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Diary of a yummy drummy: 04/02/2010

This wretched financial situation has got to improve soon or I'll be forced to make my parents check me into that new Promis centre in the Wicklow Mountains that charges €8,000 a week and is supposed to be Ireland's answer to The Priory clinic.

I said this to my mother on the phone last Saturday evening. She was asking me why I wasn't "going out for the evening with the pals. If you're actually speaking to them this week. Hee hee" (I think she was half cut at the time). I was like: "I don't have the money to do anything. If this continues, I'll go mad, I swear. And you'll have to foot the bill for my stay at the Promis centre."

My auld one was all, "where's that?" and I had to explain what it was and she was like: "I could do with a stay there myself. It'd be a nice rest." I didn't know what to say to that, so I told her I had popcorn in the microwave and slammed down the phone -- or as much as you can slam down an iPhone. I was staying in on my Tobler because Brooke is a thoughtless, uncaring be-atch who thinks that just because she's loaded she can swan off without a second thought for me whenever she feels like it.

Anyway, I was flicking around the million channels we have and Peaches Geldof was on some new chat show on one of the terrestrial stations (usually torture).

I completely admire her -- she was soooo brave to pose for the Ultimo shots unairbrushed. She's an absolute role model for birds everywhere. And she's multi-talented -- hello? -- she's a DJ, magazine editor, model...

Apparently, she's writing a book of short stories and all, which are going to be about, like, the sadness and realism in her life? And I was like, OMG, why don't I totally do that too? I'd be doing my auld pair a favour -- it'll save them, like, eight grand which might otherwise be spent at the Promis centre!


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