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#PumaRules

Home to a hot mess… and wise advice

Day #7 – #FemBotsAndOptimism

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Bleh…. With a side of Blah is what the last six weeks have been for me. Clinically diagnosed as depression with a side of anxiety, mild OCD tendencies and night terrors, one can imagine how charming, unstable and joyous I am to be around right now. The inability to concentrate, focus or complete a task is nothing short of frustrating. Time has slowed down to almost a complete stop and I would give anything to fast forward to a time when I start to feel normal again. Food has zero taste, which is fine because I have zero appetite anyways. I crave grey skies, clouds and rain and instead the sun bursts forth with its scalding rays every damn day. There hasn’t been rain in Ontario for weeks and it looks as though I live in the desert, my pretty little hometown looks like a bleak post-industrial wasteland of burnt out lawns, dead gardens and dried up dreams. Maybe I am suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder in reverse?

Shall I continue? Yes. I think I shall.

My bank account has finally imploded on itself. I self funded a humanitarian trip to Jordan because rather then do the intelligent thing and take the stipend offered for the work, I 5008fa8970f03ca0d8fa6d22a390d8b6rejected it in my typical altruistic but stupid fashion claiming “the money should be streamed directly into the project, and if they have to pay for volunteers then they should actually just be hiring locally”. Noble, I know. Not so noble when you have rent to make, car payments to be shelled out and tuition due in three weeks. Additionally, after finally reaching a place where I could envision enjoying public displays of affection and adopting a Tico baby; my potential for a ‘fairytale love affair’ has been impeded again by a bullshitting cad who clogged up my social network… both virtual and real. Unfinished projects sit on my desk dusty and incomprehensible. My inbox is jammed up with nothing short of 100 requests of which I feel zero obligation or drive to respond too. I have a parasite which I picked up on my last “humanitarian” effort which is still beating the shit out of my intestines, making me worried that it isn’t a parasite but actually a terminal illness… and to top it all off, there is no one I can legitimately punch in the face, so I have accrued bad karma wishing divorce and bankruptcy on my frenemies instead.

With all of this amazingness going on for me, I am still shocked that I can’t get a single man to take me out for a drink. I mean since the depression has fallen on me, and my anxiety attacks have rocked my core, I have actually started looking like a fembot. There is always a “glass half full” side to crazy town, and weight loss is mine. Sidebar: If you consider the fact that one can be the most magnificent person in a room and still manage to leave without a drink or a phone number a silver lining.

I do.

Consider it a silver lining that is.

This is what I have learned after many, many years of back-to-back disappointments and the mental health crises that they induce:

  1. One must look fabulous, regardless.   As a #single #puma in your 30’s; looking fabulous is the only thing that truly stands between you and other people’s pity.
  2. Looking fantastic is actually really easy to do if you are blessed with a decent breast-waist-buttock ratio and you own a pair sparkly flip flops, a flowing hippy dress, a colourful refiki, some silver jewelry, mascara and can achieve a decent tan.

Obviously, inner peace is, of course preferable to skin-deep perfection. One can’t have everything however, and when one is leaving for Jordan in a week and starting back into academics in a month, one can’t even afford to leave the house. So it is imperative to look sexy to take back some control, to boost one’s ego out of the gutter and to be able to look at oneself in the mirror and think, “this shit can’t last forever”?

Maintaining a fine balance between depression and optimism is an act of bravery. It takes 282546-ee8e8fdf98894d72a2f0e63fb3ce12d2resilience and courage and a moisturizer that will help restore a glow to your face even if it is cosmetic (only you will know). Looking fabulous, regardless, is what you learn as a#single woman; it is a lesson that will prepare you for all of life’s hardships – in way that regular sex with a man (who will most definitely, sleep with someone else as soon as he gets the chance) will not.

I promise if you take my advice and make the effort to look amazeballs every chance you get, it will eventually pull you out of your funk. This is because you are able to take selfies and post them to Facebook or Instagram and look like you have your shit together and have moved on…. because everything on social media is completely accurate and true… and believable…

Yours as as a #FemBot with #Optimism

Franki Figgs.

~ All artwork owned and distributed by Blackraptor Art

 

Day #6 – #MoreLikeJesus

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Ah summertime! A time for road trippin, lazy afternoons on the beach and adventures that lead nowhere… and this summer has been exceptional for such outings as I have caught the solo bug in my re-found #singledom, and the possible exploits have proved endless. On a rare day off this past week, I travelled avec moi, to Toronto for a leisurely day of window-shopping, soul searching, day dreaming and wandering down memory lane. With its markets, shopping, street traffic, bars, cafes, galleries, old bookstores and brewery district Toronto is definitely an ideal place to loose oneself for a few hours or a day…

Whilst sipping on a pint of Don Valley Bench and noshing on spicy guacamole goodness, I dawned a large sun hat and some dark aviators to set up shop for an afternoon of people watching (a resume worthy talent if done right… and one of my most noteworthy skills next to verbally tearing down fremies, avoiding ex-boyfriends, and obsessively watching Car Pool Karaoke). About an hour into my solo… yet absolutely perfect patio mission… I spied three rather handsomely dapper gentlemen, parked in lounge chairs, conversing in drunken booming voices. Even as people began to “take notice”, they appeared completely unbothered by the fact that every word could be overheard, and so I have taken that arrogance as carte blanche to reproduce their conversation verbatim, right here:

Dapper Man #1: “Ha! I can’t believe it! Does your girlfriend know you have a wife?”

Dapper Man #2: “Yes, of course. It is an open relationship, she does her thing and I do mine.”

Insert loud drunk laughter and guffawing here….

Dapper Man #3: “The real question is, does your wife know you have a girlfriend?”

Dapper Man #2: “Hell no… are you crazy?! Have you met my wife?!”

Dapper Man #1: “Ya guy, besides… they have kids… should would kill him.”

All three dapper men are now laughing like dapper assholes. I roll my eyes behind my aviators and tilt my sun hat down in disgust. Suddenly, Dapper Asshat #2 catches my disgusted resting bitch face at it’s best…

Dapper Asshat#2 (the married one for those of you that have trouble following along) “Hello beautiful.”

Despite the fact that I could have sarcastically slammed down judgment on Asshat #2 and tower_of_subconsiousnessboth of his asshat friends, especially given my stance on all things “cheaty”, I decided instead, (surprisingly) not to take the moral high ground. My reasoning is twofold. One, I am trying to be #morelikejesus (don’t panic my atheist friends who are only my friends because I am an atheist, I will explain) and because flattery really does get you everywhere with me and pulling on the strings of my broken ego worked in his favor… no one had called me beautiful in a very long time. I suppose ultimately I had decided… when you are #single… and when you are me… you are not in any position to take the moral high ground… on anything really…

It has been mentioned in the pages of this blog before, that I am not a nice person. Those of you, who know me in real life, know like a true Gemini I am two-sided. Not two faced. Sidebar: There are days it takes all I have not to say exactly what I think… academic pressures and maturity have helped in this regard but it is still a struggle. I am however very two sided. Both my ying and my yang are evident in every aspect of my life… it also may be why I struggle with romantic relationships despite being absolutely adorable…  There is my academic humanitarian side which knows loyalty, compassion, and doing everything you can for someone, not because of what you will get in return… but because you have the ability to do it. My moral compass section, that says work hard, try hard, be kind and karma will take care of the rest. Fortunately, this is my dominant side, and it holds reign on me most of my days. However, then there is the side that contains my dark… dark… ruined immortal soul… and it gets the best of me sometimes… and when it does… I do evil things and they thrill me…

There was a time that I was ticketed for a parking infraction and because a little cleavage dream-world-painting-jacek-yerka (10)and my feminine wiles didn’t work on the meter man I screamed at him “go fuck your hat” in the street and then laid death threats down on his family as he walked away unaffected. There was the time I called a nun a “cunt” in an airport, just because. Or how about the night I ‘accidently’ elbowed a bar star in the face because I couldn’t handle one more moment of her tiny black dress, wobbly high heeled, like a deer learning how to walk bullshit. There have been morning that I awake full of guilt because I begin to recollect the evenings insults at strangers and friends alike; like a slow moving movie montage, and as disgusted as I am with myself, I smile smugly at how bitchin my drunken wit truly is. And shamelessly one night I drove to London to sleep with an ex after having no contact with him for more then a year just because I saw that he had posted a new #coupled up Facebook picture and well… fuck him… literally…

Here is one of the tough things about being #single. When we are solo, with have nothing to hide behind… no Instagram shots of happiness… weddings… pregnancies… babies… We are forced to push up against our own morality… to face the beast head on. When you are in a relationship you never worry about these kinds of things. When you are #coupled up it is far easier to feel morally superior. Sidebar: Hitler is a prime example of this notion. He was famously #coupled up with the beautiful Eva Broun, he always took the moral high ground, to his eternal detriment… despite being the world’s most notorious cunt… When you are #coupled up morality is just easy. First of all, #single friends are spinning tales of how they engaged in scandalous and reckless behaviors which, will no doubt seem evil to your narrow conformist mini van majority perspective. Secondly, you have ample reason to mistrust your partner, especially if you are a heterosexual female, because men are dicks… as perfectly demonstrated with the brewery encounter above. I could go on all day, but being condescending is just easier when you are holding your romantic partners hand, there is someone to agree with you, and support the judgment of behavior by looking down your nose.

Accepting how badass I have become in my #singledom has been nothing short of liberating. Weirdly, it has also forced me to become more forgiving of others. I don’t have dream-world-painting-jacek-yerka (20)a higher ground. I am basement level at best and perhaps a little lower on a not so good day. As much as my “humanitarian” side would like to deny it… and tries very hard to… I am no better that the cheating brewery cad and his asshat entourage. Those cheating dapper men have a #Darkside… one I also possess… and without denial, I find myself very… very attracted to it. However, I am learning (the hard way as always), that following that attraction, stepping into the darkness… whilst thrilling… is ultimately a very bad idea. This brings me back to why I am trying to be #morelikejesus… and why I am looking for a man who wants to be #morelikejesus too…

Don’t judge me. I don’t judge you. And I am not talking about the esthetics of a person here… although I have spent a lot of time being incredibly attracted to metro lumberjacks who could pass as a Jesus in a pinch if one had a need a Jesus type emergency… What I am talking about is having Jesus in one’s soul.

The older I get, the further I travel, and the more of the world I embrace, I have come to realize that “goodness” is actually very sexy. Sidebar: Picture a smoking hot, perfectly dressed, lumberjack-esque man who is sometimes drawn to the darkness… but who abstains through choice and sheer willpower…. This is the kind of strength that Jesus was talking about. Of course this deduction on what Jesus was talking about is derived from the handful of #Catholic masses I attended as a child, the bible songs I learned at summer camp in my teens, and that really dark month in 2013 when I hit rock bottom and thought that scripture might be my answer out (could 2.18 billion Christians really be wrong?).

Strength is not about being good all the time. It is not about the pureness of your soul (you are not a dove… a new born kitten or a primary school teacher). It is about being good because the realization that while evil thoughts and deeds are thrilling (oh are they ever), and #BadBoys seem to be the type that excite you to your core… these feelings and moments are fleeting. It is the dawning realization that goodness… being kind… and living a life of forgiveness might make you happier… in the long run.

Obviously, one does not have to completely indulge in the realization of being #morelikejesus. A little bit of malevolence… once or twice a month… is ultimately necessary to keep one grounded. Especially if you are #single… Just like Jesus…

Yours in goodness and evil,

Franki Figgs

~All artwork is owned and distributed by the amazing Jacek Yerka 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day #5 – #Alcohol

“Lemon drops in shot glasses and whiskey and gingers… prosecco on patios and warm thimbles of gluhwein… grey goose that pours until I start to sing…. These are a few of my favourite things… “

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I am not afraid to admit that #alcohol is definitely one of my most favourite things on this planet… nor am I humble enough to deny that my updated version of the lyrics to “My Favourite Things” by Rogers and Hammerstein are anything less than stellar…  Clearly… God must know what he is doing… having me born two generations too late and about six rungs on the social class ladder too low to influence the moral writings of the Sound of Music…

There a numerous perks to #singledom, but one of the greatest of the all, it the ability to accept invitations.  Social networking, gatherings of minds, a celebratory get together… the list of events are endless and opportunity for socialization abounds.  It is all very exciting.  It is with total honesty that I can confess that my acceptance of an invitation to one or all of the above listed events, is based solely on my anticipation and enthusiasm for what alcohol is going to be involved.  There is, no other one thing that can accompany you to any occasion as well as #alcohol can!  Sparkling champagne to bring in a New Year… an ice cold Corona with lime after a relaxing float down the river…  lager, chili and football… red wine after snowboarding on a Sunday… sake with sushi… margaritas poolside… double rye and Coke any time at all… Baileys on Christmas Eve… Sangria with barbeque… Guinness at the pub as Fall turns to Winter… a Caesar with Eggs Benedict, a little hair of the dog… Sidebar: I am totally joking… I cannot stomach food on a hangover… it would be just the Caesar… A bottle of Pinot Noir from the local LCBO to take the edge off a hard day attempting to be an adult in the real world…. As you can see #alcohol is the best kind of date… it gets you to where you need to be, without lip, never argues with you until the next morning… and loves you as long as you love it… Perfection.

125265-111What can I say… I love my drinks… Sidebar: Also puppies and LandRovers just so I don’t seem completely shallow…  Of course I know that alcohol is bad, that drugs are harmful and that both are going to be the end of the world as we know it one day.  All of that dramatic pandering aside… I still have zero problem chugging back legal intoxicants to heightened levels of inebriation until I spend the next day praying to the porcelain Gods while trying to piece together an evening that is murky at best… I would honestly think I had a problem… if all my friends weren’t doing it too… (This is sound thinking at its best).

In today’s day and age… survival is all about choosing whatever will get you through the day.  Of course… I could probably up my street cred and sex appeal by choosing a more “rock n roll” type substance… But I have been there and done that and while I have experimented with edgier options… #alcohol remains the drug of choice.  Weed is out the window because I am just a laughing, paranoid, dirt bag when stoned… MDMA turns me into a circus side show where everyone around me feels the need to “safely contain the situation” (that is a direct quote in regards to my behaviour… le sigh) … and I have never, ever done cocaine because a) it scares me, b) everyone I know who does coke is a fucking asshole and c) nasal cavity corrosion…. Sidebar: who wants a drug that makes them MORE ALERT?… doesn’t that defeat the escapism purpose of recreational drug use?

In a very “the glass is half full” kind of way… the silver lining is that I live in a world 125265-250where excessive #alcohol consumption is embraced.  Yeah!  Sidebar: Or perhaps I socialize in really boozy circles… As I have recently stopped dabbling in #coupledup life and have embraced once again my beloved #singledom… my experience of late has been this; even though your family and friends recognize that as part of the self-loathing process after any break up, you will form an unhealthy attachment to intoxicants, which will become a detriment to your health and possible future relationships… they still get offended if you ask for water when they are serving wine… In fact, I cannot think of a single social interaction whereby it would be acceptable for me to reject the offer of #alcohol… Consequently, I spend most of my time lazily regaling hilarious tales of amusing misdemeanours, before that final double rye and ginger tips me over the edge and I incite an argument with a stranger… the town whore… or get into an almost fist fight with a guy with no teeth because he is drooling and making awkward eye contact…

And so we arrive at the big problem with #alcohol.  It forces someone who is slightly addicted to it to fluctuate between fabulous and horrific, depending on the time of day and the quantity of #alcohol consumed.  This is not a healthy emotional continuum on which to conduct a relationship, which I have discovered after a year and a half of intensely high drama..

125265-80But… what is a girl to do?  There are so many occasions during which #alcohol can give you pleasure, and only three that come to mind with romantic love (hand holding, orgasms, someone to walk to the dog late at night…).  I think, on balance, I would rather an existence of #alcohol induced solitude than one of sobriety, lies and conduct unbecoming an adult….

I am confident that this is not going to make for a happy life in the long run, but at least I will have some outrageous tales to add to my already outrageous memoirs…. Providing I can remember them…

Pass the whiskey please….

Franki Figgs

~All artwork is owned and distributed by Hall Groat II

Day #4 – #Celibacy

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The #90’s were my teenage years, and if you too were lucky enough to grow up in the last decade of cool, you will fully understand the nostalgic walk down memory lane I am about to take. Kurt and Courtney were King and Queen of the world. Music was still original and exciting and instead of downloading singles you would have to sit studiously beside the “boombox” with a finger poised over the record button, waiting for the next amazing song to hit the airwaves so it could be recorded onto a cassette and utilized to create a #wicked mix tape of your very own. Underage drinking was a town affair as you congregated in a corn field or down by the river… smoking cigarettes and hash that tasted like petrol… and in the morning you were left wondering how you made it home with only one shoe or why there were small burn holes in your t-shirt… flannel and work pants (pinned at the bottom with #DocMartens for footwear of course). If you were a teenage girl, you were 100% watching the infamous and beloved Friends or Sex and the City or in my case both… and not actually dating but living vicariously through the women who made adult life seem so glamorous even when it was tough.   This is when we began to imagine the FUTURE. The Wonderland of dark haired dreamy humorous sweet gents… orgasms galore… a quaint beautiful loft apartment and amazing… nerdy… beautiful friends that would always understand… had well paying jobs and no commitments or obligations that would impinge on social agendas… And there would be lots of sex… A TON OF IT… CASACADES OF IT!

In your minds eye… sex is what would be happening literally 98% of the time… unless of course you were… eating in a fabulous restaurant… or visiting a gallery opening… or buying shoes…

Well baby…. It ain’t the #90’s anymore…. It is 2016 and my adult life has completely failed to deliver the delicious gifts it once promised. All the dark haired dreamy humorous sweet gents… are either married… have embarked on extended periods of travel… are cheating cads… or must be drinking in a different pub then I do. The housing market has sky rocketed to the extent that one would be lucky to own a garden plot at this rate… and the recession… plummeting dollar… and lack of middle class/well-paying jobs, have all of your friends working 100 hours a week and weekends don’t exist as the work week is now seven days in length, and when you finally do have a few hours… you are so knackered all you want to do is sleep… And there is no sex. None at all.

I am pretty sure sex is over my peoples.

#Coupledup people have stopped having it because now they are married, the honeymoon phase is over… or they are pregnant or post-pregnant and their Britney’s are sporting stiches to hold together their severed genitalia. Or porn… and our generation’s desensitization to sex and sexuality have crushed their libidos. Those in the throws of #singledom have stopped doing it because they have come to realize (after numerous celebrity STD and AIDS scandals) that casual sex is mostly gross. Especially afterwards… when the sweaty stain of a stranger marks your beautiful 900 count bed sheets and the idea that some super sperm might leap through latex and at best cause a pregnancy at worst an STD … and these thoughts running mercilessly through your head impede on any real pleasure being obtained. These massive let downs have made adulthood impossible to navigate. Particularly for a #puma who grew up in the shadows of Rachel Green and Carrie Bradshaw whose iconic pop culture lent absolutely zero blue print to follow, unless one is, of course, indulging in regular one nights stands. It’s a problem my friends.

On a positive note my loverlies… I am an expert at the #celibacy game and I can report that it is actually underrated. I never have to worry about diseases… unwanted pregnancies… failure to orgasm or rejection. I utilize my ENTIRE bed top now as a handy desk where my laptop… iPhone… and copy of Dionne Brand’s “What We All Long For” are at my fingertips… along with a bag of pretzels and a bottle of Steamwhistle… No one wakes you up in the middle of the night taking a piss… snoring… rolling onto your side of the bed or attempting a post-coitus “spoon”. While I can admit that there is obviously some tingly physical excitement missing… it is nothing that scientists say you can’t recreate with spicy foods and a nice long run…

Another bonus to #celibacy… you can stay home and nerd out my loverlies… discover yourself… read… learn something… or just do a Harry Potter Marathon in a pair of boxers and a t-shirt… your body and time are yours! Alternatively, you could go and socialize with the good looking dreamy gent that runs a struggling hotel and try really hard not to be disturbed by the voices in your head telling you that you want to touch his private place or glimpse that broad back naked… #Celibacy does make this kind of social situation slightly more awkward and a little frustrating… and you may even choose not to go just for this reason… But still… If you do venture out…. Remember there is always Presseco…

Who needs a blueprint when life is this simple?

Yours in navigating the 90’s let down…

Franki Figgs

PS… and if you want to challenge yourself… I have been told that #Tantra is both amazing and healing…

~Artist Unknown

 

Day #3 – #InstantGratification

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The word “commitment” does not belong to this generation. We no longer know what the word means. Why should we? We can order up a date like we would order sushi. If a date doesn’t work out on Friday, we can swipe left instead of right and try again on Saturday night, with no harm, no foul. We no longer know intimacy because we no longer take the time to know the people we spend time with. And just like the video killed the radio star… the Internet killed romance (well… the Internet or Disney… take your pick).

If and when we do choose to be with someone… to make an effort… we still find ourselves scanning the crowd… the lineup… the bar… for another option. This is what we are all about… OPTIONS. Instant gratification. We think these things are good… never before have we been more knowledgeable, more aware of the world around us, more capable of doing the things we need to do… but really… our choices are killing us. Choices my loverlies… are giving us a watered down reality, and like a beautiful abstract painting… the lines between reality and fantasy are so blurred we can’t tell them apart. We no longer notice what is sitting or standing right beside us… we pass over what might be the perfect option because there are so many other options… we are afraid we might miss a better one.

Everything has become disposable. If it is difficult, hard, stressful, work… we discard it. Why shouldn’t we… when there has to be an option out there that is less difficult, or hard? There is nothing that teaches us perseverance anymore. Why work at something when someone or something else is calling out to us that they are the easier… better… faster… prettier model? We just don’t. We sit on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and see the life we COULD have. See the places we are not traveling too. See the lives we aren’t living. See the people we aren’t dating. Our brains and hearts are bombarded with input, false expectations, instant gratification that is naïve and false and dangerous and then we wonder why we are dissatisfied. With ourselves and with the people we consider dating. This generation no longer has the capacity to see what is right in front of them, just what isn’t.

The in ability to commitment is leaving us hopeless. Even if we find love… even if we find that person who loves us, and we love in return… the moment we say I love you…. we begin living the “I love you” for others. We tell people we are in a relationship on Facebook. We throw up our #coupled up #selfies on Twitter feeds and Instagram. We start “#weeingalloverourselves“, and begin living our relationship for everyone but ourselves.7 We make it shiny and happy and glittery, like a highlight reel is supposed to be. We make sure we don’t write about the fights, or the tears or the pain that love can cause. This is not what we share. Glam pics, happy couple, love and life is perfect. And as we post our own highlights, we watch the highlights of other couples and of our human nature… we begin to compare. Do we measure up? Are we good enough? Are we the best? Are we living the best life possible for everyone to see? We calculate, and observe and soon enough we are living in despair because our expectations are impossible, because the life we think people live outside of social media is in fact IMPOSSIBLE. We will never be good enough, because perfect social media life… simply doesn’t exist. These relationships aren’t real…. We know it in our mortal souls and yet we can’t believe it because we can see it… and we want it… and we all know that we want what we can’t have and we will make ourselves hopelessly miserable until we get it. Sadly, this is just one of this generations many flaws alongside absolute faith in the media… giving celebrity god-like status and a warped sense of expectation.

Our relationship never measures up… and so we end it. We aren’t what we thought we were going to be. We are living with a stranger because we thought we knew everything about the person from a profile page, and when it came time to learn the real them, we were already exploring other options. OPTIONS. And the cycle begins again…. Swipe… swipe… swipe… order sushi to our door… good morning… couple selfie… shiny… happy… couple… compare… compare… compare… The inevitable creeping in of latent, subtle dissatisfaction… The arguments…. The fights… the isolation… “Something is wrong, but I don’t know what it is”. “This isn’t working”. “I need something more”. Finished. Another love is lost… another graveyard of shiny happy selfies.

On to the next. Chasing that elusive perfection… searching for the “ungettable get”. The next fix. The next gratification, which fills that empty void that might actually be where your mortal soul should be but instead we think it is void because we haven’t found that perfect person yet. Living our lives in 140 characters… 5 second snaps… frozen filtered images… attention here… getting attention there… We are an illusion… even to ourselves. We worry about settling… that anything less then the shiny, happy filtered life we have become accustomed to is settling. What is settling? We don’t know… but we don’t went people to perceive we are doing it… We don’t fucking want it. If your relationship isn’t perfect… you are settling… if it isn’t glittery love… it is settling. If it isn’t an epic adventure of travel… new places… new things… high mountains… deep ravines and things that score us a 100 likes in a photo-by-photo finish… we simply do not want it.

For those hippy, granola types that aren’t tapped into the needs created by social media, you think you are immune…. but you are not. Indeed, the wants and needs of this 9generation have been ruined by the Internet… but more then that they have been ruined by the fact that we have been raised to believe that we can do anything we want to do… go anywhere we want to go… be anything we to be… etc, etc. This ridiculous culturally driven biased has led us to believe in unthinkable heights and with it comes the pre-conditioning that we are “never there yet”. So don’t worry gypsy kings who think they are going untouched… are not cliché… are not about the hype… you are living right there in the moment with the rest of us, only instead of chasing social status… you call it being “restless”… in need of a “walkabout” … feeling “suffocated”… you can the name the emotion whatever you want… at the end of the day we are all saddled with the inability to see what is right in front of us.

As we get older…. As we spend more time alone… or more time with the wrong person, looking for the right one…. we begin to realize that this MORE we are craving is a generational lie. As humans, what we really desire, what we really need in order to have fulfillment is face time, touching, intimacy, and simplicity.  It is not the more… but the less that we need.  This crazy life validation we chase, of likes… swipes… favorites and comments is impossible and lonely… and false. Our generation has no clue what a simple connection is anymore… we don’t know we want it… but we want it. Although this generation has been raised without the moral guides and compasses of our grandparents… that need still exists… because true companionship is what separates us from the rest of the mammals on this planet. It is what makes us human. We want a love that builds, not a life that gets discarded because the OPTIONS seem greener… brighter… or more beautiful. We want to walk a path with someone, we want to live our lives with SOMEONE… someone who knows us inside and out… someone who sees the flaws not just the profile picture… and is still willing to lay their head down on a pillow with us and call us home. At the end of the day we want someone to wrap their arms around us and share the content that comes from body to body contact that isn’t a one night stand… or that won’t be compared to a movie… a moment on Facebook or a poster seen on a wall. We want trust and acceptance. This is what we want even if we don’t know it. This is what we NEED, even if we can’t show it… This is our human nature.

Working hard at being human,

Franki Figgs

~All artwork owned and distributed by Zac Retz

Day #2 – #PocketChange

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When not amusing you, my loverlies, with neurotic advice and semi-witty banter, I am drowning in a sea of endless academic hodge podge. Sometimes, when not trying to be an overachieving adult, I have the privilege of working at a very small, very charming, pub. On good days, slinging beer is a welcome escape from the bump n grind of my human activist day to day life. What is not to love after all? Good food, a big screen T.V. turned to any number of sporting events at which I can scream and yell to my hearts content without worry of offense or comment… Wonderful staff, great customers… and a fantastic opportunity to utilize my psychoanalytical skills on numerous unsuspecting patrons as I eavesdrop on their conversations and dazzle them with my tits wits in hopes of scoring a generous tip!

A couple of weeks ago, I was closing the pub on a fairly quiet weekday evening, when in strolled two young women who I am best to describe, as Bar Stars. You know the type, too much makeup, hair perfectly coiffed, perfume distracting from the other side of the room… tight jeans, high heels and ruby red lips. I could only presume they were on their way to a party, or from out of town… because in my town… a little John Deere gear goes a long way… all of these extras are unnecessary… if you are simply out on the prowl… which these two ladies clearly were.  But I can forgive them this transgression because let’s face it… we were all 25 once…

Ordering gin and juice (I kid you not, even I can’t make this shit up), they sat holding court at the end of the bar, just far enough away that they could make it appear as though they wanted privacy, but close enough to the rest of us, that any smart, single gal (like yours truly of course), would know that they were wanting to be noticed. Intrigued, I made a point of “cleaning” within earshot so as to casually analyze the intense heart-to-heart they appeared to be having. They didn’t disappoint, and my amusement only grew when the conversation moved from “Pretty Little Liars“, to “Total Divas” (I had to look it up! I didn’t even know this was a thing!) and finally rounded third base and headed home to shamerville when they started to discuss relationships and dating…

Quoted directly:

“The first rule for me”, said Bar Star #1, flouncing her perfectly coiffed, uber bleached blonde hair over her shoulder and running her teeth over her perfect, non-beer stained teeth… “is never, ever, date a man with change in his pockets…”

Say what?!

“I agree completely”, nodded Bar Star #2, giggling and smiling with the same Stepford perfection. “They are the worst!!”

I was shocked. Gob smacked… and quite frankly appalled. Are you kidding me? Here are two young women, on the prowl, in a small town, dressed to the nines, not a collective brain cell between the two of them and their “dating agenda” includes turning down a dude who has #pocketchange??!!

Two more drinks and an order of fries later, the two ladies exited the building… presumably to fuck men who only paid for dinner with $100 bills or their platinum American express card…

That was two weeks ago, and the who scenario still bothers me. I keep thinking that I Daniel-Del-Orfano-Welcome-Homeshould have interjected with some maternal, worldly advice… to lend some much needed KNOWLEDGE to these two poor lasses. If there is anything to say about having been single for seven years, is that it does in fact give one significant experience from which to offer some hard ass romantic advice. As a mature #puma… Sidebar: I age, but it is imperceptible to the naked eye….  who has definitely – if not exclusively dated men with “change in their pockets”, I feel the unquenchable NEED to pass along the following advice…

DO NOT miss out on a man or dismiss one because of a trivial… medial… pretentious thing such as his job… career or prospects… or any other gauging system in which you evaluate his monetary value. If you are over the age of 25 and are still looking to find someone to fill your social and financial status… you are going to spend a very, very long time being lonely and miserable.

Sure… he may have #pocketchange, but he might also have an insatiable sex drive… or might be sweet and fantastic in bed… Or he might use that #pocketchange to drive five hours because he knows you are sad and wants to make you smile. He might use that #pocketchange to buy you flowers when he can’t afford anything else… or he might sit on your couch and watch really bad John Hughes movies with you, because neither of you have anything more then #pocketchange and that is just fine because you enjoy each other’s company and those quiet moments that don’t involve fancy restaurants or black tie affairs are way better because you are together…. But he might also have just be good in bed… Sidebar:  My artwork choice for this weeks blog shows the magic of #pocketchange… the moments that don’t cost a dime and the ones that we all clamour for… 

5eb63025541966f16ac938c9eebd2f3aThere are things in this life my loverlies, that are far greater then money. If I have learned one thing of late, it is that there will always be one amazing quality in a human that makes up for all of their “perceived” flaws. Humans after all, are complex, surprising, and capable creatures, and the evidence of these things is usually at least a layer deep and is never going to be perceptible to you if upon meeting someone you judge their individual spirit with social prejudices such as #pocketchange.

In terms of mental health, weighing oneself down with invisible standards by which to evaluate potential love interests is not only cliché but extremely detrimental. Romantic partners are not corporate hotel chains. Rigid conformity to arbitrary social and cultural ideas is not an indication of anything at all except that you enjoy jumping on the bandwagon called the “mini van majority”, and your personality is shallow and taupe in colour.

I am not saying ladies (and gents), that we don’t have the right to be picky. Of course we Our_Paris_20X36do. He (she) needs to have impeccable hygiene… they need to be kind… they need to want to contribute to the planet is some fundamental way… and there will certainly be other personal #dealbreakers  based on individual preference and the baggage we carry around from past experience.  Most importantly… you must leave… at all costs… whether social or financial, at the first sign of any violence or abusive behaviour (emotional, spiritual or financial), no matter how difficult leaving might be. However, if we are talking about the dating game. About finding a romantic partner… the only criteria we should really be assessing is whether there is a physical attraction (does he get your kitty kat purring), and how promptly he returns text messages… Sidebar: there is… in my neurotic and brilliant mind, a fine line between too promptly and too slowly… and if he has texting mastered in this regard, he should definitely NOT go underrated.

This is why I will continue to find the entire concept of Internet dating flawed. The idea that any man could swipe left and dismiss me because I am only 5’2, like to wear hats (a lot) and have “saving the planet, puppies, Land Rovers, blogging and karaoke”under hobbies and interest… is enough to make me suspicious of the whole game. And dating is a game. As if the corporatization of our base desires wasn’t off putting enough… all by itself… it has come to this. The prejudgement of someone with #pocketchange as an inherent reason not to date.

Romance, love, “the one” – it is, without a doubt… all about chemistry and timing my friends. And hey… if it doesn’t work out… at least he has some change in his pockets for the bus fare home…

Yours in dollars and sense,

Franki Figgs

~ All artwork owned and distributed by Daniel del Orfano

#1 – #TheBirdLady

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I have an amazing friend and his name is Joe. We have been friends for years and have survived countless heartbreaks, heartaches and tragedies together and I consider him to be my foundation, my rock and my protector when I need him to be. I have been having a rough couple of weeks… I actually feel as though that is an understatement. I have considered fleeing to Costa Rica permanently, joining a convent (but then I realized I would have to believe in God… so that didn’t work out), and suicide. So a “rough” couple of weeks is putting things in a positive context. Joe… worried mostly about me joining a convent, invited me to London to spend a Sunday evening with him and his loverly Mom, Joanie.  In desperate need of any sort of respite from my small town which was suffocating me… I went. And…  I was an absolute hot mess and terrible… dreadfully… awful… company. I sat in full resting bitch face mode, my eyes swollen almost shut puffy from the fountains of tears I had been crying over the last week. I simply failed. All my best tricks… all the reasons people enjoy my company… intelligent conversation about worldly issues… sarcastic humor… witty little jokes… my dead and gone soul was having none of it… None of it I tell you! I looked as if I had made zero effort to be presentable. Wearing a navy blue stained t-shirt that was about three sizes to big with my recent weight loss… and having worse problems with my skinny jeans that now look like Mom jeans with a saggy ass and a drooping waste, and since I couldn’t be bothered to find a belt I walked around yanking them up incessantly. I drank the expensive merlot they offered in long thirsty gulps, barely coming up for air… and answered all of their questions with “I don’t know”, “yes”, “no”, “maybe”… while pushing what I can only assume was a lovely pasta dish around my plate. I hate girls like this. I judge girls like this. Yet, here I was being that asshole, wallowing in my own despair. His Mom had always adored me… and I was so pathetic, that I completely dispelled her belief that I am an amazing, sweet, brilliant young woman with a ton of potential and no where to go but up.

I am worried she is never going to invite me back.

What can I say? I am going through a bad patch. I have been going through a bad patch Looiersgrachtsince last fall. This past few weeks has just been the tipping point… with dispatching a non-empathetic cad from my romantic handbook, someone who was completely unreliable, a complete #PeterPan, and yet so charismatic I spent more then a year wondering how a girl like me could be so lucky to have a man like him (humpf what the fuck do I know)…. I had found out that funding has been cut at the shelter I work at, and although when I returned to my academics this fall this chapter would have ended, it pains me to know that cutbacks mean less accessibility and a growing epidemic of women, homeless and without assistance on the streets… and the icing on the depression cake… the thing that pushed me over the edge… another friend posted up engagement photos on Facebook and I keep wondering to myself… what the hell is wrong with me? This seems so far away … and I am getting old… when is it my time Buddha? When is it my time to meet a good man, without any sleazy intentions, or no heart… or the inability to grow up? This past year has been very bad. There has been a lot of boo-hooing into beer pints, resting my saddened head on friends proverbial shoulders… drunken text messages sent… even though I am in my 30’s and trying very hard not become a Sex and the City walking cliché.

At the end of the night, half unconscious, barely able to stand due to massive inebriation… we settled down to watch some shyte television, me counting the moments till the sheep took me into oblivion and I could stop thinking and morning and being pathetic… Joe in typically male fashion scanning through the channels like a fiend trying to find something “non-sporty and even less trendy” which was my super helpful input on our television viewing. He finally landed upon Home Alone2 of all things. “Really?”, I asked sarcastically and pulled the blanket up to my nose, sliding further down in the couch. “Why not?”, he asked… “There is nothing else on and that Culkin kid cracks me up”….

I mumbled something about its bad enough we have to withstand such crap at Christmas let alone be subjected to it in June… when his Mom came down the stairs with another bottle of wine and solidified the torture by announcing “oh I love this movie”… Of course….

KeizersgrachtTo be honest… I don’t remember anything past Home Alone the original. Sure it was cute, the premise ridiculous and Culkin was a sassy little mite… but I am not good with sequels… I mean why retell a good thing? Because I either have never watched Home Alone2 or I have lost all recollection of ever participating in the cinematic wonder that it is (note sarcasm here)… and because it was either the first time, or a forgotten time, I found myself drawn into the damn thing. Actually worried about Kevin (Macaulay Culkin, the small boy who realistically (cough, cough) always seems to be left behind)… and the shenanigans he finds himself in. Laughing at cameo appearances by Rob Schneider and thinking perhaps I might have to add this to my list of Christmas Day must watches with my Dad. Why am I telling you this boring tale? Well this is where shit got real in my world. Do you remember #thebirdlady who lives in Central Park? She is a vagabond, lonely, alone with her only company being the birds that she feeds in the park. She is dirty… has no fashion sense at all for a lady living in the Big Apple and only appears to be human when 300 birds descend on her en masse, vying for a place to perch on her shit covered overcoat.   Sidebar: For the record if this were my reality I would have a nervous breakdown… I have very fear fears but birds are one of them… especially large flocks of birds… as well as clowns and sloths…. I am aware that I need therapy… let’s not get distracted from the point…

There is a rather fittingly “Christmas-like” scene when Kevin comes across her in the park and they engage in a heart-to-heart. Kevin admits to missing his family and #thebirdlady admits that he is the first person that she has spoken to in more then two years…. Sidebar: Which seems perfectly reasonable and likely living in downtown New York (just saying)… The reason for her silence? She doesn’t trust. She doesn’t love. “The man I loved, fell out of love with me”, she explained. “And that broke my heart. When the chance to be loved came along again, I ran away. I have stopped trusting people”.

Other then the chimes of the cheesy Columbus-Hughes soundtrack you could have heard a pin drop and Joe and his Mom both stared and me gob smacked and then quickly looked away…

Oh dear Buddha… I am #thebirdlady….

It was my rock bottom. If hitting rock bottom can occur while you are half in the bag on Cornelius-frame$40 wine, snug as a bug in a rug on a new leather couch and actually having a blanket on you despite the 34-degree heat because the central air is up just a little too high… then this was rock bottom.

JK Rowling is one of my biggest heroes… and I like to take a page from her book when dealing with rock bottom like situations. And so my rock bottom was followed by a swift and decisive life change… and things are actually starting to look better. That is all it takes. One step in the direction of up… and a little faith in yourself as a human and you can turn #thebirdlady theory right around. Distraction is destructive… a mantra I try to live by but keep falling for gypsy’s who make the “real world” boring..

Listen my loverlies…. I am not trying to be motivational here. I am have not sufficiently recovered my heart from the brink of extinction yet enough to wish happiness on you or anyone else. I have absolutely ZERO advice to aid you in your road to recovery (if you actually read this blog for commiseration and not Schadenfreude). I just wanted to remind you, that sometimes things are shit, and then they get better – slowly… sometimes painstakingly so… but occasionally I want to remind you with sincerity… and with #thebirdlady story and that my loverlies you are just going to have to deal with.

Best in all things Birds,

Franki Figgs.

~ All artwork is owned and distributed by Adele Renault

In The End….

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“Great is the art of beginning… but greater is the art of ending” ~ Lazarus Long

I have said it before and I will say it again…. I am TERRIBLE at endings. I don’t know when to say when, how to say goodbye, where to stop, how to say no… it is a Franki Figgs personality flaw #504… and as hard as I work at it… my skill set in this regard, doesn’t seem to get any better.

You know what I am talking about my loverlies… don’t you? The inability to let go? No? I think you do. Let me digress and paint a picture in hopes that you will come to see the world through the same tequila colored glasses that I do…

Things we covet despite our subconscious screaming that they are no longer relevant… appropriate or healthy in our lives….

The pair of hot pants in your closet that used to make your ass stop traffic but now don’t even make it past your thighs… and still you hold on to them regardless of the fact that you haven’t been a size 2 in 10 years… You go to toss them in the donation bag where they rightfully belong but the very idea of being a size two again causes you to rack them on a hanger and place them back in the deep recesses of your closet…

How about that friendship that really isn’t a friendship anymore… Time, space, and circumstance (or marriage and babies) have turned them into a judgey and righteous asshole. Notwithstanding these things, in true masochistic form, you continue to accept dinner invitations or agree to a wine date because you find their new personality a source of comic relief (and a reason to feel better about your own assy life) and your morbid sense of humor aside, your heart is crossing its fingers that this new degree of douchery is just a phase…. And that one day you will be just like peas and carrots again…

Or the worst…

Have you ever wanted to break up with someone because in your heart of hearts you know you want different things, and that charming oil and vinegar banter you once had is now just constant arguing, you never see eye to eye…. and your lifestyles and what you want from a relationship are two totally different things.  It is important for your own sanity that things end, and you are ready to send that text, or have that chat…. When you arrive home after a 14 hours shift and without asking he pours you a glass of pinot and rubs or feet while talking to you about love and life and dreams and your body screams at you “YOU ARE BEING TOO HASTY HERE!!!” Do I really want to jump back into the reality of Tinder and Plenty of Fish and suffer as so many of my friends have with bad first dates or great first dates followed by no shows or horrible second dates? And so you continue to bite your tongue… occasionally drafting but never actually sending the “you are an egomaniac, high maintenance weirdo… take your hipster jeans and old soul and go fuck yourself” text message demanding he get his shit together or move on… until it is too late and there is no salvaging anything…

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Sigh…. I am currently feeling this way about #pumarules my friends. I want to end it… But then someone emails me and asks why I haven’t been writing… or someone stops me and tells me how much they have enjoyed the humor of my “little” blog and how disappointed they are in the gaps in my writing… or I get a new Word Press follower or a new Twitter follower (do you all remember the time that Justin Bobby starting following me on Twitter??) and I am find myself nostalgic and ecstatic that my humiliation and verbal bile have entertained or touched people… even if it is just a few. In the last three years, I honestly can’t think of a single thing that has brought me so much personal satisfaction and that includes academics and alcohol… so why end something that has given me so much pleasure without asking for anything in return (unless you factor in sleepless nights and anxiety over risky content and the chance that my mother might read my blog and give me that look of disappointment for being too honest). And so I keep chickening out… I don’t want to go back to being anonymous… I have learned to enjoy my yoda-like status in the #singledom world.

Here is the problem my friends.  I am definitely not the same girl who started this blog three years ago. I have matured… grown into my womanhood… and learned to define the terms of #singledom instead of allowing it and the world to define me. There are numerous and significant writing projects waiting on the sidelines that are the bread and butter of my academics and the foundation of the career I am determined to follow and  the romantic advice and hilarity of this blog are actually deterring me from them (well…. If I am being honest… it is actually the guilt I feel about NOT blogging that is deterring from them). And third and probably most importantly I just don’t think I am qualified. My recent circumstances and an attempted relationship have taught my that I am as fucked up as ever about men and partnerships and the amount of emotional baggage I carry around with me makes it pretty obvious that I am not in any position to offer up sage advice on such things as #coupledom and #happilyeverafter.  The pause in writing can be directly attributed to this flailing about over the last year and a half… single… not single… single… not single… in varying degrees of relationship depending of the day of the week… how whiskey fueled I am… and where he is in his menstrual cycle… So how could I possibly continue to write about the fabulousness of #singledom when I was not really living it?

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All of my excuses aside…. #PumaRules feels undone… and when I attempt to move on and turn my attention to something else… this blog and the nostalgia it brings to my soul… pulls on the strings of my stitched up heart… and I find myself back here… staring at a blank page wondering how to end it or how to continue on… A month ago I celebrated my 38th birthday… and for the first time in a decade growing older isn’t scaring me… instead I find myself stoked at the opportunities that lie ahead of me and the adventures that are just around the bend. I have had so many amazing, awful, fantastic, brutal experiences over the last few years that never made it to the pages of this blog… The great thing about being someone who can sort through her emotions most clearly when she writes, is that most of these experiences do in fact exist in writing… they are either half started and unpublished posts, or diary entries which I never converted into blog-like material but are truly worthy.  So why not go out with a bang?  Close the chapter on Franki Figgs (who many thought was a name to hide behind, but is actually a nickname caught on, and given that I will be publishing shortly in very “serious” academic circles I didn’t think having my real name attached to romantic satire and humour would help with my credibility as a serious human rights activist #TBT), and give the world a few more chuckles at my expense as I endeavour to explain the #singledom world.   Challenge to myself?  How about 40 posts in 40 days which will take me to the beginning of my new adventure and my new blog.  Sidebar: I have a lot on the go right now… I am preparing for a trip to Jordan to do some humanitarian work with Global Villages and United Nations in August (if you would like to sponsor me you can click here, if you want you can consider it remuneration for the content I have provided free of charge over the years), and I have a major research report due  from my trip to Costa Rica… and so I will begin with the creation of a Facebook page for #PumaRules (which I have never done before) where I will post all my entries over the next few days starting from the beginning….and then add 40 more (I will # the new ones so that I can’t cheat old for new for those of you who are new).

See… I told you I absolutely suck at endings…. Procrastination is my middle name… or it might be Adele…. Believe what you like my loverlies.

Yours in all endings… good or bad…

Franki Figgs

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~ All artwork on this blog post is owned and distributed by the amazing Nicolas Ruston

 

 

 

#Moving

 

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Are you thinking about moving? Packing up boxes of old crap in an effort to make a new life for yourself? Attempting to rewrite your existence or erase the past from the chalkboard of life with a new home and a new postal code? Perhaps thinking that a new address will somehow change your relationship karma, and you will find prince charming (finally!), who will sweep you off your feet… buy you a land rover and raise puppies with you in your new perfect personal paradise? Or do you have a gypsy heart, which makes sitting in one place for more then three years absolutely and completely impossible and so the wind blows you, never far, but towards the new… the challenging….

I had high hopes for all of the above my loverlies when I took on my new address, and after exactly 60 days in my new pad, this is my advice to you my friends in regards to moving. Do not fucking do it. There can’t possibly be any circumstance short of violence that makes moving a worthwhile life choice. Trust me. I am a 37 year old who moved home with her parents after being on her own since she was 17. Moving home meant being under someone else’s roof, abiding by their rules, respecting their space, which meant zero social life and absolutely no sex! 3 years is a long time my friends… a long time to live under such restrictions, and yet…. life still wasn’t so bad that moving should have been an option. Moving completely sucks!!!!   And anyone who tells you otherwise is either completely mental… filthy rich… possibly both… or has never, ever had to move before.

77439For two months now, I have been surrounded by shreds of a past life trying to intermingle with my attempt at a new life. Boxes filled with a memorabilia I don’t want anything to do with, but don’t have any idea how to dispose of. A bunch of IKEA furniture that I have absolutely no idea how to build. A bedroom that is vacant, in need of some LOVE and love and piles of clothes ripped from hangers in the haste of my move that now lie around the bedroom floor like small mountains in a post-apocalyptic war.

Beloved books, which used to fill library shelves, are strewn about the living room… homeless… Rubbermaid totes brimming with diaries, journals, essays, research…. photos from the past haunt shoeboxes which are now laying just outside of my closet door as I decide whether to toss them, or hold on to them as some solemn testament to the brave few who have attempted relationships with me and failed….

Sigh…. why are all of my clothes inside out?

And when the hell did I buy so many shoes??!!

My story becomes even more redonkulous when I admit that I have moved a mere three blocks from the safety of my parental home.   I am braving solitude with a shitty Internet connection, no food in the fridge, no bed frame and not more then five seconds after dropping my first box inside of my front door, my 900-year -old neighbor (who authentically could pass as the Crypt Keeper) screamed at me for making too much noise in the hallway at NOON on a Tuesday!

It has been just over a week the end of the holiday season. Hectic and 77438bullshit as always, and since I moved just before finals, and just before Christmas carols started blaring over every radio station, the onslaught of the move still exists in my new pad. Since New Year’s Eve Day, I have been sick as a dog and confined to a soulless, empty bedroom… shivering… alone… and I have spent so much money on first and last months rent… utility hook ups… new furniture that is still lying in bits and pieces like broken skeletons around my cavernous new home… and unappreciated Christmas gifts… that I am not going to be able to go on vacation or enjoy a moment of non-fiscally induced stress for the better part of a decade.

Life would be far simpler, I kept imaging in fits of feverish, delusional rages this week… if I just had a husband or someone to love me enough to help me unpack boxes, build my cheap ass furniture, burn pictures of my ex, bring me popsicles and cold face clothes for my fevered brow and tell the evil crypt keeping neighbor to go fuck herself. He could wrap his strong arms around me and everything would be right with the world again. However, the reality for me is… if I had a husband or someone to love me… I would very likely have told him to go fuck himself by now, and potentially have punched him square in the face. Because my readers, as I have been recently informed, I am a very difficult person to love. Especially when I am stressed, sick and sad, which is why I guess I don’t have a husband, or even an applicant for that position at the moment.

And so, despite my change in locations and my dreams of a white knight, I alone… lugged boxes… built furniture, cleaned up my own vomit and did my very best to stay in a bitchy, negative mood. Feeling sorry for oneself is always comforting after all… Then this week I got a text message from an old friend that I haven’t heard from in forever, telling me how proud they are of my recent accomplishments and how it was amazing that I was finally moving on… and my favourite waitress at a local restaurant bought me a glass of red wine because I was sitting by myself crying into my ahi tuna… and some friends invited me over for sushi and a game of Cards Against Humanity and I held their new baby and my uterus contracting reminding me that I still have time to live life and find love…

Last night, I took my own adorable fur baby for a walk around our new neighbourhood, with red wine warming my belly, and feeling almost normal again, I happened to glance up at the night sky. It twinkled back at me, like a blanket of diamonds (except without the blood money ethical darkness that can fuck one’s enjoyment of diamonds right up the bum hole if one isn’t careful), and I thought, “This isn’t so bad. This life change.” Despite myself I felt hopeful, and courageous and perhaps something very close to happy. It was as though all the rage and bitterness and vitriol that feeds me, my “spikey life force”, had been sucked clean out, by nature, like a huge dog sucking the marrow out of a bone. And it felt good. Although, let’s hope this content, optimistic phase doesn’t last too long, because how is one supposed to navigate life as a happy person is anyone’s guess.

Yours in new adventures and houses,

Franki Figgs

~ Artwork by Deborah Cauchi 

 

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