Notting Hill fucked up my fucking life again…

You don’t want to watch Notting Hill. You really don’t. But it’s on television and it’s so bloody sticky and although you know it’s kind of going to make you want to kill everyone if you catch more than a moment of it, if you do catch a moment of it then it’s got you in its massive drooling fangs and it won’t let go – by god – no. But I don’t want any of it. I don’t want the crappy friends with broken bits, and I don’t want the Aryan Nation version of West London. I don’t bloody need Ronan Keating howling in my sensitive earbits. And most particularly I don’t want the godawful shame of getting really emotionally involved in it – and worst of all the hideous embarrassment of suddenly wanting one of those least fashionable of all things… A bloody boyfriend. It’s a phase. I’ll get over it. Godammit.