Caitlin Moran

For someone who lives in a house without mirrors, seeing yourself talked about by others is exhilarating.

Another sad corollary of ‘SatanWankGate’ is that I’ve stopped being able to think of Satan while I wank. I now irrevocably associate The Great Lucifer with Krissi being tetchy – and that’s scary

It had never occurred to me that I might not be my brother’s favourite writer. It’s a bit of an awkward moment.

‘He’s the wrong kind of gay for me,’ I say.

It seemed to me that this was the real reason people wanted to fuck so much. To get here. To get to this tiny, quiet place where there was nothing else to do but be with each other. Just to be two humans who had – for a short while – stopped wanting. This is the beautiful, final destination. The end of things.

Because I get paid by the word, and it’s a thrill when that word is ‘cunt’. Because I don’t run or swim or cycle, and I only dance in the dark, and so the adrenalin I get from hating these bands is the nearest I get to physical exercise.

After all, everyone is bisexual after 11pm.

I am like a dirty goth bride, preparing for her bisexual wedding night.

‘I would say you’re only interested in him because he’s a writer, and you’re a writer, and you basically want to fuck a writer, because that’s the nearest thing to fucking yourself. You just fancy yourself, darling.

‘It’s not a statement – it’s a typo! Razors are very hard to spell with! I wasn’t really looking! The sub-editors will change it, later.’