Frankie stared blankly at her laptop as she tried to gather some writing inspiration. She struggled, caught between a number of blog post ideas…
- 453 reasons not to drink pink gin.
- The complete guide to unsubtly having a go at your ex who is in a new relationship so you look like a complete and utter twat.
- How to ruin your own life in a matter of hours using only alcohol, an iPhone and your unhealed emotions.
She melted back into her dressing gown as she began overanalysing her life for the fifteenth time that day. Considering her breath still smelled like garlic after 18 hours and four tooth brushing sessions, it was safe to assume that her weekend syn count had slightly spiralled out of control, and it wasn’t even Saturday yet. Nothing says “Oh, f*ck it” quite like downing a large garlic and cheesy chip at the end of a dodgy night. Really puts the cherry on top of a complete loss of control.
It had been two months since her last romantic encounter which resulted in breaking the immersion switch. Definitely not a Sex and the City moment, very village chic. It wasn’t the sexiest moment considering her immersion anxiety was going through the roof – “Do not forget to turn it off, DO NOT forget to turn it off!” she thought as her shoulder backed into it mid-Fifty Shades moment. Things really were heating up but for all the wrong reasons. It was hard to focus on the neck kissing when her thoughts were on soaring heating costs. Luckily, Frankie did remember to turn it off, but it ended up being a permanent move, much to the disgust of her dad who tried to work out the science behind it when he got back from his weekend away the following day. The words “I just don’t understand why it isn’t working? Has someone messed with the switch?” bounced through the house for three days after he realised it was no longer working. This was one crime Frankie would never own up to, so the plumber who installed it 18 years ago was to blame, not the late night visitor on Friday. I mean, how do you tell your dad that something was getting turned on that night and it wasn’t only the bath water? Exactly, you don’t.
Months on, there is something nostalgic about the switch for Frankie. A reminder of less lonely times and also the last time she had properly shaved her legs. Things had only gone downhill since that night, including the electric bill. She abandoned her writing attempts and climbed into bed, switching off her bedroom light which started to look far too pure for her liking. Back to Tinder she goes…