When Libby glanced at the roach, she was surprised to see it halfway to the stove.
“You’re leaving?” she asked, mildly insulted. Technically she’d asked for space, but in light of recent events it was hard not to feel like she was driving everyone away. “I’m boring you, aren’t I? All this navel-gazing. Me, me, me! But nobody really tells the truth. We want people to see the going-out version, not what we look like at home in our ugly clothes with a shiny forehead and some kind of crust on our chin.” She swiped at her face, hoping it was peanut butter rather than drool. Because that would be so much classier.
“Whatever. Filter this, mofos.” She snapped another selfie, snorting at the result. “Can you imagine Lillibet posting something like this?Here I am with my perfect life, rocking my perfect eye booger. Love, Lillibet.”
But why shouldn’t she post an unflattering picture? Lillibet had already been unmasked in front of the people who mattered. Might as well let all two of her followers in on the secret.
“You know what’s not cowardly, Rocheo? Letting it all hang out. We are down here in the dirt, being our most authentic selves.” She angled the phone to get a picture of her forehead with a roach in the background.
“Hey, fam, check out this gorgeous tablescape.” Libby struggled to her knees, aiming the camera at the cluttered coffee table. “That wadded-up Kleenex is one hundred percent artisanal, bee-tee-dubs. I snotted on it myself. And did you know that potatoes, the main ingredient in potato chips, could also be used for vodka? That makes them a natural pairing for those late nights when you hate yourself enough to make bad choices!” She held her glass next to her face for another selfie. “Cheers!”
Libby swiped through her camera reel. “Guess this is where I live now. Might as well own it.” She toggled to Instagram.
“New post? Don’t mind if I do. Hashtag no more hiding.”
lovelillibetTo All the Bots I’ve “Loved” Before,
You know those Welcome, new followers, here are a few things to know about me posts? This is kind of like that, except without the new followers. And it’s more of a de-introduction, which I guess is also known as a goodbye.
RIP, Lillibet. You total phony.
I don’t mean that in the sense of, Oh, I’m just showing you the pretty parts, like standard social media fronting. “Lillibet” legit doesn’t exist, and I’m your basic failing-at-life nobody.
Do you like my apartment? Me neither. But I guess it doesn’t matter, since I’m probably going to have to move now that my roommate hates me and I can’t afford my half of the rent. That’s also why the top of my grid looks like a dystopian wasteland. I can’t take pictures for shit, and my best friend isn’t around to do it for me.
So, yeah, that’s me. A lonely loser. I don’t know if any real humans still follow this account, but just in case, I’m sorry if my pretend life made you feel bad. Trust me, no one could be more inferior to Lillibet than the real me, sitting here with blackheads and cellulite on a carpet that hasn’t been cleaned since sometime in the last century. Try not to be jealous!
Something I realized recently is that I mostly care what a few very specific people think about me. Not an online me I perform for strangers, but the living, breathing, dry-shampoo-can’t-save-you-now version.
I wish I’d been myself with them, while I still had the chance.
So screw it. No more lies.
Things are going to look a little different around here from now on.
Sincerely, Libby
Image: Woman with greasy hair talking to massive brown cockroach.
#partyofwon #mybestlie #getreal
Chapter 28
Do you ever look around your kitchen and think, Wait—am I supposed to clean that? The cabinet door, the wall, inside a drawer, a can opener, whatever. Like there’s a whole list of basic things everyone knows except you, and you somehow missed the memo about brushing your teeth.
Yeah, me neither. Anyway, it’s just going to get dirty again.
Sincerely, Libby
Image: The inside of a drawer lined with stained contact paper, peeling in patches, with particle board shavings and multicolored crumbs.
#hazmat #whendoesadultingstart #wegotthefunk
Jean didn’t come home that night or the next, and she wasn’t at either of the cater-waiter gigs Libby was lucky enough to pick up over the weekend, working through the pounding headache of her hangover and into a state of deeply dehydrated regret.
Libby checked her phone every time she had a break, but the only notifications were comments on herLove, Lillibetshit posts, which seemed to have struck a chord. Libby didn’t remember ever getting this kind of response when they were faking content. She replied to a few, because she didn’t have anyone else to talk to, and a couple of them were funny. One described her aesthetic as “half-empty vending machine in the darkest corner of a hospitalbasement,” which struck Libby as exactly right. Some people understood her. Maybe there was something to be said for the kindness of Internet strangers.
On Sunday, Libby dragged herself up the stairs after an exhausting evening at a couple’s baby shower. Being on her feet for hours in cheap shoes was hard, but the part that really sapped her will to live was watching the blissful lovebirds hold hands and smile at each other. It was a miracle she hadn’t puked onto a tray of appetizers.
