solitude
people not talking at me about meaningless crap all day
numbers
clever people/possibly the absence of stupid people altogether
being allowed to have original thought
Let’s see where this leads me.
Everyone at school is suddenly like: OMG, if I fuck up my GSCEs, life is going to be over, and I’m never going to be able to go to university (even though, why does everybody need to go to university anyway?).
Bill said that anyone who wants to train as a plumber has more of a lifetime guarantee of having a decent income than someone who goes to university and studies some meaningless bollocks like Post World War Two Japanese Felt-Tip Pen Art.
Sadly, I can’t be a plumber, because I’d have to speak to people all day, and that’s, like, the first thing on my list of things to avoid.
The search continues.
Wednesday, May 23 #NASA
Result.
I’m going to become an astronaut.
This occurred to me during Physics 1, which pretty much kick-started my gone-sluggish, sievelike brain, and I have a feeling I aced that exam.
Because under no circumstances can you be rubbish at physics when you want to be an astronaut.
I checked NASA’s website as soon as I got home, and turns out they’re always looking to recruit people who are willing to go on long-duration space missions. Like a mission to Mars.
I mean, no one is going there just yet, but current missions are perfect simulations of what such a journey could look like, and you spend eighteen months in isolation with your crew. Which is brilliant, because you get all the excitement of interstellar travel without the threat of your body exploding in the vacuum of space by accident.
And you eat space food the whole time, so my stomach ulcer/cancer could just shut up.
The pain is totally back, FYI.
PS: Mathematics 1 tomorrow. Bring it!
Thursday, May 24 #Space
OMG, this morning in the toilets Polly sunk the lowest by succumbing to the oldest trick in the book and literally shoving a scroll with mathematical formulas down her underwear. I swear it must have been the most intellectually complex thing to ever have touched her vagina. And of course she didn’t go to the toilet during the exam to casually peruse it, because who actually does that?
When we were waiting to go in, Polly was like: “Miriam looks like she’s about to pass out,” and something unexpected (sentiment?) happened to me mid eye-roll, and I went over to Miriam and said: “You know you can actually do this, don’t you?” But before she could open her big mouth to reply, I walked back to stand with Polly, who was completely nonsubtly adjusting her pants/vaginal scroll.
Anyway, I think I did well again. Seems all I needed was the prospect of silent spacy solitude, and my synapses were falling all over themselves to make it happen.
PS: Apparently your body doesn’t actually instantly explode in a vacuum, but it’s something that science fiction writers made up for dramatic effect. According to the internet, you may be able to survive a one- or two-minute exposure to the vacuum of space.
What’s also fascinating is that apparently the liquids near your body’s surface would evaporate instantly, like the moisture in your eyes and even your spit.
Imagine your spit evaporating.
PS: You can buy space food at the Science Museum. Maybe I should go and buy some.
PPS: Painting with Cats is gone, and apparently nobody remembers selling it. Bet Kate’s reading it right now.
Friday, May 25 #EnglishLitHell
Today occurred the horror that is English Literature 2.
I had a nightmare last night that I couldn’t find the right room, so when I sat down at the desk this morning, the paper in front of me, I felt a certain sense of achievement already.
Apart from that, I want to never speak about Romeo or Juliet ever again. They’re dead to me (LOL, I’m so funny).
It’s officially half term now.
This week has been so stressful.
9:05 P.M.
I took a picture of my bruise and sent it to Emma.
She wrote back:
Tease.
And then she said that she’s planning on studying in the mornings next week, and working at the thrift shop in the afternoons.
I think I’ll do the same, because I need to not go insane from studying.
Saturday, May 26 #TreePollenGate
My brain feels foggy.
Maybe it’s hay fever.
According to the internet, symptoms for hay fever are:
runny nose and nasal congestion
watery, itchy, red eyes (allergic conjunctivitis)
sneezing
cough
itchy nose, roof of mouth, or throat
swollen, blue-colored skin under the eyes (allergic shiners)
postnasal drip (LOL)
fatigue
I’m actually not displaying any of these symptoms, apart from fatigue, but the tree pollen count was high today, and I ended up with actual pollen in my hair. Which may have caused the fogginess.
Emma and I went on a Starbucks run for the shop this afternoon.
It was really hot, dry, and sunny today (hence the high pollen count), so Starbucks was literally Frappuccino central and we had to wait for ages. I was casually leaning against the cake and muffin counter, just a little bit in front of Emma, and all of a sudden, I felt her hand in my hair.
Emma: You’ve got tree pollen everywhere.
Me:…
Emma: Did you sleep outside or something?
Me: I have no idea. I mean, no.
Emma (laughing, picking yellow bits out of my hair):…
Me: Are you laughing at me?
Emma: Why would I laugh at you?
Me: Because I’m always such a mess with bruises and tree pollen and having to wear shit from the thrift shop.
Emma looked at me.
Just looked at me.
And I noticed that I hadn’t noticed her eyes in a while, and I blamed it on the exam stress, and then I noticed that they look different now it’s almost summer.
She smiled and took a strand of my hair and twisted it around her finger, pulled on it slightly, and I didn’t know whether I should pull back or let her pull me forward, and so I gave in to her until our faces were so close I could feel how warm she was.
And then she said: “I don’t think you’re a mess.”
I looked at her mouth, because I couldn’t look at her eyes anymore, but that didn’t help, and I ended up saying something like: “Hmngh.”
I watched Emma smile and lick her lips, and I was just like: “I forgot what we were talking about.”
Emma let go of my hair, nodded, and said: “Yes.”
Yes.
Yes what?
Yes?
When we got back to the thrift shop, Kate announced that we (as in the shop) will be given a special honor for raising all that money for the Star Wars poster.
The overall boss person of the cancer charity is going to come to the shop to give us a certificate or rosette or whatever.
To be honest, I was only half listening, because all I could hear in my head was Emma’s yes.
11:14 P.M.
I don’t understand why things with Emma are so different. I mean, Polly picks shit out of my hair all the time. It’s nothing special; I don’t even think about it.
LOL, if I told her about what happened with Emma, and how it made me all speechless and ridiculous, she’d be like: Phoebe loves Emma.
Ha ha.
11:55 P.M.
OMG.
Sunday, May 27 #WTAF
I’ve got a crush on Emma, and I don’t have time to have a crush on Emma.
And how did it take me so long to realize that’s what was happening? Especially when I’ve so obviously been displaying all the classic signs of this insanity:
incessant social media stalking
jeal
ousy
sleepless nights
constant adrenaline high
no appetite
brain ache
I’m not Pat, I’m Polly. And I think that might actually be worse.
This is not happening to me.
Just no.
I feel like I’m in the wrong brain.
I did a yogalike headstand against my wardrobe this morning, because apparently it’s good for your organs to gravitationally rearrange themselves every once in a while, and I was hoping that the pressure on my head would somehow awaken the few sane synapses I may have left in my brain.
I stayed upside down until I was about to pass out, and it did help, because two minutes later, I was like: You can do better than this, Phoebe.
So here’s the plan:
Don’t fancy Emma.
Also, there’s no point in fancying her, because even though she’s hinted she may be into girls, it’s not like she’d ever fancy me back, because:
a) I’m socially awkward,
b) I’m ridiculous,
c) I’m not funny, and
d) I’m the idiot who goes on and on about how we all die alone to people with dead brothers.
How funny that it never occurred to me that I could be into girls, even though I realized today (while standing on my head) that, as a lifelong fan of Doctor Who, I never actually fancied the Doctor until she was a woman.
I’ve never had a crush on a real-life girl before.
To be fair, I’ve never had a crush on a real-life boy before, either, so that’s neither here nor there.
What’s happening to me?
I’m going for a walk. I can’t cope.
4:40 P.M.
Walking didn’t help.
I don’t have time to have crushes on people, I’m busy with exams. My brain is working at full capacity, I don’t have room for fluffy shit like this.
I’m too confused to study, so I’m going downstairs to watch crap telly.
6:56 P.M.
When Kate and James got back from their day out, I was still lying facedown on the sofa.
All the kittens had climbed up on top of me and gone to sleep, Richard was pressing right on my bruise, but I couldn’t even be bothered to make him move.
It took Kate and James fifteen minutes to notice I was even there, underneath all the kittens.
Kate just sort of looked at me and went: “Phoebe. Are you feeling okay?”
All I was thinking was: I’m literally in hell, but what I said was: “I’m fine.”
Kate: Have you eaten?
Me: Not today, no.
Kate: Have you spoken to your mother?
Me: Not today, no.
Kate (observing me like I’m an alien or someone about to spontaneously combust): Why don’t you try calling her, and then you can help James make dinner.
Me: I’m not hungry.
Kate: Tough shit, pet, because you’re eating.
Classic.
9:05 P.M.
I ended up having to give Mum a summary of every exam I took this week.
Halfway through our conversation, I remembered about my plan to work for NASA, and Mum was like: “I think that’s very ambitious and a brilliant idea, baby.”
I wish I could sign up already, because a mission to Mars is exactly what I need right now.
11:09 P.M.
My brain wants me to think about kissing Emma, but I reckon once I’ve gone there, I’m doomed. I’m trying to not finish that thought, even though I can see its outlines already lurking in the shadows.
11:11 P.M.
You know when you’re trying to not think about something? It basically doesn’t work.
11:23 P.M.
I suddenly realized that I haven’t actually ever kissed anyone I fancied, and that time Toby Daniels tried to suck my face off in Year Eight pretty much scarred me for life, because
a) his tongue was enormous, and
b) he tasted of cheese and onion crisps.
11:44 P.M.
Maybe I should study all day every day this week so I don’t have to see Emma at all.
What am I going to do?
Monday, May 28 #NotInLoveWithEmma
There’s an article in the Metro today that may just save my life:
“Five Tips on How to Get Over That Annoying Office Crush.”
When I got on the bus, it was on the seat I was about to sit on, so I think it’s the divine intervention I’ve been hoping for.
Here’s what to do:
Avoid being alone with them, for example in an elevator or in a meeting room.
Avoid taking the same lunch hour.
Say no to after-work drinks.
Remind yourself that you have a life outside of work that is worth living for.
Is this person actually your type, or do you simply enjoy flirting around the water cooler?
Okay, so the first three can obviously be easily achieved.
Number four is a problem, because I don’t have a life outside of work worth living for, and five is entirely unclear to me, because I don’t think I have a type, and I wouldn’t say I enjoy flirting, because I basically don’t know how to do it.
Since this list is a bit general, I decided to make my own How-to-Fall-Out-of-Love-with-Emma list based on the one from the Metro:
Avoid being alone with her (stockroom, Kate’s house).
Avoid going to Starbucks/Sprinkles.
Say no to after-work activities (i.e., kitten time).
Remind yourself that you do have other friends (sort of: Polly).
Could you actually live with the embarrassment of coming on to Emma and her recoiling in horror?
I think number 5 is the key to regaining my sanity here. I think I’d rather die knowing Emma respects me than knowing I’ve made an absolute tit of myself and that Emma is now going to never stop laughing.
Also: Emma’s ill and wasn’t at the thrift shop.
I’m quite impressed she managed to schedule her disease for half term, because imagine having to take exams while being mucus central.
Tuesday, May 29 #ChickenSoup
I took a picture of a recipe in the “Cooking for Invalids” section of The Woman’s Guide to Cookery and Household Management and sent it to Emma.
It’s for chicken soup, and because in order to make that soup, you also need to know how to prepare the stock, which is in a different section, I sent her that, too.
She replied straightaway:
Not actually that ill. I’d kill for a Lucozade or Starbucks, but my mother insists on fennel tea. Help!
I’m going to her house tomorrow to bring her Lucozade (and Minstrels).
I’m also bringing her Starbucks.
Not because I fancy her (I’m 100 percent committed to sticking to my list), but because she reached out to me as a friend.
Wednesday, May 30 #MrsEmma
Emma’s mother is unfriendly AF.
That was unexpected.
I went over to their house around eleven and rang the doorbell.
I thought it would be just Emma, because it’s the middle of the week and everyone’s at work, but Emma’s mum opened the door and looked at me all like: What do you want?
Me: Hello. I’m here to visit Emma.
Her: And you are?
Me: Phoebe.
Her:…
Me: A friend. Obviously.
Her:…
Me: From the thrift shop.
Her: I’m afraid Emma isn’t well enough to have visitors at the moment.
Me: She said she’s not really ill.
Her: I think I’ll be the judge of that, Phoebe. If you don’t mind.
Me (thinking: Aggressive much?):…
Her: I’m sure Emma will be back at the thrift shop next week.
And at that point, I saw movement just at the top of the stairs, and so I moved to the side a bit to see.
It was Emma, and she was waving at me and mouthing: “I’m sorry” and pointing at her moth
er.
Me (a bit louder, so she could hear me, too): I got Emma Starbucks, and Lucozade, and Minstrels.
Her: That’s very thoughtful of you, but not very good for Emma.
Emma (on top of the stairs, mouthing): Nooooooooooooo!!!!
Me (trying to look at Mrs. Emma with an equal amount of understanding and hatred): Fine. I’ll give it to her next time I see her.
Her: I think that would be best.
Me: Bye.
Her (suddenly all nice and chatty because I’m leaving): Goodbye, Phoebe, nice to meet you.
I hate people who are so obviously two-faced.
Fuck off.
I walked back to the thrift shop, and when I saw Kate, I was just like: “That could have gone a lot better. Emma’s mum’s a proper cow.”
Kate: I think the word you’re looking for is overprotective.
Me: Have you met her?
Kate: Only once. But I’m aware that she worries about Emma a lot.
Me: Well, I wasn’t trying to poison her child. I was trying to make her happy.
So then I sat by the steamer for, like, half an hour and drank two gone-cold soy chai lattes, and I couldn’t even be bothered to decide on the donation of the week. All I could think about was Emma, and whether she would taste of soy chai latte. All sweet and cinnamony and creamylicious.
I’m really worried that I can’t stop fancying her.
I know I’ve only been trying for a couple of days, but I need to try harder.
I wonder if you can fancy someone without wanting them.
Fancy someone … What does that even mean?
PS:
to fancy someone: In British English, the verb to fancy is a transitive verb whose primary meaning is like, love, feel attracted, have a taste for, etc.
So it’s basically the same as saying “I fancy cake.” I like cake, I love cake, I feel attracted to cake, I have a taste for cake.
BUT, that doesn’t mean I have to have the cake.
Fine. I can work with that.
Or maybe I can simply treat my feelings (blech!!!!!) like a chronic illness or like diabetes: accept they exist, appreciate they are annoying, understand them, and manage them.
Thursday, May 31 #StillNotInLoveWithEmma
Emma sent me a text in the middle of the night:
Love Is for Losers Page 17