Tuesday 4 October
6.31 a.m.
Someone posted a condom stuffed with dog turd through our letterbox this morning. Dumbledore got confused, bless him, and thought it was an exciting new chew toy. And that’s the story of how we’re going to have to get a new couch.
12.58 p.m.
Betty finally let me stay off school today. She’s being all cute and protective and bringing me things. She even knitted me a scarf now that the weather’s getting cooler, and it is the single most ugly garment I have ever seen in my life – like roadkill really – but I love it dearly.
Still haven’t plucked up the courage to check the news again.
2.12 p.m.
Whyyyyyyy???????
Whyyyyyyy did you let me check the news???????
The clickbait piece featuring Vaughan’s speech has now amassed over 100,000 shares all across the state, and has been updated to include quotes from Ted Vaughan, whose political beliefs are as wrong as a sultana in a salad [or really just salad as a concept]. He has this to say:
“The accusations of my son’s involvement in this disgusting display of teenage promiscuity are outrageous and deeply insulting. His mother and I have dedicated our lives to raising this young man the correct way, and to insinuate his behavior has been anything other than exemplary for the past seventeen years is nothing but a vicious lie. Izzy O’Neill, whoever you are: please take responsibility for your own actions, which are a living embodiment of everything that’s wrong with America’s youth culture today.”
Ted Vaughan is the kind of guy who’s probably absolutely thrilled with this handy little PR boost his campaign so desperately needed. He then goes on about abortion policies and what steps he’d take to fix us broken teens, which I can only assume involve systematic castration of the homosexual population and mandatory chastity belts for all unmarried women.
There’s also expert analysis on the ineptitude of sex education-professionals across the country, a roundup of all the female celebrities who’ve had their nudes leaked, someone preaching passionately about abstinence being the only real form of contraception, and a lot of religious bigots condemning me to an eternity in hell.
And the photo of me having sex with Vaughan on a garden bench. Everywhere.
I’m trying very hard to process these developments, with special regard to the fact my name and face and private parts are now plastered all over the internet, but I feel strangely detached and unable to convince myself this is actually happening.
I have six thousand texts from Ajita asking if I’m all right, and predictably zero from Danny. Ajita’s most recent:
Look, I know this is a little off-brand, but I am seriously worried about you. My skin is in more of a mess than, I don’t know, Lionel Messi, and there are reporters at the school gates asking people for quotes about you, and though I am surprisingly tough there are only so many times I can rugby-tackle our peers to the ground before my shoulder gives out, and FOR SHIT’S SAKE WILL YOU JUST ANSWER ME, WOMAN?? Otherwise I shall be forced to call you and we both know how much you hate unsolicited phone calls when a simple text message would do. xo
I fire off an eloquent and insightful message about my mental state:
Re the reporters: I don’t give a fuck. In fact, if you listen very carefully, you’ll hear the sound of all the fucks I used to give exploding one by one, into tiny little fucklet particles that are imperceptible to the naked eye. Stop by after school? Love you.
Then she says:
Love you??? Are you sure you aren’t dying?? It sounds suspiciously like you’re dying. And I know you’re a tireless curator of all the fucks nobody gives, but promise me you’re okay? This press field day is on a whole new unprecedented level of suckage. You would have to combine blowjob extraordinaire Amanda Bateman with a high-end Dyson to even come close to how much this sucks. xo
Despite the enticing myriad of innuendo options available to me right now, I don’t even have the energy to reply.
7.28 p.m.
Having spent the whole day inside alone, trying and failing to fight the deep, gnawing shame eating my insides, I have to get out. Of the house, of my body, of my mind. I just have to get out.
In an attempt to cheer me up, Ajita insists on taking me shopping for sketch props with her mom’s credit card. I have brief concerns over being recognized in the mall – which is where basically everyone from within a 100-mile radius hangs out on evenings and weekends – but aside from the people I actually know from school, no one seems to notice me.
In fairness, most of the WCW website, and indeed the recent press coverage, has been focused on my body. Nobody is particularly interested in my face, and with my body covered up like it is right now, what else do I have to offer the world? Precisely nothing.
Still, every store assistant who serves us, every cashier who swipes Ajita’s mom’s card, I wonder if they know. I wonder if they’ve seen me naked. I wonder if they laughed at me with their friends, or showed their colleagues in the break room. I wonder if they think I got what I deserved. I wonder if they know the intimate parts of my body that are now public property.
I feel powerless. Completely and utterly powerless.
We’re now sitting in the food court, drinking milkshakes [I go peanut-butter Oreo because I am very committed to my varied diet and believe in consuming equal quantities of fat and sugar] and planning a series of satirical Instagram posts using an avocado onesie. Although hipster foodies are absolutely harmless and probably very nice people, we can’t resist an easy target. In fact, it’s often quite physically painful for us to try and refrain from making obvious gags, like the time I tried to give up “your mom” jokes and almost gave myself a stroke, thus it would effectively count as self-flagellation to attempt to control ourselves. This is, both medically and philosophically speaking, a thing. Trust me. I have an IQ of 84.
Once the hilarity wears off over the mental image of me smeared on wholewheat toast and topped with cracked black pepper, Ajita asks me ever so casually, “So have you thought any more about who started that website in the first place? Cos, you know. This is all their fault. Not yours. I don’t want you getting big-headed or anything, because your ego is already intolerable, but . . . you are wonderful. None of this is your fault.”
Genuinely I almost cry at this, but manage to resist lest Ajita think I actually have emotions. “It’d be nice if Danny was telling the truth,” I say. “That he really did have nothing to do with it.”
She mulls this over, taking a swig of her s’mores shake. Next to her is a sign that says Your Sandwish Is My Command. [Don’t you dare laugh at this. It’s the least funny name for a fast-food restaurant in the whole word. Think of all the wasted opportunities! Lord of the Fries. Forrest Rump. The Codfather. I could go on, but I shan’t.]
I add, “I think I’m going to choose to believe him, simply because it’s too depressing not to.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, I’m getting quite tired of people proving themselves to be royal dickwads every other second.” I pause meaningfully, fumbling with the straw wrapper. “Did you invite him today?”
“No. I’d rather fuck a fruit bowl than look at his mopey face all afternoon.”
I laugh so hard at this I almost vomit.
9.04 p.m.
Sound the drama klaxon! Within the space of the last thirty minutes, the following hath ensued:
1. Vaughan called me [like, an actual telephone call, in this day and age! Who does he think he is??] to apologize for the media shitstorm he accidentally caused by making a cafeteria speech more ill-judged than the 2003 invasion of Iraq. I essentially told him to have sexual intercourse with the nearest cactus, and he called me a bitch and hung up.