Love Is for Losers Wibke Brueggemann (unputdownable books .TXT) 📖

crash, bang, wallop. Love hormones are being released, and now she’s like: OMG, Tristan’s so hot, Tristan’s so wise, Tristan’s everything.

So here’s what I’m thinking: It’s obviously too late for Polly (may her hilarity, her gorgeous mind, and her infinitely stunning personality RIP), but I can totally prevent myself from becoming a victim of this unfortunate condition, because I’ll recognize the chemical process in my own brain and therefore will be able to react accordingly.

Sunday, January 7 #DisprovingTheTheoryOfEvolution

Polly’s attraction to Tristan Training Wheels Murphy makes no biological sense.

Apparently we subconsciously fancy people we can make superior babies with so the gene pool can be enriched and the human race can grow stronger and better.

But Tristan can’t even ride a bike.

Now, this wouldn’t be bad/questionable/problematic if he could, for example, fly a plane. But he can’t. So what’s going on?

And how has Polly not called me in a week?

Maybe her brain is actually broken.

PS: Back to school tomorrow, and I’m sure all will be revealed.

PPS: I hate that I have to take the bus, because I have to get up an hour earlier than usual.

Thanks, Mum.

Monday, January 8 #BackToSchoolHell

I’ve sunk so low that I had to sit with Miriam Patel and her minions at lunch.

She saw that I was lunching solo and invited me to her table like she was Jesus hosting the Last Supper, all gracious, with her arms wide open.

Everyone had to squeeze past Polly and Tristan kissing outside the library.

Blech!

Seriously, Polly’s hormonal brain cocktail must be not only potent but also off, because Tristan’s gross. Compared to Polly anyway.

On our way to biology, I told Polly that her mentionitis was already getting on my tits, because normally she’d be saying things like: “The only reason I remember the term chloroplast is because it sounds like an adhesive but isn’t.” And all she’d said to me all day today thus far was: Tristan thinks, Tristan says, Tristan wants …

Me: Can you say one sentence without saying Tristan?

Polly: You don’t get it, Phoebe. Tristan and I are in love.

My God.

Tuesday, January 9 #BraceFace

Miriam Patel has new fluorescent pink braces, which she’s loving more than life. She’s fake-smiling all day like those teenage twats off Nickelodeon who pretend to be twelve but are actually eighteen.

Miriam Patel: Oh, hi, Phoebe.

Me: Oh, hi, Miriam.

Miriam: I’m so happy for Polly, aren’t you?

Me: Ecstatic.

Miriam Patel (grinning, because she’s evil):…

Me (grinning, because I’m choked with hatred):…

I suppose I could always have watched Polly and Tristan make out while eating my sandwich, but then there’s the gag reflex.

Wednesday, January 10 #Wankpot

Tonight when I was watching telly, Kate sat down next to me on the sofa and poked me with her foot until I looked at her.

Me: What?

Kate: Why haven’t I seen or spoken to Polly? She usually moves in during weekends when you’re here.

Me: I told you. She’s found someone she likes better. He’s called Tristan.

Kate: Oh, I see.

I told her that Polly doesn’t even know Mum’s gone to Syria, and how she still hasn’t wished me a happy new year, and that Tristan basically ruined everything Polly and I had, and that he’s always there and touching her, and that I don’t ever get her on my own anymore. And that he doesn’t know how to ride a bike.

Kate was just like: “What an absolute wankpot.” And then she put one of the designer cats on me and told me to stroke it because apparently that makes you feel better.

It didn’t.

Thursday, January 11 #NoThanks

I locked myself out this morning and had to go to the thrift shop after school to get keys from Kate.

Apart from Pat, who I’ve known all my life and I can’t remember not hating, here is the other main issue I have with Kate’s thrift shop and thrift shops in general: Most of the clothes they’re selling people have died in. Relatives then shoved those clothes, plus the contents of the dead person’s home, into bin bags and dropped them off outside the shop in the middle of the night (and we all know what happens when bin bags are left in front of shops or homes: vermin, vomit, vandalism).

You should see their assortment of bric-a-brac (FYI, bric-a-brac is a fancy term for “random shit nobody needs”). Examples:

Ancient Royal Wedding mug featuring a washed-out Princess Diana with a massive chin. Vile.

Arsenal salt and pepper shakers. Just crap.

Thimble with IBIZA written on it. What?

Christmas soap collection from Boots circa 1971. Rancid.

And last but definitely not least, my personal favorite and a genuine bargain at only three pounds:

A dried-up yet fully inflated puffer fish with plastic googly eyes stuck on. Why?

When I walked in, I was like: “Yes!” because it wasn’t Pat behind the till, but a guy with Down syndrome who was a bit older than me.

He didn’t say hello, and so I didn’t say anything either, which I thought was fine, because it’s a thrift shop and not Lush, where the salespeople are all like: “Hiya,” and in your face for half an hour.

I could hear Kate through the open door to the stockroom, and I thought I’d walk straight in. When I passed the till, the guy took a deep breath in, then shouted: “Kate! Customer!”

I literally had a heart attack and swung around to look at him and say something, anything, and our eyes locked.

Him (so loud): Kate! Customer!

Me:…

Him (even louder): Kate! Customer! Kate! Customer!

Me: Shut up!

Him:…

Then a girl in a school uniform with the bluest icy-blue eyes I’ve ever seen in all my life appeared from the back room, and she looked at me like: Did you just tell a person with Down syndrome to shut up? And I looked at her like: Well, yes, because why would I discriminate just because he has a learning disability? Then she went: “You okay, Alex?” to him, and to me: “Can I help you with anything today?” and I told her I was there to see Kate, and suddenly she looked at