permanently filed - is to lose a bit of one's soul. To die a little. This sounds like a subtle, poetic notion. It's not. In American legal and cultural tradition, one essential privilege of citizenship is not having to prove it on demand.

The frustrating part of being tagged 'controversial' is people go looking for trouble where there isn't any to look for.

Almost everybody that's well-known gets tagged with a nickname.

I am not a sexy woman, I'm not beautiful, I'm not a sex kitten, I don't flirt with people, yet I've been tagged more of sex symbol than women who truly are and I that's solely because I don't reveal too much: people are curious.

It was sort of just a family sport. My mom and dad were pretty keen golfers when I was young and so were my grandparents, and I just sort of tagged along with them.