I’m going on a mini internet hiatus this weekend. I need to clear my noggin, and also some time and space away from the place where a full-blown character assassination of me is taking place.
Have also told Ajita not to expect hearty contributions to our group chats for the foreseeable future and, like the horrid creature she is, she informed me that my contributions are not particularly valued anyway, so I wouldn’t be a huge loss. I also told her to keep Danny so entertained that he won’t ask questions pertaining to my virtual disappearance, and if she’s not sufficiently hilarious and endearing, just to tell him that I’ve joined the Hitler Youth and won’t be returning for quite some time. I feel like this is both plausible and horrifying enough that he’ll have to just accept it and move on, and hopefully will also have the effect that he falls swiftly and irrevocably out of love with me.
On that note: so long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodnight, or however that preposterous song goes.
Monday 26 September
6.14 a.m.
Have spent the entire weekend working on my screenplay, sending it back to the judges, walking Dumbledore a combined total of forty-two yards, and attempting to figure out how to confront Danny about his potential involvement in the Izzy O’Neill: World Class Whore blog.
In a feat of willpower one could accurately label superhuman, I’ve managed to steer clear of the blog itself. In fact, I have become quite content in my vacuum of ignorance, to the extent that I’ve not even told Betty about this unfortunate development. Not just because the idea of showing her a picture of me having sex on a garden bench is both horrifying and disturbing, but also because I don’t want to worry her. While I often share the whimsical and occasionally explicit details of my love life with my aging grandma, somehow telling her about the accompanying shame and fear feels a little too personal. [I know. I’m all kinds of messed up.]
Ugh, shame? Where did that come from? I’ve never, ever felt ashamed of my sex life before. I refuse to let those internet trolls do this to me. I refuse.
What I want to know more than anything is the who and the why. I’ve been obsessing pretty hardcore over whether or not to believe Danny is behind it. It’s not the kind of accusation I can leverage lightly, and I’m pretty sure that no matter what happens he will hog-tie me and roast me over a campfire for even deigning to ask the question. But I have to know.
Here are the facts:
1. He’s butthurt about being friend-zoned and liable to lash out.
2. He saw Carson kiss me and punched a locker.
3. This is Danny we’re talking about.
4. Danny!
I mean, that’s pretty much it. On the other hand, there’s no way he could’ve known half of the stuff that was posted on the blog, and the picture of me fornicating was taken at the same time he was necking on with Michelle Obama Junior. In fact, he didn’t even know I’d had sex with Vaughan until I inadvertently admitted it to him the next night. So logistically there’s no way he could’ve taken that picture.
Also, this might sound insignificant, but the tone just doesn’t really sound like him. He’s a pretty articulate and educated guy. He spends a lot of time on nerdy alternate history forums, for example. Throwing around unimaginative and rather lowbrow insults like “slut” and “whore” and “loosey-goosey” [no, really] isn’t his style.
But yeah. I’m going to confront him at lunch. Is that stupid? We’ll soon find out.
The thought of returning to school and having to face not only the relentless abuse of my peers, but also the potential wrath of my best friend, is giving me Nervous Belly. Hardcore. Like, I’ve had four poops already this morning, all of which had the consistency of oatmeal.
Basically it’s D-Day, only I’m fairly sure the troops landing in Normandy were a bit more relaxed than I am at present. In fact, I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to say the only person who has ever been less relaxed than me is Jack Bauer in 24, and he is a work of fiction. I wonder if the Counter Terrorist Unit has any interest in hiring me. Maybe I should send off a résumé? Come to think of it, Ajita would not take it particularly well if I were to up and move to Los Angeles, even if it were in our country’s best interests.
Shit! Ajita! I’ve forgotten to end my group chat hiatus. I fire off a quick message despite the ungodly hour.
Guten Morgen meine Freunde! Had a wonderful time with the Hitler Youth, but found their beliefs a bit liberal for my tastes. So I have returned to the land of the brave. God bless America!
I’m really hoping Ajita has fed Danny the Deutschland story at some point this weekend or the lack of context may lead him to believe I am, in fact, a raving lunatic and also vaguely xenophobic.
[You may be thinking at this point, wow, Izzy O’Neill is such an inspiration for maintaining her sense of humor and wit at a time like this, but honestly it’s more that I just don’t have the mental capacity to process serious situations. Rest assured, the inevitable apocalyptic breakdown is imminent. Can I just take this opportunity to state: THIS APPROACH IS NOT ADVISABLE. I would love to be your poster girl for squeaky-clean mental health, but unfortunately I am not that chick.]
7.13 a.m.
To kill time before school, I pluck my eyebrows. Unfortunately for myself and others around me, I get a bit overzealous with the tweezers and remove a significant portion of my left brow. Current look: cast member of cutting-edge nineties movie about soccer hooliganism and rival drug gangs. I’m not sure if this is an actual cinematic genre, but you know exactly what I mean.
7.16 a.m.
Don’t have an eyebrow pencil, but managed to find a box of crayons. Have filled in the patch of hairless brow with Burnt Umber. The finish is a little waxy for my taste, but that’s all the rage nowadays, isn’t it? People stupidly pay for two separate products, both powder and wax, and yet they really need look no further than their average arts and crafts box.
7.17 a.m.
Had to wash the crayon off. Think I might be slightly allergic as my entire forehead is now mottled with charming red pinpricks. I’m so glad Danny will be able to take me seriously as I accuse him of ruining my life.
10.32 a.m.
As I walk down the corridor toward math class, a gaggle of thirteen-year-olds point and laugh. News spreads fast.
I almost flip them off, but the idea that they’ve all seen a picture of me having sex, and that they know I have a nipple piercing, and that they all probably buy into the notion that I am a whore of unparalleled proportions, makes me feel hot and exposed under the harsh strip lighting.
It’s a horrible dynamic flip, suddenly having a group of younger kids feel like they have emotional power over you.
1.34 p.m.
Disappointingly my eyebrow does not magically grow back before lunch, which is unfortunate as I was hoping for at least a little five o’clock shadow by now. The look of alarm on Danny’s face as I approach him in the cafeteria is cartoonish and hilarious.
He’s queuing up for chilli fries, staring intently at his phone. ?Très suspicious, non??
“Heycanwetalk?” I mutter from around twenty feet away.
He looks up, baffled, and says, “Pardon?”
I clear my throat and force myself to meet his eye. And actually get within three feet of him. His gaze keeps floating up to my spotted-dick forehead.
Anyway, we arrange to meet in the woods after school. I briefly consider burning the woods down, but decide against it.
5.42 p.m.
Well, that could’ve been worse. Such as if the dinosaurs had been roused from extinction and ravaged the entire school campus.
It’s pretty cold in the woods, even though it’s still early fall, and I shiver as I pluck up the courage to say what’s on my mind. Danny shuffles awkwardly, kicking at a pine cone with the rubber toe of his sneaker.
“So this website thing,” I start incredibly tactfully and eloquently, trying not to meet the gaze of the phys ed teacher who is pole-vaulting with a long tree branch just ten feet to my left. “Sucks.”