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In Page Six (the New York Post’s gossip column), I was merely a comic-book blonde.
(This in a city of men with problematic marriages.) Much to my surprise, a rather ordinarily complicated New York romantic life turned out to be newsworthy.
I was a ‘femme fatale’; I was sleeping my way to the top (Michael is one of the founders of Newser.com, a web aggregator, which paid me an hour to do some writing); I was, well …a girl who had sex.
The internet may have revealed my romance, but it was my bad luck to be involved with someone who’d written a biography of Murdoch perceived by him to be unfavourable.
Murdoch’s paper the New York Post, in an act of obviously gleeful revenge towards Michael, could — by merely reporting the internet rumours — make me the harlot in the middle of a banner headline scandal.
But I was shortly notified by my Atlanta girlfriends that my scandal had spread to the South in an email chain, prompting the image of my devastated mother having to face the Buckhead ladies at bible study.
And my father informed me that I was guilty of besmirching the family name (made all the more vulnerable by its uniqueness and, hence, googleability).Several weeks ago I was awakened by a phone call from a man who, speaking in a loud and excited voice, demanded to know the fine details of my personal life. From this unknown man’s unknown website, my terrible scandal quickly moved to Gawker, the gossip site of record in New York, which published every saucy picture it could find of me, and then, shortly after, to tabloid headlines in the New York Post.Was I in a relationship with the Vanity Fair columnist Michael Wolff — and under what circumstances? I was, in the initial report, a hapless naïf, prey to a ruthless older man.If you can afford to live in Manhattan you must be up to no good. Its cliquishness makes it more high-school-like than journalism-like. The cruelties of the internet are due, surely, to its fishbowl properties — everybody who is writing gossip on the internet knows everybody whom they are writing about; indeed, everybody seems to be writing about each other.Possibly it’s the long descent into recession that has created a new culture of opprobrium — nobody these days should be having much fun. Or going out with someone who is doing the writing.It turns out to be easy to believe what’s been written about you. I knew what I needed to do: swear off interesting (e.g.