Inching my dial back to Fergalicious

I need to go to the beach with the soft flesh of my buttocks gently encased in white cotton like and the greaseproof spag in a bag from Ciao Bella.

I have this weird feeling that the sweltering lackey inside the Ronald McDonald costume actually had exquisite taste (generational wealth), bidding adieu to the Hamburglar, removing his overground-line-orange wig, and retiring to his pseudo-utopian pied-à-terre somewhere that’s achingly local and largely undiscovered. I also think he was a plinth guy.

My husband is the worst photographer—we took a trip to New York in 2012 and he guillotined my feet off in every single snap, I nearly dumped him but he survived the cull. This lukewarm Egyptian float pic is a reminder that with enough nagging, people can change. Obelisks aside, I’m a sucker for scalloped booths where you nurse ice-cold Gibsons next to kind of piano Jessica Rabbit would sing on, gambling with tap water to brush my teeth, Disney adulating in light drizzle, and dense-but-walkable European cities. All of which I’m collating on AmiGo. Where does he eat? You might ask yourself. Where does he drink? Where does he be merry? Follow me on AmiGo—the invite-only app for finding and sharing travel recs—to find out. (Use the code RAVEN to jump the queue)

Life is too short to look as tired as I feel, and polka dots always inch my dial back to Fergalicious. They are arguably common, a bit 1980s wronged royal woman revenge tour, a bit bottle blonde office temp introducing herself as bubbly before magnetically catching the bouquet at a provincial wedding. They are dots that say I’m typing, but stimulating text never appears. And yet, and yet.

I want to kiss Frank Serpico like I kiss my pack of Marlboro golds before opening it. He is not a man who’ll never ghost you. He’ll never send you a dick pic or a voicenote. He’ll never ask you What team do you support? Who among us is immune from the catnip of his pounding emotional distance? It’s just me and you on a pedalo for two, Frank.