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

Okay.

Me: Okay. See you next week.

Emma: Yes, see you.

And as I turned to walk away, she went: “Phoebe, wait.”

And then she kissed me.

On the lips.

For one, two, three seconds.

Just like that.

I ran all the way home.

PS: Now what?

PPS: I just researched kissing on the internet, which was difficult, because it appears Emma’s quick peck on the lips has literally left me visually impaired.

But anyway, there’s no evidence that ancient humans (hunter-gatherers/the Egyptians) kissed.

Apparently modern hunter-gatherer tribes even find it revolting.

The most recent kissing-related evidence goes back to an old Hindu text that describes it as inhaling each other’s souls.

I mean, that’s definitely what Tristan does to Polly. Except he doesn’t do it in a deep and meaningful Hindu-style sort of way, but more in an entirely horrific Harry Potter Dementor-style kind of way.

The internet reckons humans kiss because our sense of smell is shit, whereas animals can smell each other’s pheromones without having to stick their tongues down each other’s throats.

Interestingly, apparently women prefer the smell of men who are genetically different from them, which explains so much about Polly and Tristan.

Polly:

brilliant

gorgeous

funny

Tristan:

stupid

gross

dull

Here’s what I want to know, though: Why do Emma and I want to kiss each other? Because it’s not that we could enrich the gene pool.

How does it all make sense?

Like, biologically?

PPPS: One kiss could pass eighty million bacteria.

Sunday, July 8 #PatheticPoetry

I didn’t know what to do with myself today.

I think if you add it all up, I spent about thirty minutes standing on my head. I know it’s not good for me, but the discomfort makes me think about important things like breathing, rather than confusing things like Emma.

When my arms got tired, I hung upside down from the sofa.

Kate was like: “Phoebe, if you’re bored, I have a lawn that needs cutting out back.”

So I went to my room and cut up that ridiculous soufflé chapter from The Woman’s Guide to Cookery and Household Management instead, and turned it into poetry.

a)

Sweet, light, airy.

Skin is milk.

Soft, delicate, shiny.

Lips are heat.

Maybe I’m too bland?

Maybe she’s too vanilla.

To do this right,

Follow the master recipe.

b)

You need to have no qualms about perfection.

Already you’re everybody’s favorite.

Perfect for luncheon or supper,

In fancy food language.

I’m ready.

To spoon.

To blend.

To hold.

c)

This I demand of you:

Of course, it’s different,

Quick and hot.

But essential, necessary.

I’m rapidly beginning to subside.

Give me little space, cover me.

Finish me off.

Watch me

As I fall

To pieces.

Do you think there’s a chance people wrote poetry because they were in love with people, but didn’t want to be?

I wonder if it worked for them.

They’d probably proper roll their eyes at us analyzing it for GCSEs. In fact, they’re probably glad they’re dead, so they don’t have to witness it.

7:35 P.M.

Mum called to say that she’s getting her itinerary tomorrow.

Not sure I’m ready for her to come back, and I honestly don’t know what to do about my birthday.

8:45 P.M.

I just realized that the second soufflé poem is shaped like a triangle, which, to the untrained eye/literary critic, may look like a vagina.

If I was to accidentally become a famous poet, schoolchildren would forever have to go on and on and on about whether or not this was a conscious choice made by the poet who was, at the time of writing it, a bit of a lesbian.

And the reality is, I’m not even a poet, and these are just words cut from a shitty soufflé recipe and then glued back together in a different order with Pritt Stick.

9:10 P.M.

I haven’t heard from Emma.

And I don’t know what to say to her.

Maybe it’s good Mum’s coming back after all, because I’ll move back to Kingston, and then I’ll never really have to see Emma again. We’ll be like Romeo and Juliet. Eternally without each other, except in life, not in death.

Monday, July 9 #Snogging

I didn’t go to the thrift shop today, despite the fact that I had fuck-all to do.

When I told Kate I’d cleaned the bathroom and hoovered, she looked at me like I was unwell, which I suppose I am.

I think Emma and I only exchanged twenty million bacteria, and now I wish it had been eighty million.

I want to kiss her again so much that I feel like my insides are going to explode if I’m left wanting it for much longer. But I don’t want to want it.

Maybe I want it so much because Emma and I are so genetically different that we don’t even make sense.

7:45 P.M.

I finally sent everyone invites via Instagram to my birthday, because Kate was like: “Get on with this!”

I think I’m proper broken in the brain, because I sent an invite to Miriam Patel “plus one.”

She confirmed immediately, of course.

If she wasn’t so secretly clever, I’d say she should give up school and be a full-time socialite.

I told Kate that I actually have no idea how to organize everything I need to organize in my life right now, and she was just like: “Don’t worry, pet. It’s all in hand.”

But is it?

Because the last thing I saw her doing was inhaling James’s soul in the kitchen.

Emma still hasn’t texted me.

I don’t know what that means. Maybe she regrets having kissed me. That happened to Polly once after she kissed Pete Abbot, because he thought they were literally married, and Polly was like: “Oh my God, I can’t believe I did that, I don’t even fancy him that much.” And then she had to have a super awkward conversation, which broke his heart.

Maybe I should text Emma and tell her to just forget about the kiss.

PS: In other news: Kate says that Pat says that Bill is obsessed with his new kitten. Apparently he’s finally left the house and walked to the pet shop to buy Mowgli a collar and get her a tag with his phone number on.

Result.

Tuesday, July 10 #Sorry

Got a text from Emma today saying:

Sorry if I did something you didn’t like.

I don’t even know where to start with that.

Except that she obviously doesn’t regret it.

OMG, and of course