I went on a date the other night. A rare occurrence, I know, like a yetti sighting or Rob Ford doing an instructional video on snorting cocaine. (Oh no she didn’t! Also, how dated is that joke? Is he even still relevant?)
All my friends were excited. They’re all in relationships and like all good cult members, they desperately want me to join them.
In true girly fashion, I was nervous all day long. I showed his picture from his online profile (please, as if you didn’t already assume this was an internate kinda date) to everyone who dared to make eye contact. I used PhotoShop to create what I felt was a tasteful, yet effective, wanted poster lest the date go poorly and no one finds my body. To which I assume someone’s thinking, but Megan, if they do find your body don’t you still want them to find the guy? Why is the wanted poster to be used only in the event that we can’t find your body?
I’m glad you asked.
If you find my body and my brain is intact, I’m confident I’ll rise as a zombie. In which case I’ll take care of business myself.
However, should my body not be recovered, it is up to you, good friends, to find him and torture my current resting place out of him because I’ll be damned if I let some random internet dude choose where I spend eternity! And at that point I may literally be damned…
And, as always, upon my death, SOMEONE DELETE MY BROWSER HISTORY!
The date was a dud. I mean, I had fun. I laughed. I had an awesome burger (though the pub was my idea so I take full credit for that) but what it basically came down to was that I didn’t to touch him inappropriately. And really, why bother dating someone if you haven’t the urge to wrest their clothes from their body. Preferably in tatters.
We part amicably and as I’m sitting in my truck, I take out my phone to find several missed messages. This may not sound like a lot to some people but in my world, bitch was popular.
My first return phone call was to Friend1 (yes, she’s in a relationship and I’m confident in assuming she had the cult membership papers already filled in on my behalf awaiting signature in blood). After ascertaining that I was alive, her first question was “OMG what did you wear?!”
I’m sorry, have we not met before? I wore the same shit I wore all day except I switched hoodies.
“What? You can’t be serious.”
No. Really. I wore my going out hoodie. It’s red.
I’m pretty sure I heard weeping.