Love Is for Losers by Wibke Brueggemann (ebook pc reader .txt) 📗

all Starbucks. I had a vanilla latte as usual, and Emma was like: “I didn’t take you for a vanilla latte kind of woman.” And then she winked at me.

Is the vanilla latte a stupid drink?

Emma got a chai latte with soy milk. Maybe I’ll get that next time.

On the way home, I asked Kate why Emma volunteers at the shop, and Kate was just like: “Why don’t you ask her yourself? I’m sure she’ll tell you.”

Yes, well, I’m sure she’ll tell me, too, because I’m sure it’s not actually a very interesting story, except it is now that Kate’s made a drama out of it.

I really wish life was a lot more straightforward.

What’s Emma all about?

9:08 P.M.

And just one more thing about Emma: I’ve never known anyone with bigger, more beautiful eyeballs.

According to the internet, blue eyes are a mutation that occurred six thousand to ten thousand years ago. Until then all humans had brown eyes. Also, only 8 percent of the world’s population have blue eyes, and there actually is no blue pigment in blue irises, and they only look blue the same way the sky looks blue but isn’t.

Friday, March 2 #Cringe

When Kate got home tonight, she was like: “James came to the shop today.” And I was like: “Who’s James?”

Kate: You know James.

Me:…

Kate: James James. Beautiful James. From the Goat.

Turned out Gastroporn James visited the thrift shop and was casually browsing the nonfiction book section when Kate recognized him.

Apparently working at the Goat isn’t his life. He’s at Wimbledon College of Arts, where he’s doing a BA in fine art, and he’s twenty-three. Kate said she asked him to volunteer for her, because she’s got chronic volunteer shortage, and he said he’d think about it. I swear, if he starts working at the thrift shop, I’m never setting foot in there again, because Kate would be so gross, as she clearly fancies him, and I don’t need to be subjected to another couple being all cringe, kissy, and couple-y right in my face.

Saturday, March 3 #TheCancerShop

Pat was back at work today. She sat on her usual chair by the big table pricing bric-a-brac, and I swear she looked me up and down, like, three times. I only glared at her. I wish I knew why she hates me.

My first job was sorting the Easter card spinner, because apparently people are

a)  too blind and

b)  too stupid to put the cards back into their correct slots.

And, of course, the whole time I was trying to sort them, people were spinning the spinner round and round, taking out cards, and putting those back incorrectly, too.

I was literally like: Please ask for assistance if this is beyond you.

Afterwards I had a lesson in how to use the steamer, which is basically a massive industrial-strength iron. It boils water like a kettle, and then blows it out through a nozzle that you use to run over the clothes to take the creases out. Sadly, it doesn’t make anything smell better, but Emma was just like: “For tough jobs, there’s this,” and she spritzed Febreze. “Fragrant floral freshness.”

I was just like: “Now it smells of public toilet,” and Emma went: “Hmmmmmm, delicious,” and smelled the crusty armpit of the shirt we were steaming, and we laughed.

Pat didn’t speak all morning, and she seemed genuinely inconvenienced Emma and I were having a nice time. When she finally snapped out of it, she was like: “Phoebe, I hear your mother is in Syria at the moment.”

Me: Yes.

Pat: Kate says she’s helping to build a hospital?

Me (thinking: Why are you asking me this when you already know the answer?): Yes.

Pat: She’s ever so brave.

Me:…

Pat: And your father was ever so brave, too. You must miss him.

Me: Not really.

Pat (jaw literally hitting the table):…

I’m sorry, but I really hate it when people say shit like that. It’s like saying: Oh, it must be so difficult living without that third arm you never had.

I’m really annoyed that Kate can tell the whole world about my life, but when I ask one thing about Emma, she’s all like: Oh, sorry, I can’t possibly open my big Scottish mouth.

Maybe I should tell Kate I don’t want to work for her after all.

You know what they say: Don’t shit where you eat.

Sunday, March 4 #www.hell.com

Still no posts from Emma I could like. A post I chose not to like was Polly’s: “Lazy Sunday with the boy,” and a picture of their feet sticking out from under a fluffy blanket. I can’t even.

I spent an hour trying to WhatsApp Mum, but the connection was so bad we had to give up.

Kate was like: “I’m sorry, Phoebe,” but I was like: “It’s not your fault. Plus, I don’t actually care.”

Kate looked at me, and she was like: “You do care, Phoebe. Amelia’s your mum.”

I really don’t, though. Mum only calls because she loves to hear the sound of her own voice. I get it, the whole ticking-boxes-at-work thing, but ticking boxes at home? Forcing conversation with people just because you’re related? I don’t think so.

Teacher training day tomorrow, so I’m going to the thrift shop.

Monday, March 5 #Revelations

If you’re rubbish at telling lies, you shouldn’t do it.

Polly 100 percent never lies to me because

a)  she knows I can always tell immediately, because her left eyelid twitches, and her voice changes, and

b)  she’s always like: “Lying to you would be like lying to myself.”

Also, if you insist on being all hush-hush about something but it’s making you feel guilty and you have therefore decided to rid yourself of that guilt at one point in the future by telling the truth, why aren’t you just being honest in the first place?

People are pathetic.

So today I found out that Mum has never told me the whole truth about Dad.

And, of course, just like every other vital fact about life, like periods, penises, and how to assemble IKEA furniture, I had to learn it from Kate. Because my mother sucks at being