I Only Ride Acoustic

Snap! You’re Busted has captured stunning footage of Chloe Armstrong, Elevated Lifestyle Magazine’s recently named “Health Architect of the Year,” scarfing down what bore a striking resemblance to a McDonald’s Big Mac. Our camera operator caught her mid-bite, eyes closed in what could only be described as a food-induced orgasm. When we called Chloe’s name, she rolled up her window and sped away, a french fry dangling from her mouth. Hey, we’re the last people to judge, but in an interview that aired just last week, Chloe renounced all processed food as she proudly pitched her upcoming cookbook, “Cooking with Chloe: Good Clean Fun!”

Later that week, Chloe was seen leaving Dunkin Donuts with a cardboard coffee cup in one hand, bulging doughnut box in another. This, from the woman who swore off disposable packaging and created a stainless-steel drinking receptacle lifestyle brand to rival Stanley. How could she NOT have an extra tumbler in her car? When confronted by paparazzi, Chloe smiled and offered, “Oops, you caught me bringing food to my sick neighbor. Remember, I don’t preach, I teach!” Um, was that a doughnut in your hand, Chloe, or were you just happy to see us?

Those two instances alone wouldn’t be enough to justify us running this story. I mean, Chloe Armstrong is only human and is allowed to stress eat occasionally. But we received confirmation of a third incident that proved a clear pattern of deception, reminding us of our duty to keep public figures accountable! Just yesterday, we confirmed that Chloe Armstrong rode an electric bike while she completed the 400-mile “Ride to Stop Bed Rotting” last week. Moments before, she had posted pictures of herself on her manual bike wearing her “I Only Ride Acoustic” jersey. She vlogged her progress along the way, talking about the importance of “true” exercise, specifically describing how much bigger her calf muscles had become from her daily bike-riding.

So, there you have it, folks. It’s time for the American public to decide: Is Chloe Armstrong a fraud, or a mere, average, imperfect human being like the rest of us?

***

Oh hell no, that swarmy little reporter didn’t just call me average. Imperfect, absolutely, but average? NO. I will admit that this whole thing has gotten out of hand, but that only proves my entire point. Our society is so collectively void of anything substantive that we cling to the words and images of any shyster who claims to have the remedy to life’s ennui.

You might be shocked to discover that I am working on my PhD in Sociology; my dissertation topic is the reason I am now in this whole mess. My roommates and I were joking when we came up with “Curating a Health-Conscious Digital Presence and its Impact on Physical and Mental Health Outcomes: A Study of Critical Dichotomy.” Yeah, it’s a dichotomy because the very act of participating in social media portends a decline in mental health—no brainer, right? Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of the dichotomy and my real and virtual worlds began their merger.

My plan had been to enlighten academia with the ironic societal undertones of a health obsessed culture, one that simultaneously engages in damaging practices to maintain the façade of youth. I imagined the brilliant antidote I would prescribe, my contribution to this insane fixation on our digital identities. Instead, I became the subject of the study when the social media identity I created (for the sake of my dissertation, of course) became so much more entertaining than my actual life.

You’re probably wondering how a complete unknown, with no social media experience, could have managed to pull this off. It quite possibly could have been because it all started during COVID, when people were starved for content. They craved connection, and here I was, this random, relatable woman who was providing hope during that strange time. I posted the weirdest, most fringe health information I could find and was shocked when my ridiculous articles caught hold. I kept waiting for someone to call me out, to see through my guise. But no one ever did. Which made me feel less and less guilty and more convinced that people’s disillusionment was their own damn fault.

This catapult into the public arena soon gave me the data I needed to prove my dissertation, that people’s obsession with the digital world would be their undoing. The problem was, I got internet famous. Not just a few hundred followers, but numbers into the thousands, then up to a million after a huge influencer saw my video about microplastics and invited me to appear on her podcast. She launched my fame before she went down in flames (she got cancelled for making lame comments about the woman who cleans her toilets TWICE a week—seriously, twice a week?) Clearly my transgression wasn’t as tone deaf as hers…or does it even matter? Come to think of it, she is now back to over a million followers.

Back to my current predicament. I became a “Lifestyle Maven” through sheer algorithm manipulation, subterfuge, and a whole lot of moxy. I could lie and tell you that I am ashamed, but the truth is that it is freaking amazing to be listened to; not just listened to, but watched, emulated, admired, and ultimately, put on a pedestal. We all know what happens once you’re on the pedestal.

I never lost sight of the fact that everything I was peddling was a crock, which means I had spectacularly proven my thesis. To what end, though? Was I ready to pull the plug and go back to being Carrie Anderson, living quietly in Michigan?

***

My publicist Amanda launched Plan Damage Control, trying to curtail my freefall into internet purgatory. There were multiple hashtags trending that didn’t look good for me: #donutgate #fryface #chaosarchitect #acousticmyass #chloeisafraud. My followers were turning on me, finding other inconsistencies, transgressions they had ignored in their blind following of my brand. It was like the Chloe Cat Community had never existed.

Amanda wanted me to do a national morning show mea culpa. I would have rather died than subject myself to that flavor of torture, so was relieved when she determined that going on a popular podcast would have a wider, more relevant reach. We needed someone on trend but not too controversial. That took Joe Rogan off the table, maybe Dax Shepard? We were sure Mel Robbins wouldn’t want to come anywhere near my pariah status. Amanda pushed hard, becoming desperate enough to call Adam Corolla (sorry, Adam), but he didn’t even bother to text her back. That did not bode well and my followers were dropping by the hour.

I decided to take matters into my own hands, promising my remaining followers I would go old school, giving them a “full confession” on a Facebook Live. It doesn’t get any more humbling or cringey than that, right? I would of course turn the comments off because I’m not made of stone.

Amanda agreed to my plan and helped me carefully craft my statement, ensuring I was repentant without making excuses. The perfect mix of humor and humility, with the promise to fully make amends. I would give them the complete truth: they had been unwitting participants in my sociological experiment. I would outline the ways I would use my ill-gotten knowledge to lobby for increased transparency in social media, while pushing for tighter gatekeeping to avoid digital identities that espoused unachievable ideals. Once I had their full attention, I would bring out the big guns: I was going to lobby for the removal of filters! Okay, not all filters (let’s be real) but at least the ones that are designed to make us look more than twenty years younger than our actual age…baby steps.

Then, I would reveal my true identity and fade back into obscurity. I was ready to stop living the lie.

***

“Hi, my little Chloe Cats! I know, it’s been a minute, but I needed to make sure I found just the right words to explain my actions. I’m doing this Facebook Live, unfiltered and unscripted!”

Hundreds of thumbs down emoticons cascaded the feed. Amanda was sitting next to me, giving me an encouraging thumbs up, nodding for me to continue.

“By now, I’m sure you’ve all seen the pictures, the ones that probably felt like a betrayal. The ones that showed me doing things I’m not proud of, things I told you I never would do. I am deeply sorry you had to see me like that.”

Even more thumbs down, angry face emojis.

“I am ready to explain myself, to come clean so I can do better.”

My heart was unexpectedly in my throat. Why was I nervous? This little apology was child’s play compared to the bullshit empire I had so successfully masterminded. I dismissed this momentary hesitation and reminded myself of the relief that would follow once I came clean. Then I could get back to my old life, as boring as I now realize it was. Like, mind-numbingly boring.

“The truth is, you’ve all been part of a social experiment, one that worked too well.”

The hate emojis kept on coming. Damn, these people really had turned on me—thank God the comments were disabled. I looked at my notes, feeling less steady in my resolve to out myself as the misguided PhD candidate who orchestrated this whole false narrative.

In that moment, I had an inconvenient epiphany. I knew the real purpose of my project had never been to expose damaging consequences of creating a fictionalized digital presence. Instead, I had chosen this thesis topic so I could feel better about being average. The joke was on me; I had become an unwitting victim of my own experiment, getting caught in the dazzling existence of a made-up world. My happiness was dependent on the validation of a wildly capricious internet audience.

“What you don’t know about me, because I had been too ashamed to admit, is that I was abandoned at birth. I spent my entire childhood in different foster homes, trying to find my place in the world, always feeling alone. I desperately needed to be a part of something, to fill the void that never went away. But I didn’t know how.”

My words took on a life of their own, and I could see Amanda’s horrified expression as I had just told the biggest lie of my life.

She had met my loving family, the one that supported me selflessly and wholeheartedly, including the funding of my PhD. They would be pulverized if they knew what I was telling the world.

And yet, I couldn't seem to stop myself.

“You all, my beautiful, wonderful, Chloe Cats, have given me the community I never had. So yes, I got caught eating junk food, that’s what I turn to when I’m feeling especially lonely. And the bike thing, well, I may not be in as good of shape as I made myself out to be. Filters, you know.”

A few laughing emojis came through. Amanda glared at me, arms crossed in disgust.

“But the truth is, I wouldn’t be where I am today without all of you. You have made me feel whole, like I finally belong in this beautiful, Chloe Cat Community.”

Genuine tears fell down my face.

“And I promise to make it up to you, starting right now. I pledge to donate all proceeds from my cookbook…that’s right ALL OF THEM, to Foster Youth of America. I just need you to believe in me again and we can make this happen.”

I paused, exhausted by my confession. I braced myself for more hate.

But then, one heart emoji appeared on the screen, followed by another, and soon, a waterfall of hearts.

My jaw dropped when Amanda leaned in to give me a hug. She grabbed my laptop and posted the link to buy my cookbook. Once a publicist, always a publicist.

Maybe we are better off believing the fantasy. Who am I to take that away?