Will the real me please stand up?
A fascinating London Review of Books essay by Joe Dunthorne on his experience of being impersonated on social media, and trying to communicate with his sleazy double.
“Real me and fake me seemed to have an instant sexual chemistry. I thought about texting but then I got worried because that would mean sharing my actual phone number. So I ordered a new sim card – ‘my burner’, as I made a point of calling it – then bought a little black box from a man called Igor on the internet that would allow me secretly to record both sides of a phone conversation. Only then did I send my impersonator a message on WhatsApp: ‘I’m sorry I didn’t text you straight away. I was nervous!’ and then ‘Shall we chat? Are you in the studio?’ (I loved the idea that I had a studio.) I got no reply. I noticed that his WhatsApp profile picture was different from his Instagram. There it was one of my author photos but here it was a spooky hooded figure sitting in front of a laptop, face obscured by a question mark, looking halfway between a hacker and the Grim Reaper.”
A fascinating London Review of Books essay by Joe Dunthorne on his experience of being impersonated on social media, and trying to communicate with his sleazy double.
“Real me and fake me seemed to have an instant sexual chemistry. I thought about texting but then I got worried because that would mean sharing my actual phone number. So I ordered a new sim card – ‘my burner’, as I made a point of calling it – then bought a little black box from a man called Igor on the internet that would allow me secretly to record both sides of a phone conversation. Only then did I send my impersonator a message on WhatsApp: ‘I’m sorry I didn’t text you straight away. I was nervous!’ and then ‘Shall we chat? Are you in the studio?’ (I loved the idea that I had a studio.) I got no reply. I noticed that his WhatsApp profile picture was different from his Instagram. There it was one of my author photos but here it was a spooky hooded figure sitting in front of a laptop, face obscured by a question mark, looking halfway between a hacker and the Grim Reaper.”