I refuse to talk about Gaga or Binglegate. So I checked out Chatroulette, fad queen that I am.
After fine-tuning the webcam lighting, I decided on anonymity for my debut. A ginormous pair of sunnies and reversed cap was the first option, only I looked like I was out on parole. I added an old wig, which wasn’t the wisest of choices. I still looked like a bastard; a crazed cross-dressing wranger with special needs.
If I couldn’t take myself seriously, I wondered who would.
Unfortunately, the answer is plenty. Trolls around the world randomly chatting with anyone. Anyone, people! Do they have computers in prison, I asked the guy in orange overalls. I watch too much TV, I reassured myself. I also used a pic of Matt Damon, but nobody noticed he wasn’t moving. That, or they were just happy to be talking to someone.
I was inundated by underprivileged countries. The cynic in me suspected they were more interested in an Australian passport. I clicked away, willing a bevy of beautiful boys. Someone remotely interesting would have done. But zilch. There was a balaclava-clad schmuck jerking off, and I had a sneaking suspicion it was an old psych lecturer from uni.
I didn’t stick around to find out.
Trust a Russian to come up with something so utterly random and inane. It’s Skype on acid. Absurdly light on settings, there’s nada control over who pops up to hijack your life. No option to refine searches. Honestly, I don’t care about Ping from Indonesia or Emmy-Lou from Alabama. I don’t care about their depressing lives. I have enough drama in my own.
And there endeth my interest in Chatroulette. No Futterwacken happy dance.
At a stretch, you might log on for a laugh with friends. There’s a certain morbid curiosity to it, and of course the power to dismiss people with the click of NEXT. If only real life were that simple.
In a world where social networking encourages us to socialise without social skills, Facebook alone devours too much of my life.
How have I become this person?