Do I have some invisible beam of light attached to my head that attracts incredible losers? I have some inkling there is something wrong with me. My therapist seems to think so too. I told her the other day that the last three men I've dated have cheated on me, with leggy blondes who have the IQ of a peanut.

   Of course, she didn't reply to this. She just 'hmm'd' and wrote some notes down on her sad pink notebook. I'd give anything to be that notebook. It knows everyone's secrets – I'd kill to see what Dr. Laura/Oprah/Phil writes about me. Actually her name is Dr. Rebecchi, but no one wants to hear your therapist's name is Dr. Rebecchi – actually, no one wants to hear you have a therapist.

   Dr. Laura/Oprah/Phil likes to chew on her one pound twenty pen, with a fluffy Pomeranian type pink fuzz ball on the end. That pen is even more sad then her notebook. I don't think she could've splurged an extra four pounds and bought something that didn't look like my grandmother's psychotic dog. But this woman's supposed to find the root of my man problem, so I guess it doesn't matter if her house looks pink, cheap and nasty.

   Last Tuesday, Dr. Laura/Oprah/Phil asked what my childhood was like. I couldn't honestly tell her, of course. If I did – she'd probably think I was more weird and crazy than she thought I was. I told her I attended a boarding school just outside of town, and that our family pet died when I was fifteen. My best friends were boys, and one of them was quite famous in our town. I also told her I had this looming evil ready to pounce when the time was right, and my childhood was quite traumatic. I believe I made quite a convincing performance, but she didn't write anything in her notebook which irked me a little. She probably thought my made-up childhood wasn't interesting enough for her sad and pathetic bargain bin notebook.

   Ginny thinks it's hilarious I have a therapist. She doesn't quite get my man problem. But I guess that's just Ginny. Her idea of a deep and meaningful relationship is having sex in more than three places in the space of two weeks. I think she's quite lucky. She doesn't give a flinging-flanging yellow jacket if they dump her. She'll just walk right into a nightclub and leave with a Bobby or a Dylan or a Tad or a Steve. One-night stands are her specialty. Being crushed like a bug under Cinderella slippers is my specialty.

   I called Harry the other day, and he's happy. He's got a girlfriend (name's Sandy or Rizzo or some Grease/70's type name) and I hate him for it. He's happy when I'm sad and lonely, and he's sad and lonely when I'm happy. Why can't I be happy for one of my best friends? I'm such a horrible person. I'll have to tell Dr. Not Much Fucking Help next session. It'll be something to tell the cats when she gets home.

   Its three weeks after Christmas, and I can't for the life of me be bothered to get up and look at the calendar. I've got my sad/pathetic/recently dumped slippers on. I decided it would be something to pass onto my children. I don't have any family heirlooms to give them, and I don't think they'll appreciate the Karma Sutra until they're at least eighteen. I have my children's names picked up thanks very much. I don't find The Gigantic Book of Baby's Names much help. The problem is its too big. They should write a more accessible book for the Hermione Granger types. Something like The Slightly Smaller Book For People Who Can't Be Bothered Reading Five-Hundred Pages. That would be much better.

   Well, anyway I dropped a name for a girl and boy starting from each letter of the alphabet. There was Angelica and Austin, and Bridget and Brutus (thank God I didn't pick that one) and Claire and Carl … well, anyway. I picked one girl's name and one boy's name and its official. My children will be called Drew and Jessica. They are not bad names considering I have absolutely no one in my family called Drew or Jessica. There's also the small matter of sperm. I have no boyfriend and I'm not planning on getting one anytime soon. Ginny tried to set me up with Bobby the other day. It all ended in tears since Bobby naturally forgot all about me and proceeded to fuck Ginny senseless on the couch. That sort of thing does depress you, you know.

   I'm twenty-four-years-old, and I can't figure out why I cannot successfully date someone without being knocked off for a size six with Barbie accessories. I want to get married and have children some day, and it can really get you down when you get dumped three times in one month.

   Someone's knocking on my door. "Who is it?" I call.

   "Ron."

   "Go away."

   "Why?"

   "Because you're male and males right now are stupid and retarded."

   "George dumped you?"

   "Do not remind me!" I say, choking back tears.

   "Herm, George was a fuckwit," he says.

   "How can you say that?" I ask.

   "Easy. I just open my mouth and words come out."

   "Ha ha," I say. "Did anyone ever tell you, you should be a comedian?"

   "Did anyone ever tell you how to open a door?"

   "You know where the knob is."

   I can hear him twisting it. "It's locked."

   "I know."

   "Hermione …"

   "Key's under the doormat," I tell him.

   "That's not very safe," he says.

   "Oh please, you're not my mother."

   "I bloody well hope not," he says.

   "Get in here, you arse," I say.

   He does and I hug him. "Is it wrong I'm totally aroused by this?" he asks me. I hit him. Barstard. "Why are you here?"

   "Just came to see my favourite girl."

   "I thought Pussy was your favourite girl," I say.

   "Her name's not Pussy."

   "I know, but Persephone is such a hard name to say."

   "You're evil," he tells me.

   "I'm depressed," I sigh.

   We sit down. "How depressed?" he asks me.

   "So depressed that if someone told me something equally depressing I could not possibly be depressed anymore."

   "Malfoy's in town."

   "What?" I scream, getting to my feet. "Why? He hates Muggles."

   "I don't know. His dad just carked it, so he's moving down here for something different, I suppose."

   "How do you know?" I say, eyeing him suspiciously.

   "Saw it in The Daily Prophet this morning."

   "And how are those old dickwads going?" I ask.

   "Same as always."

   "Mmm."

   "Oh, how's Ginny doing?" he asks.

   I clear my throat as I see a condom wrapper near my feet. I quickly kick it under the couch, and smile at him. "Great."

   "Good. Mum's having a fit with her living in a Muggle city. She doesn't mind me here though. Weird, isn't it?"

   I nod.

   "Gotta go, Herm," he says suddenly. "I'll see you soon." He kisses me on the cheek. "Look after yourself, eh?" I smile weakly as he quietly closes the front door behind him. I always had a feeling Malfoy had some special talent, and that was getting me fat since this severe depression has made me crave chocolate ice cream. Dr. Face Looks Like My Bare Behind will be interested in this I reck. Her and her sad, little pink notebook.