Love Is for Losers by Wibke Brueggemann (motivational books for men .TXT) 📕

versus a fair-trade banana. The regular banana producer (i.e., grower) gets 7 percent of the price; a fair-trade producer (i.e., grower) gets 14 percent, which is double. But double of 0.01 pennies per banana is still shit. And if they get 0.01 pennies for a banana, how much can the person harvesting it possibly earn?

I’m going to have to read something less depressing before bed. Something science-y.

Tuesday, May 8 #DrGoogle

Last night I had crazy dreams about leaves and radioactive rocks and fair-trade bananas and trying to say numbers in French.

My brain is trying so hard to hold on to information, it fails to process it in any way, shape, or form, and so I’m left with this saturated cloud of knowledge where nothing means anything at all.

In other news, Miriam Patel was back at school today. She looked like shit, and she pretty much kept her gob shut, which means there must be something seriously wrong with her.

Polly was like: “I think we should talk to her.”

But I reminded her that Miriam Patel may be feeling a bit delicate after her hospitalization, but that she’s still two-faced, and should therefore not be pitied. And you know what Polly said to me? “Grow up, Phoebe.”

What have I ever done to anyone?

I’m 100 percent the only person I know who doesn’t talk shit all day.

I don’t choose my friends according to who is the most socially interesting, I don’t jump on every single bandwagon, and I most certainly would never settle for god-awful sex with my loser boyfriend just because I’m too worried about hurting his feelings.

I’m the least childish person I know.

My brain isn’t complicated, like: Oh, I’m saying this, but what I really mean is this.

Everyone can seriously fuck off.

Also: I finally checked online about my stomachache.

The internet says: “A stomachache doesn’t usually last long.”

Great. I’ve had mine for weeks.

Suggestions on when to seek medical advice:

The pain gets much worse (tick).

The pain won’t go away (tick).

You have unusual vaginal discharge (er, no, my discharge is fine).

You are bleeding from your bottom (no again).

HERE’S WHAT IT’S NOT:

appendicitis (because the pain is too high)

HERE’S WHAT IT COULD BE:

stomach ulcer

IBS

acute cholecystitis

diverticulitis

I honestly feel sick just thinking about it. I reckon it must be an ulcer, because I have five out of eight symptoms:

dull pain in the stomach

not wanting to eat because of pain

nausea

feeling easily full

heartburn

Dr. Google recommends I visit my doctor immediately, but who’s got time to see a doctor?

I’ll just have to monitor my symptoms and call an ambulance if I’m vomiting blood.

Great.

PS: I could also be pregnant. LOL.

Wednesday, May 9 #BreakingPoint

Miriam Patel had another hysterical fit today.

She’s such a mess.

She started crying at lunch, and Jacob had to pull her into a standing position and drag her to geography. Her teeth were chattering like those windup ones you get at a joke shop.

Mrs. Holmes was all like: “Miriam, I think it’s best for us to send you home so you can get some rest.”

But Miriam Patel was just like: “Please don’t call my mum. I’m okay, really.”

I looked at Polly the whole time, and I could see that she, too, thought Miriam was actually going insane.

I mean, I still don’t feel sorry for her, but it was very confusing seeing her completely nonbitchy and fragile.

It feels like the entire universe is out of whack.

8:19 P.M.

I texted Emma on the bus home to ask if she’s really sore, too, after the day at Pat’s, but she hasn’t texted back.

8:45 P.M.

The hardest thing about the physics GCSE is going to be remembering all the formulas. Everything else is basic.

One test question goes: “Figure 1 shows how the output from fossil fuel power stations in the UK varied over a twenty-four-hour period. Explain the variance.”

Now, you don’t have to be a genius to work out that at midnight less electricity is needed than at 7 A.M., when it’s like: Good morning, Britain, and sixty-six million people are putting the kettle on.

Glad I didn’t schedule in an hour to work out something so blatantly obvious.

PS: I wish this horrendous stomachache would go away.

Thursday, May 10 #KillMeNow

Emma wasn’t at the thrift shop today.

Apparently she’s ill.

I was steaming clothes all afternoon, and then I yawned, and Pat was like: “Ah. You’re bored without your friend, aren’t you?”

I was just like: “I don’t mind, I like my own company,” and then Pat was like: “I know what you mean. I’m the same.”

Great.

I’m literally Pat.

After dinner I spent an hour Photoshopping a picture of Richard. I made him a speech bubble that reads: I MISS YOU. GET WELL SOON.

It looks amazing, but for all the wrong reasons. Mostly because Richard is so cross-eyed.

I’m going to send it to Emma now.

Friday, May 11 #TalkToTheRichard

Emma messaged me in the middle of the night last night, but I was asleep.

Seriously, I don’t sleep for three weeks, and the one night I do, she messages me, and I sleep through it?

She wrote:

Thanks for your picture, Richard. You are the most handsome kitten. When I’m not contagious anymore, I will come and visit you.

I’m really happy she replied, but what have I started? Now she’s talking to the stupid designer kitten, and not to me.

I wonder what’s wrong with her, but I don’t want to message her again already, just in case she thinks I’m totally annoying.

PS: Miriam Patel got through a whole day without crying.

PPS: This afternoon I studied.

Fascinating yet entirely irrelevant fact learned: The most stable thorium isotope has a half-life of 14.05 billion years. Just to put that into perspective, the universe (the universe!) is about 13.8 billion years old.

The age of the universe.

Saturday, May 12 #PhoebeNoMates

Emma’s still ill.

At the thrift shop, Bill and Melanie brought lunch for everyone, which was really nice, but I wasn’t hungry, plus my stomach’s still hurting.

Bill: Phoebe, my angel, what’s got your goat today?

Me: I’m tired.

Bill: You work too hard. School all day; you’re here most afternoons and on weekends; you need to give