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

they get more attractive the less they wear, which is just untrue. Emma was wearing a massively-too-big-for-her multicolored jumper and skinny jeans, and her hair was tied up in two buns that were totally askew, and she looked beautiful.

I wish I was naturally pretty. Maybe if I were, I wouldn’t want to constantly brush my hair into my face. And then maybe I wouldn’t look so “spooky,” either.

God, I hate Pat.

Blech!

I swear if I could put a spell on her, I would, which is what I spent the rest of the day imagining.

It was nice of Emma to stand up for me, though. Some people always agree with what other people are saying, even when someone’s talking shit. Miriam Patel is a prime example. She’s so desperate to be liked, she’d slag off anyone.

Maybe that’s why she doesn’t have a BFF.

I mean, I don’t have a BFF anymore, either, but even though I hate Polly and the way the synapses in her brain seem to be backfiring at the moment, I’d never slag her off behind her back.

I know I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: Compared to everyone else, Emma is pure class.

Sunday, March 18 #TheBirdsAndTheBeesAndThenSome

This afternoon Kate and I decided to binge watch all the original Star Wars movies.

Halfway through, she put one of the preggers designer cats on me.

Kate: Stroke her.

Me: Ew.

Kate: And now talk to me about Polly.

Me: No.

Kate: I still haven’t seen her. Why?

Me: She’s being a total dick, and I’ve had enough.

Kate: But she’s your friend. Whatever happened to bros before hos?

Me: Bros before hos? How old are you?

Kate (speaking in that stupid, high-pitched, and slightly deranged-sounding voice that moves across three octaves): Very. And that’s why I know everything and must give you advice.

Me: You seriously don’t want to know.

Kate (still in that voice, batting her eyelashes with ridiculous speed): But I doooooo.

Me: She asked me to meet at Starbucks, and instead of doing us things, she told me that her boyfriend is bad in bed.

Kate (eyebrows hitting hairline): Och, that’s terrible. The poor thing.

Me: No, not the poor thing. Poor me. She doesn’t talk to me in, like, forever, and when she does, that’s what she says?

Kate: Phoebe. Who else would she go to with that? Her mum? You should feel honored that she trusts you with something so personal.

Me: She should go to her boyfriend and speak to him.

Kate: Obviously. But she’s probably embarrassed.

Me: How is talking about it any more embarrassing than actually having someone’s penis in your vagina?

Kate: I bet you he doesn’t even know that she isn’t enjoying it. She’s probably pretending it’s good, because she doesn’t want to hurt his feelings.

Me: Oh my God, that’s so gross.

Kate: A lot of boys, and men, don’t really know where things are and how they work.

Me: Things.

Kate: A woman’s bits, Phoebe, do keep up.

Me: How difficult can it be?

Kate: Very. Apparently. Trust me, I know. I’ve been Polly.

Me: Ew!

Kate: A lot of people think sex means a woman making all the right noises while a man is mindlessly thrusting into her from all angles for three minutes, but let me tell you, no woman’s ever had an orgasm as a result of that.

Me (holding the designer cat in front of my face): Stop talking.

Kate: I’m telling you this so you can tell Polly that she needs to show her boyfriend around.

And when she said “show around,” she actually made a presentation-like gesture in front of her vagina area.

Me: Please stop talking.

Kate: None of your lesbian friends will ever come to you with this, because women know where things are.

Me: I don’t have any lesbian friends.

Kate: You sure about that?

Me:…

Kate: Help Polly. She’s having a crisis.

Me: You help her.

Kate: Nobody wants to speak to an adult about this, and besides, you’re her best friend.

Me: Was.

Kate: Phoebe. Come on, you’re better than that. Call her right now and save her from a terrible sex life. Especially because she’s so in love. She needs to at least talk to that boy about the clitoris.

Me (letting go of the designer cat and literally sticking my fingers into my ears, because have you ever heard a Glaswegian say “clitoris”?): Oh my God. I’m going to pretend we never had this conversation.

Kate: Oh, pet, if I don’t tell you, who’s gonna tell you? And the same goes for you, by the way. You need to find a boyfriend or girlfriend or whatever with whom you’re comfortable discussing these things.

Me: I swear if you don’t stop talking right now, I’m leaving and I’m never coming back.

Kate (pulling the dumbest grimace ever, all cross-eyed and cheeks sucked in):…

Me: Thank you.

I totally couldn’t concentrate on Star Wars after that.

Also, when Leia and Luke kissed, I thought of Emma, and then I couldn’t look at Carrie Fisher without thinking about Emma, and suddenly Star Wars became the Emma show, and it was all very confusing.

I know what Kate’s saying about Polly and vaginas, but none of that has got anything to do with me.

Tristan was Polly’s choice. She chased him for months. She wanted him more than anything she’s ever wanted, including the tickets to One Direction when we were six.

She made her bed and, as far as I’m concerned, she can now lie in it (in the missionary position, wondering what is life).

Monday, March 19 #PresentingTheClitoris

I had a dream that Miriam Patel was giving a presentation on the clitoris.

No word of a lie. There was a chart and everything.

The sex talk with Kate has clearly left me scarred for life.

However, my brain may be sending me subliminal messages, because I reckon Miriam Patel would have no problem showing someone around her vagina, and now I’m wondering if I should send Tristan to her for a quick lesson.

It’s funny really, isn’t it? Everyone’s so desperate to have sex, and it turns out to be the most anticlimactic activity ever.

I’m so glad I’m not obsessed.

Also, the thought of being naked with someone and needing to