I mean, that’s definitely what Tristan does to Polly. Except he doesn’t do it in a deep and meaningful Hindu-style sort of way, but more in an entirely horrific Harry Potter Dementor-style kind of way.

The internet reckons humans kiss because our sense of smell is shit, whereas animals can smell each other’s pheromones without having to stick their tongues down each other’s throats.

Interestingly, apparently women prefer the smell of men who are genetically different from them, which explains so much about Polly and Tristan.

Polly:

• brilliant
• gorgeous
• funny

Tristan:

• stupid
• gross
• dull

Here’s what I want to know, though: Why do Emma and I want to kiss each other? Because it’s not that we could enrich the gene pool.

How does it all make sense?

Like, biologically?

PPPS: One kiss could pass eighty million bacteria.

Sunday, July 8 #PatheticPoetry

I didn’t know what to do with myself today.

I think if you add it all up, I spent about thirty minutes standing on my head. I know it’s not good for me, but the discomfort makes me think about important things like breathing, rather than confusing things like Emma.

When my arms got tired, I hung upside down from the sofa.

Kate was like: “Phoebe, if you’re bored, I have a lawn that needs cutting out back.”

So I went to my room and cut up that ridiculous soufflé chapter from The Woman’s Guide to Cookery and Household Management instead, and turned it into poetry.

a)

Sweet, light, airy.

Skin is milk.

Soft, delicate, shiny.

Lips are heat.

Maybe I’m too bland?

Maybe she’s too vanilla.

To do this right,

Follow the master recipe.

b)

You need to have no qualms about perfection.

Already you’re everybody’s favorite.

Perfect for luncheon or supper,

In fancy food language.

I’m ready.

To spoon.

To blend.

To hold.

c)

This I demand of you:

Of course, it’s different,

Quick and hot.

But essential, necessary.

I’m rapidly beginning to subside.

Give me little space, cover me.

Finish me off.

Watch me

As I fall

To pieces.

Do you think there’s a chance people wrote poetry because they were in love with people, but didn’t want to be?

I wonder if it worked for them.

They’d probably proper roll their eyes at us analyzing it for GCSEs. In fact, they’re probably glad they’re dead, so they don’t have to witness it.

7:35 P.M.

Mum called to say that she’s getting her itinerary tomorrow.

Not sure I’m ready for her to come back, and I honestly don’t know what to do about my birthday.

8:45 P.M.

I just realized that the second soufflé poem is shaped like a triangle, which, to the untrained eye/literary critic, may look like a vagina.

If I was to accidentally become a famous poet, schoolchildren would forever have to go on and on and on about whether or not this was a conscious choice made by the poet who was, at the time of writing it, a bit of a lesbian.