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

I don’t know why I’m lying. It’s not that I’m desperate to become best mates with Pube-Face Patel.

Monday, February 5 #CrispGate

Miriam Patel has turned into some sort of celebrity after getting the pube stuck to her face, and Polly is still wandering around like a zombie looking for Tristan if she’s not already latched on, so my goal today was to speak to no one at school.

At lunch I went to the library to print off CVs again.

Then I sat on the floor behind the classics (where nobody ever goes), trying to eat a packet of crisps, but Mrs. Day busted me straightaway.

Mrs. Day: Phoebe Davis. Hiding?

Me (swallowing a giant not-fully-chewed Kettle Chip, almost slicing open my trachea):…

Mrs. Day: I was going to have a word with you anyway.

Me (coughing): I’ve done nothing wrong.

Mrs. Day: There’s no eating in the library.

Me: Everyone does it.

Mrs. Day: And if everyone jumps off a bridge, do you jump off a bridge, too?

Me:…

I honestly thought I was in trouble for a minute, but turned out she just wanted to tell me how pleased she was I decided to take “mathematics” (who says that?) for one of my A levels.

Of course I’m going to do math. I mean, it’s easy, and I like that there’s only ever one answer, not like in English, where it’s all blah blah blah, and if you’re not a communist like Mr. Harris you get a shit grade.

On my way to history, I ran straight into Polly and Training Wheels, who were entangled in a tight embrace just by the first-floor toilets. Polly had her back to me, but Training Wheels looked me straight in the eyes and pulled her just that little bit closer.

I don’t even care anymore.

PS: I wonder if Emma and Luke Skywalker are like that when they’re together. Emma seems too grown-up to be that basic. But to be fair, so did Polly until it all went wrong.

Tuesday, February 6 #GoodNewsAtLast

Yes! I got an email from Dream Bear Factory inviting me to an “audition” on Saturday.

I suppose audition is their happy-clappy word for job interview.

Bring it. Seriously, how hard can it be?

PS: The designer cat’s back from High Barnet and has been asleep ever since, totally sexed out. I can’t even look at it.

Wednesday, February 7 #LifeChoices

Kate told me not to make fun of Dream Bear Factory, even though they call a job interview an “audition” and the email says “Thank you beary much for your interest in dreaming with us.”

Mum’s still in Turkey. I looked at a map, because I was like, how long can it take to drive to Syria? But Turkey is actually huge, three times the size of the UK, to be exact.

Mum said they passed through a village today and the locals offered them goat udders to eat, and all I’m thinking is: You could work at any London hospital, eat Pret or itsu or Marks & Spencer’s for lunch every day, sleep in a nice warm house, in a nice soft bed, spend time with your nice only child, and yet here you are trekking through shitty Turkey in the middle of winter eating goat udders.

I swear she thinks she’s the New Messiah.

Thursday, February 8 #DesperateTimes

I don’t know what to wear to the Dream Bear Factory audition.

Kate told me to put on something “bright and cheerful, maybe with unicorns.” Now who’s taking the piss?

Everything I own is black featuring designer cat hair. I could always put on my school jumper, but that’s just cringe.

I suppose I should ask Kate to drive me home home so I can raid my closet. But to be honest, I don’t even know what I’ve got at home home anymore.

I could also go to Primark and buy something, but I hate Primark. Not because of child labor, but because the average customer appears to lose control of all motor functions, and when you go in there after school, everything’s on the floor.

PS: Child labor is also not okay. Obviously.

Friday, February 9 #TickTickBoom

Kate did a pretend audition with me earlier, in preparation for tomorrow. She’s totally serious about it being serious, and even though she’s usually crazy and scary, she got very crazy and very scary (and very Scottish).

She pretended to be Miss Dream Bear Factory, thanking me “beary” much for my application. She even printed off my CV and had a pen at the ready.

Kate: Is it Phoebe Alexandra or just Phoebe?

Me: Just Phoebe.

Kate: All right, Phoebe. I’m going to ask you a series of questions. They’re all pretty standard, but you’re welcome to take your time answering them.

Me: Okay.

Kate (rolling every r in the most ridiculous way): Describe a time you had a disagreement with a fellow team member. What did you do to overcome it?

Me: I’m at school, so I don’t really have team members.

Kate (writing something down): Okay. Tell me about a time you went above and beyond to meet a customer’s expectations.

Me: I’m at school. I don’t really have customers. I don’t know how to answer that.

Kate (writing something): Would you consider yourself a team player, or do you prefer working on your own?

Me: I don’t know.

Kate: What are you most proud of? Please elaborate.

Me: Oh my God, Kate, I don’t know. These are stupid questions. Seriously, what do you want me to say?

Kate put her pen down and was like: “Fer goodness’ sake, Phoebe, just make something up. What did I tell you about ticking bloody boxes? Tick, tick, tick. Tell them what they want to hear. ‘How did you solve a disagreement with a fellow team member?’ ‘Well, Miss Dream Bear Factory, I think communication is at the heart of a functioning working relationship.’ ‘Are you a team player?’ ‘Yes, but I also enjoy working on my own.’ ‘What are you proud of?’ ‘That time I helped a blind person across the road.’ Jesus Christ, pet, pull yerself together.”

At that point she’d gone so