I’ve eaten so much that I have created a comfort blanket’s worth of junk food under my skin, and I’m uncharacteristically warm for October. Which is a relief, because I can’t fit into any of my jeans.

Most of this week has been spent conflicted about the downfall of Uber. I’m viewing its collapse as another blow to mental health services. Now who am I going to drunkenly discuss getting back in contact with my estranged father with at 4am? I really felt like I was getting somewhere with Georgios. And not just because we’d arrived outside my house and he was telling me to get out of his car.

I like to think of myself as a Fold Digger, which is my word for still living with my mother at 23 because she’s the only person I know who knows how to fold a bed sheet.

I’ve been using a lot of dating apps recently, particularly Bumble. It’s a great app if you really want to want to find out which pictures you took of your ex they’re now using to attract other people. I don’t feel so bad though because I know you can’t crop memories out of a picture. Unlike my face, which you absolutely can.

I freaked another guy out this week, in the middle of trying to decide whether we wanted to use a condom. We’d debated for a while until he said, “Kat, no offence, but I don’t want you to have my baby”

Which, in hindsight, is a very fair thing to say. However, at the time, oh you bet I was offended. In my head I started justifying why he should absolutely want me to have his baby. I’m maternal, fun and I make great toast. In fact, I was kind of offended he hadn’t asked me yet to have his baby yet. What an idiot.

I haven’t seen him since, so I’m guessing he found another person to not bear his child. Meanwhile I’m being ghosted so hard my phone’s getting featured on Most Haunted.

I got stopped in the street by a guy who asked me for my number. I’ve not once been able to remember my mobile number, but if you ever need to contact Lombard Direct in 2002 for an unsecure personal loan, it’s 0800 215 000.

I asked him if he had Facebook, because he could add me on there. Then he said, “no thanks, I don’t add strangers on Facebook” and walked away. Men are going out of their way to reject me on the streets of London.

The thing is, my relationships usually last somewhere between the three day wait for him to call you after the first date, and the five second rule when you drop food.

I’ve started trying to work on myself a little bit, get some of my self esteem back. Trying to live my best life.

Been thinking about squatting so condom guy might notice me, but him asking me to get off his property probably isn’t the Say Anything boombox moment it is inside my head.

I’ve also started getting my eyebrows done a little bit too often because I like the feeling of her cradling my head and I’ve been craving the soft warmth of human contact.

Last night I only remembered to shave one leg. Shaving is a stressful process because I always do it in a hurry and sometimes the razor blade squeaks like its actually screaming, like its in physical pain and disgust. I’ve started calling my razor my Babe Blade, so it makes shaving seem like a fun game instead of just a constant unending battle I will never win. Having only one leg shaved actually turned out to be quite nice because I sleep on my side and it kind of felt like I was being spooned by someone else.

I read a lot of the rush hour crush messages in The Metro. It’s becoming one of my favourite things to do. A little while ago, a tiny part of me thought one might be about me.

This turned out to actually be quite stressful to deal with because then I spent the rest of the train journey thinking about how I would reject the person who wrote it because I would never go out with someone who would write a rush hour crush, they’re fucking sad.

On closer inspection, I realised it didn’t actually say “to the weeping girl with work trousers tucked into her fluffy bed socks” so crisis averted, phew. I’ll still give him my number. He might need a personal loan from 2002.