Dear Diary. The dentist took my braces off yesterday. I had them on for two years so it's like the end of an era. Not that anyone cares about my braces coming off, though, or cares about me in general. You’d think I'd have a "braces off" party where there's gum, boiled sweets and popcorn to eat. But no. That kind of thing only happens to American teenagers. For thirty-something Brits like me, it's just another fucking depressing day.

I say to Girlfriend, "There's not much point in me getting braces really? Because now that I have straight teeth, all it does is draw more attention to the rest of my face. Which is fucking ugly. Especially the eye bags and the balding and the general expression of despair."

And she says, "Your teeth were really bad before, so it's good that you got braces."

So there you go then.

The next thing I need to get is a hair transplant. I've booked an appointment at a local hair transplant clinic. The thing is though, I don't know if I have enough hair left to transplant.

Also, I've realised that however much I try to improve my appearance, I can never improve my personality. Actually, I probably could if I put effort into being friendly and nice to people, but I can't be bothered.

Thankfully, I somehow managed to obtain a girlfriend at the age of 25 and I've kept hold of her since then otherwise, I would still be single and still a virgin.

For lunch, I get a burger from a burger restaurant. It costs me €14, which, for a burger, is expensive. But the thing is, this burger is massive. It could feed a whole village of children for weeks. I guarantee it's the biggest burger you'll have ever seen. The meat alone weighs a third of a kilogram.