Well, maybe she will. There’s always hope. But not all Body Freaks die thin. Maybe she’ll end up as some of them do, dead of a stroke or a heart attack on the porcelain phone to God.
One of her online friends — Azurechild — has been urging her to try something called syrup of ipecac. It’s a well-known purgative, with potentially fatal side effects, but which causes rapid weight loss. Of course it’s irresponsible, one might say downright criminal, to encourage someone with Chryssie’s weight problem, and with her already weakened heart, to take such a dangerous substance.
Still, it’s her choice, isn’t it? No one is forcing her to take the advice. We do not create these situations. All we do is hit the keys. Control. Alt. Delete. Gone. A fatal error. An accident —
So — How Well Do You Think You Know Me Now?
That’s this week’s meme, posted by Clair, snagged by Chryssie, who always tags me, like a child in a crowded playground trying to summon a circle of friends.
Clair and Chryssie, like so many of our online clan, are addicted to memes: Internet chain-letters, whose purpose is to simulate interest and conversation, often in the form of a questionnaire. Sweeping the Net like a schoolyard craze — Post three facts about yourself! What did you dream about last night? — passing from one person to another, disseminating information both useful and otherwise; these things behave like viruses, some going global, some dying out, some ending up on badguysrock, where talking about oneself — Me! Me! — is always a popular pastime.
When tagged, I tend to reciprocate. Not because I enjoy self-promotion, but I find these exercises intriguing for what they reveal — or not — about the recipient. The questions — to be answered at speed — are designed to create the illusion of intimacy, and to answer them correctly sometimes requires a level of detail that might challenge even the closest friend.
Thanks to this medium I know that Chryssie has a cat called Chloë and likes to wear pink socks in bed; that Cap’s favourite film is Kill Bill, but that he despises Kill Bill 2; that Toxic likes black girls with big breasts; and that ClairDeLune likes modern jazz and has a collection of ceramic frogs.
Of course, you don’t have to tell the truth. And yet, so many people do. The details are designed to be trivial enough to make the lie seem unnecessary — and yet, from those details a picture emerges, the little things that make up a life —
For instance, I know that Clair’s computer password is clairlovesangel. It’s her hotmail password too, which means that now I can open her mailbox. It’s so easy to do these things online; and fragments of gleaned information — names of pets, children’s birth dates, mothers’ maiden names — all make it so much easier. Armed with such seemingly innocuous data, I can access more intimate things. Bank details. Credit cards. It’s like nitrogen and glycerine. Each fairly harmless on its own, but pair the two together, and — Wham!
Tagged by chrysalisbaby posting on badguysrock@webjournal.com
Posted at : 12:54 on Tuesday, January 29
If you were an animal, what would you be? A rat.
Favourite smell? Petrol.
Tea or coffee? Coffee. Black.
Favourite flavour of ice cream? Bitter chocolate.
What are you wearing right now? A dark-blue hooded top, jeans, blue Converses.
What are you afraid of? Heights.
What’s the last thing you bought? Music for my iPod.
What’s the last thing you ate? A toasted sandwich.
Favourite sound? Surf on the beach.Siblings? None.
What do you wear in bed? Pyjamas.
What’s your pet hate? The slogan ‘Because I’m worth it.’ Because you’re not, and you know it —
Your worst trait? I’m devious, manipulative, and a liar.
Any scars or tattoos? A scar across my upper lip. Another on my eyebrow.
Any recurring dreams? No.
Where would you most like to be right now? Hawaii.
There’s a fire in your house. What would you save? Nothing. I’d let it all burn.
When did you last cry? Last night — and no, I won’t tell you why . . .
See how you think you know me?
As if you could possibly form a judgement on the basis of how I drink my coffee, or whether I wear pyjamas in bed. In fact, I drink tea, and I sleep naked. Has that changed your impression of me? Would it have made a difference if I’d told you that I never cry? That my childhood was bad? That I’ve never been outside of a hundred-mile radius of the place where I was born? That I’m afraid of physical violence, that I suffer from migraines, that I hate myself?
Some — or all — of those things might be true. All or none of the above. Albertine knows some of the truth, although she rarely comments here, and her WeJay is password-protected so that no one can read her private posts —
But Chryssie will study my answers with care. She will establish a profile from my replies. There’s more than enough to intrigue her there, plus there’s a hint of vulnerability, which will counterbalance the veiled aggression to which she responds so readily.
And I do come across as a bad guy — but I may be redeemable, through love. Who knows? It happens in movies all the time. And Chryssie lives in a rose-tinted world in which a fat girl may find true love with a killer in need of tenderness —
Of course it isn’t the real world. I save all that for my writing group. But I like myself so much better as a fictional character. Besides, who is to say that what she sees isn’t some fragmentary part of the truth — truth, like an onion, layer upon layer of tissue and skin, wrapped tightly round something that brings tears to your eyes?
Tell me about yourself, she says.
That’s how it always starts, you know, with some woman — some girl — assuming she knows the best way to mine the motherlode at the centre of me.
Motherlode. Mother. Load. Sounds like something you’d carry about — a heavy burden, a punishment —
So let’s begin with your mother, she says.
My mother? Are you really sure?
See how quickly she takes the bait. Because every boy loves his mother, right? And every woman secretly knows that the only way to win a man’s heart is, first of all, to dispose of Ma —
8
You are viewing the webjournal of blueeyedboy posting on:
Posted at: 18:20 on Wednesday, January 30
Status: public
Mood: vibrant
Listening to: Electric Light Orchestra: ‘Mr Blue Sky’
He calls her Mrs Electric Blue. Appliances are her thing: novelty door-chimes, CD players, juicers, steamers and microwaves. You have to wonder what she does with so many; her guest bedroom alone contains nine boxes of obsolete hairdryers, curling tongs, foot spas, kitchen blenders, electric blankets, video recorders, shower radios and telephones.