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

Polly and Training Wheels (who are now one singular entity because they are literally always attached) at the time, I was just like: “Thanks, I’d love to come.”

Later Polly said she thought I hated parties, but I was like: “No, I don’t,” which is a blatant lie, because there’s literally nothing that repels me more.

Tuesday, January 30 #SorryNotSorry

Today at lunch, Miriam Patel went on and on about how her and Jacob are sleeping together but aren’t “official,” and that that’s totally okay for them.

And I hate to admit she has a point, but she does, because why should she have to be like Polly, all: “I love you, I love you, I love you” like a crazy person? Maybe Miriam just enjoys having sex. Everyone is different.

Then she got half a pine nut stuck in her braces, but I didn’t tell her and let her prance right into her geography presentation.

Wednesday, January 31 #Falling

Tonight Mum WhatsApped and was like: “How’s Polly?” and I was like: “Brain-dead and floating in an estrogen-induced delirium,” and Mum was like: “Oh, don’t be mean, Phoebs. It’s a nice thing for her. Just wait until you fall in love.”

I was just like: “I will never fall in love.”

And what a stupid expression that is in the first place: To fall in love.

Like you fall into a ditch or something.

Maybe people need to look where they’re going.

Thursday, February 1 #WorstNightmare

I told Kate I was invited to Jacob’s party, hoping she’d say I wasn’t allowed to go, but of course she was like: “Great. I can drop you off and collect you if you like.”

I told her I’d take the bus because, let’s face it, it’s not like I’m going to be there for long.

I have nothing to wear, and everything I do have is covered in cat fur.

I hate my life.

Friday, February 2 #consumerism.com

Now that it’s February, everyone has jumped on the bandwagon that is the pointless frenzy about Valentine’s Day. I reckon Valentine’s Day was only invented so people don’t die of absolute boredom in winter.

After the Christmas sales, everyone’s like: Now what?

Enter Saint Valentine, and off we go again, spending money on meaningless crap, chocolates that now have hearts on them instead of Father Christmas, and stupidly overpriced cards.

I actually saw a card that said: HAPPY VALENTINE’S TO A GREAT SISTER-IN-LAW.

What does that have to do with anything?

Oh, and because love is in the air, the much less horny mother designer cat of the very horny escapee daughter designer cat is going in for the shagfest.

Kate’s decided to only take that one up to High Barnet now because the other one is most definitely already up the duff, and the dirty weekend costs like £500 per cat.

I wonder if you can buy shares in designer cat sperm, because Kate should.

In fact, I should.

Saturday, February 3 #PartyHell

I knew I’d have a terrible time at Jacob’s, and I did.

If it’s at all possible, I hate parties more than ever now that people have turned them into communal make-out sessions.

Tonight we played this game called Seven Minutes in Heaven, which is actually seven minutes in the toilet.

Miriam Patel (dressed like she’s forgotten to put on actual clothes and looking at me specifically): I would just like to mention that not everyone in this room is sixteen and therefore old enough to be legally sexually active. That means intercourse. FYI.

Me (dressed in actual clothes): Intercourse. LOL. (Because who says that?)

Miriam Patel (giving me a death stare):…

Me (considering her skyrocketing levels of phenylethylamine):…

Anyway, I ended up spending seven minutes in the loo with James Monahan.

I suppose it was okay. Not that I would EVER have sex with him, because I basically don’t even know him, and why would I want to snog a random person right next to a toilet? But we both like Doctor Who, so we talked about the latest series, and we agreed it was excellent.

When we came out, it was clear that no snogging/sex had taken place, and the only person who spoke to me all night after that was Annie, who also has no friends, although I think she’s a bit more tragic, because she never had any to start with, and she only gets invited because she brings booze (and nobody knows where she gets it from, which adds mystery, and people love that).

We sat on the sofa together and watched one happy couple after the other disappear into the toilet and reappear again seven minutes later.

Yawn.

Miriam Patel and Jacob went in together, and when they came back out, Miriam was all like: Look at me, don’t look at me, and then Annie went: “Miriam, come here.” And Miriam obviously thought that Annie wanted to hear details, but then Annie gently raised her hand to Miriam’s face and casually picked a pube off her cheek.

I was like: “Ew, you have a pube on your face?” And you know what happened next? Instead of everyone going: That’s disgusting, a pube was stuck to your face, everyone went: “OMG, how amazing. Miriam Patel had an actual pube on her face.”

I left thirty seconds later.

On the bus I was thinking, you know, there I was, sitting with Annie, wishing for a millisecond that I was popular, but if I was the popular girl, I’d be the girl with a pube on her face.

Also: I can solve a complex mathematical equation, I know about the chemistry behind love and lust, and I have a deep understanding of the difference between there, their, and they’re. I don’t want a medal or anything, but why are people being idolized for having pubes on their face?

Sunday, February 4 #MoreLies

Polly texted to ask how the party was, and I was going to be all hateful like: Maybe you should have gone instead of joining Tristan’s family on a day trip to his grandparents’ house not even five weeks into your brand-new relationship. But I ended up telling her the