Page 1 of Frosty Felicity
PROLOGUE
Ihate Christmas.
I hate the entire damn holiday season, from right after the last piece of Halloween candy is given to the final fucking snot-nosed trick or treater, until the first kiss has landed, amidst a spray of fireworks, bringing in the New Year. I don’t mean to sound petulant or jaded, but I imagine I do. Who cares at this point? Let me put it this way: I’m truthful, without trying to intentionally harm others—that’s not my thing, you know, the whole cruelty without a cause. But sometimes hurt feelings are just unavoidable. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not an evil person.
My name is Felicity Fontana, and I approve this message. I’m not an Ebenezer, nor do I particularly lean towards the whole Bah Humbug grunts and groans, dragging my knuckles across the icy ground, then beating my chest to scare away the natives. It’s just that I detest the fuckery, and the phoniness. If the holiday season was treated in an authentic manner, materialistic superficiality aside, I’d be ecstatic. But that’s not the case. I’m a realist. Certainly, you can understand.
Face it. The holiday season is nothing more than commercialism on steroids. Silver and gold tinsel tossed everywhere– how messy, and you bet it’s doing a number on the environment, not to mention the Christmas trees and wreaths said streamers are strung across. Those poor evergreens are used for thirty or so days, then discarded like yesterday’s news. Everyone knows that once tinsel is created, it is here FOREVER. Let’s think about the ridiculousness of this holiday, in all of its gory glory, for one damn minute. Flea infested reindeer that fly in the sky and yet you and I, normal law-abiding citizens, can be fined for using drones in the wrong part of town. Totally unfair. And if you expect me to believe said flying beasts are not taking any bathroom breaks while trolleying up there between the clouds, eating candy canes while they make their rounds, then you must take me for a fool. Gives pie in the sky a whole new meaning, but what goes up, MUST come down. Reindeer poop. Laws of gravity.
Let’s not forget about the preposterous songs and tales about a big, jolly White man with an unruly white beard and affinity for milk and cookies. This son of a bitch is probably lactose intolerant and definitely not missing any meals according to that sixty-inch waistline. He’s been breaking and entering into our homes for decades, then leaving a bunch of shit no one wants, creating a clusterfuck of knickknacks and Pattiwhacks that give a dog a bone, totally derails our purging and minimalist desires. I can spot at least three criminal and civil violations in that scenario alone for ol’ Saint Dick… I mean, Saint Nick. How about the tiny men and women with ruddy cheeks, pointy ears, and coordinated red and green outfits that are nothing more than toy-making slaves?
I thought child labor was outlawed. Well, technically, they aren’t children, but they are the height of a one-year-old, so it still counts. I mean, really, just picture it… Their sharp noses to the grind, all in an effort to provide snaggle-toothed smiles to bratty rug rats who should have met their fate in the tip of a condom. These virus-spreading cookie-and-pie-sugared-up ungrateful progenies that don’t deserve a used popsicle stick come Christmas morning, let alone a new box of Legos or some overly high-priced electronic gadget they’ll be bored with before the end of the day, will soon be whining about how they wanted a puppy instead of the $1,500 rechargeable car toy that plays mp3 songs and has a real license plate, sitting in the driveway. Imps.
That brings me to my next thought: Who in the hell is exactly watching the little elf children, the kiddos of the slaves, while Santa beats the tiny pixies with a leather whip he borrowed from the seldom seen, but well-known, Mrs. Claus? The bastard is forcing them to whittle something extra for little Johnny, who will undoubtedly grow up to be a serial killer that taunts the FBI with crayon-written notes about his next planned slaughter, or worse yet, he’ll go to law school then carry on to the Supreme Court to grip a gavel and make everyone’s life a living hell. Okay. Fine. Maybe I am evil and rotten to my little black, moldy core, a true modern-day Miss Grinch, but again, I’m just being honest. They say the truth will set you free. I’m a freedom fighter.
Don’t look at me that way…
You’re still looking at me that way…
Maybe some context here will help you. At least, let me restart, explain some of the reasons why I feel the way I do, and have absolutely had it with the Christmas holiday, and people in general. It just so happens that the holidays force everyone to get together, especially Christmas, and I hate with a passion, having to gather with pretentious, toxic people. Blood ties be damned. I don’t want to sit across from Aunt Merna, Uncle Clyde, or Cousin Taylor, and listen to ridiculous lies, drunken arguments, shameless exaggerations, probes into my personal life, requests to friend them on social media when we barely talk in person, embellished stories of yesteryear… and then watch everyone pretend to love one another while exchanging gifts, only later to talk shit about how so and so bought them something cheap, or a present without much thought. So yes, I hate the holidays, but I’ve had a horrible year, all right? I mean, HORRIBLE. It sucked ass like there was snake venom in need of being extracted from a festering butt cheek, and the sucking continues.
I am not prone to exaggerations. I am also grossly self-aware, so let me fill you in on how the woman before you came to be:
1.My best friend moved cross country. I’ll miss her, but truly loving someone is allowing them to spread their wings and fly. Kudos. Great for her. Hurray for new adventures and livin’ one’s best life, right? But she moved away with my ex-boyfriend and didn’t tell me until they were boarding the plane. Oh, and get this: she was pregnant, too, and they’d been fooling around since he and I had begun having issues. Just found out that cute little tidbit not too long ago. Oh, joy to the damn world. What happened to ‘girlfriend’s law’, ‘sister code,’ ‘joys before boys’? Okay, the last one I made up, but it sounded good all the same.
2.My job called me into the ‘big office’ for a promotion. FINALLY! I’m a pharmacist, and I’ve been vying for a managerial position for years. I earned it, too. I work my tail off. I’m always on time, I help the customers, and smile in the face of impoliteness from said patrons. Do you have ANY idea how hard it is to bite my tongue?! But I managed, for the sake of a well-deserved step up the corporate ladder. I thought my train had finally rolled in. Oh, the train came all right… but it was runnin’ on fumes. All I got was more work, no new fancy job title, longer workdays, and a measly .05% raise. I still have Mr. Lee asking me where the stool softener is every other week, as if the location changes from day to day, and Ms. Betty Camille, with her thick green bifocals, who tells me that I should comb my hair. It is combed, bitch.
3.My father is addicted to K-Pop music. Yes, a grown, sixty-four-year-old Black man who used to be one of the best math high school teachers in the land, has lost his complete and utter marbles. He was always a bit of an eccentric, but this takes the cake. He wears suspenders and plaid shirts several times during the week, and has spent quite a large chunk of his savings going to South Korean themed musical concerts and parties, for God’s sake, too.
How, you may wonder, did this make my life horrid, besides the obvious embarrassment? Well, this year, he almost went into foreclosure because of this situation. Now, he is borrowing money from me, dipping into my savings like he would a cookie jar, so he can continue to breathe life into this strange hobby of his and afford his twenty-four-year-old-girlfriend who got him started on the bullfuckery. I’m thirty-three. Just in case you were curious. Yeah… that’s not the least bit uncomfortable, right?
4.My mother and stepfather fight like cats and dogs, and then try to pull me into their insane chaos. I am not a referee, and definitely not a peacekeeper. I get calls at three in the morning to settle debates. How I became the umpire, I have no idea. It’s stressful, it’s irritating, and I resent them for it. Their latest beef? Proving Hulk Hogan got liposuction back in 2011 and collecting evidence that the Earth could in fact be square, after all. Despite what you’ve now heard, neither of these people are imbeciles. They are, however, stark raving mad. I love them both, but I can’t take it. They need me, you see, as if I am some expert on such things, because apparently Google ain’t got nothin’ on my extensive knowledge of half-brained conspiracy theories, nor my mother’s wondrous memory, and my stepfather’s vivid recollections of things that never were.
Oh, and their latest argument? Who moved the satin pillows that had mysteriously disappeared from the living room? Cue mystery whodunit music. Mom believed he tossed them in the trash. He said he couldn’t care less about those pillows and did no such thing. Guess who was dragged into that fuckalicious debate, too? I wish I had one of those pillows right now to suffocate myself with…
5.I haven’t had sex in one year, five months and three days. But who’s counting? This is because I have yet to meet a man who can handle me, and I was tired of giving away the milk for free. I know that sounds old fashioned, but I’m serious. It sounds arrogant, too, but you have to let me finish. There’s more to the story… There’s always more to the story. Look, I’m honest with myself too, okay? If I were a single guy, I would probably find me attractive, in a quirky sort of way, but then soon realize that I am easily annoyed, far too opinionated, I lack a filter, and teeter on the line of nerdiness and ratchetness at any given moment. Sometimes I say untimely things, and when people cry in front of me I look like a deer caught in headlights. I’m smart and I know it– and use it as a weapon against buffoonery, tomfoolery, and idiotic comportment. Stupid people make me sick. I like being alone. I’m a tad bit awkward in large social settings, and I just don’t believe there is a man alive who I’d find bright, attractive and worthy enough of my greatness, and even my flaws. They say there’s someone for everyone, but for me, it just doesn’t hold water. Or eggnog. Or champagne. Or cocoa. Or whatever you happy people drink during the holidays.
Trust and believe, there’s more to this list, but this is just a taste of my current situation, the tip of the ol’ jagged iceberg, giving way to me being a true Grinch. I have been coined, ‘Miss Frost,’ as well as given the tactless moniker of ‘Frosty Felicity’ from my mother, much to my chagrin. While all of my friends, my sister, and brother are happily in love, here I am, at home, alone, with my thirty-three-year-old self, trying to figure out if I can solve the JonBenét Ramsey murder mystery from the comfort of my bed as I type away my theories in a Reddit forum. With Cheeto-crumb-stained fingers, I type away as I wonder why in the hell I didn’t pursue a degree in not giving a shit, instead of pharmacology? Certainly, a degree in ‘Not Giving a Shit’ would have afforded me a license to destroy all the peace, tranquility, and ignorant bliss of whoever crosses my path.
Now, we get to the good part. You are probably wondering why I have a story to share since I seem quite comfortable with my negativity and cantankerousness. Someone as uncomplicated, refined, and brilliant as myself deserves love, too, right? Of course I’m being sarcastic, but you get the point. As stated, I am quite aware of my disposition and temperament, and I am damn good at hiding it when need be. I just can’t fake the funk inside for any true duration of time. That brings me to the latest situation that has opened the door for my dark little icy world to begin the process of melting away… the ‘thing’ that opened this Pandora’s box!
Well, folks, not too long ago, I finally stepped out of my comfort zone, and it backfired. BIG TIME. At this point, I have nothing else to say. I’m turning red just thinking about it, and I don’t embarrass easily. What a hell of a thing to happen. I think the author can take it from here. I give up. I just hope you understand that when I, Felicity Fontana, AKA, Frosty Felicity, thought things couldn’t get any worse… they did.
OH GOD DID THEY EVER…
I met a man, and fell hopelessly, deeply, in love…
