No, an angry ex-boyfriend did not send me SARS in the mail.
No, my fingers have not been experiencing temporary paralysis.
I've just been lazy.
And mildly uninspired.
Buuuuut. I'm coming off and AH-mazing girls' weekend with my mom, E, & Kay. I'm feeling rejuvinated and ready to start our functional dysfunction again.
I could recap this weekend's festivities for you and don't you worry your pretty little heads, I will. BUT FIRST I want to tell you a little story.
Once upon a time there was a 20-something who liked to swear and wear high heels that make her taller than everyone (me. duh.).
She had a mother and couple of sisters and some friends who all wanted her to start dating.
One Saturday she succumbed to their daterventions and ended up waiting in line among a slew of other singles to have her picture taken and for a very skinny blonde to judge whether or not she was right for her client.
Then she got rejected.
Ohhhh my friends. Oh.
This is my friggin' life.
My good friend Gina sent me a link for this lady called the Love Architect (this should have been my first clue) who was looking for single 25-35 year olds to submit their picture and some bullshit about their life passions to see if she would like to invite them to some event she was having at a Blow Out bar (you get a free one if you make it to the final round). She wouldn't tell us anything about this dude except that he likes extreme sports, is philanthropic, is a trained chef just for fun, comes from one of the most well-known families in the world, and has a candy penis.
Screw all the other stuff. She had me at the possibility of a free blow out and candy penises.
So obviously I email every one of my single friends to make them do this with me. I was intrigued, but not about to show up all dolled up thinking I was gonna walk out with hair bigger than a Texan beauty queen and a new boyfriend only to find the "blow out bar" is an empty warehouse and ending up as a bad Law & Order SVU episode.
Two of my friends were smart and laughed in my face.
One was not and was all "Eff. Yeah. I love blow outs and chasing after dudes I know nothing about".
She's basically my soul-sister.
Anyways, we show up at this thing thinking it'll just be mixer-esque. FALSE. Its a gotdamn cattle call.
Even though we have already submitted a photo of ourselves, we have to bring a printed one. I - in true Megan fashion - did not do this in advance, ran out of time, and ended up bringing some jank-ass picture of me from when I was 20. Who was I trying to fool?
We wait in line for 5 billion hours to sign a release and get our pictures taken...AGAIN. (They now have 3 pictures of me. Douchey "I look hott" selfie Megan, 20 year old buzzed off margaritas Megan, 26 year old wondering how this became her life Megan)
Then we wait for another 20938402384 hours - at this point I'm drinking beers - to meet with this match maker for 30 SECONDS!!
I reiterate. 30 SECONDS!
She basically asked us how soon we wanted to start poppin' out babies, do we want to be trophy wives, and can we carry a conversation cuz homeboy is essentially mute.
She also said he is covered in tattoos. Like sleeves and neck tatts galore. I find this sex-ay. My mother would've shit and died.
I left that part out when I debriefed her on the event. Sorry Mom.
I got my rejection email last night that I was not selected for the second round.
I was not surprised.
I'm just so damn curious as to who this dude is now.
Its like watching Property Brothers only to have to leave your apartment just before the big reveal.
I keep googling "tattooed socialites" seeing if I can get a clue.
So, yeah, don't worry guys. I'm still alive and doing ridiculous things with my life.