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I find myself in that disconcerting phase of singledom where I’m constantly contemplating love and the lack of it in my life.

Gone are the days of devil-may-care promiscuity, where every hook-up was a middle finger to the ex and a resolute confirmation of my extreme single-girl freedom. Friends with benefits? Puuhlease! There was no ‘friends’ about it. Our excuse of ‘bringing me new series’ was as flimsy and see-through as a plot in a porno, and with a similar outcome. Then, as there always does, there came the day where one of us developed those inappropriate, god-forbidden feelings for the other. I’d like to say it was him for me, but we all know how this story really goes…

So now I’m in that uncomfortable in-between place. The Sahara desert of singlehood. I once had an oasis, but the oasis kicked me out for indecent behaviour in a fuck-buddies-only zone, so now I’m roaming the scorching sands of solitude in search of a likeable, committed oasis that’s ready to settle down and consider a white picket-fence. Ok, I’m mixing (and grossly extending) my metaphors but you get the protracted picture. I’ve yet to come to that place all women reach when they’ve been single long enough. You know, the one where you resign yourself to that inescapable spinsterhood and the cats. That phase may sound seriously depressing (because it is) but at least it has the definite benefit of not caring. Spinsters don’t give a cat’s ass that they’re doomed to everlasting loneliness because they’ve made peace with their solitude. Also, they eventually go bat-shit cray-cray, which helps. Unfortunately I’m still stuck in no-man’s-land with no end in sight, but still possessed of enough mental faculties that I still care. Jesus, it sucks.

To add salt to an over-seasoned wound, we live in an over-exposed age where every medium for art is saturated and very readily available. The worst is that the majority of these works are actually good and consequently that much harder to ignore. Being a die-hard Florence fan, for instance, I wouldn’t dare accuse Miss Welch of anything, except maybe being too goddamn awesome. And yet my shrivelled heart contracts rather vengefully every time her siren voice croons of love and obsession, and I can’t help but hate her, and her equally infectious contemporaries like Lana Del Rey, for injecting said defeated organ with a longing that shreds and severs. (Anyone unfamiliar with the magnificence of Florence + The Machine, or disagreeing with me, listen to ‘Strangeness and Charm’ and tell me that you weren’t overpowered by an almost divine need to possess and consume someone entirely). And these are but a few examples of accomplished artists crooning their tunes about love. The unwashed masses also rap and techno and pop about love and obsession and a helpless, impulsive lust. Not to mention the mountains of pulp fiction lining bookstores worldwide where, between flimsy book covers and on almost oily pages, any lonely soul can indulge in a fictional world where two lovers meet and obsess and, at long lost, consume and possess. If contemplating such visceral need doesn’t set your lady loins or man-danglies a-tingling, then you are obviously a cyborg come from the future to destroy mankind. That, or someone needs to keep this crazy cat lady off the freaking internet…

La Labouche, signing off…

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