Rejection...

Only a few of my nearest and dearest know about my conversations with an online card company over the past few months. I've been dying trying to keep my excitement muffled, but every so often I'd lose it and tweet in all caps "I THINK SOME OF MY NAUGHTY TEXTS ARE GOING TO BE PUBLISHED!"

And then I'd erase it.

After months of back and forth, maybes and yesses, I finally met with the company yesterday. I wore one of my power outfits, which is basically a mix of The Row and Derek Lam, and got my usual Straight Up at drybar.

I was ready. More than ready, in fact. Or so I thought...

It was a nightmare.

The girl asked for my portfolio immediately, and as I was confusedly directing  them to my real estate site so they could see my current listings, she interrupted me, clearly annoyed, and said "Who else have you written for?"

Hmmm. Counting two friends for whom I've written some pretty smashing texts and all of you? No one. Did I not tell these ladies I am a realtor in Los Angeles?

It gets worse.

They offered me a desk job, writing my usual fare found on Cayenne Kisses and amping up their flirty cards, but without my name attached. "We only partner with big names," I was informed.

Flannigan is nine letters long, by the way. I dare you to find a bigger name. And I'm not sure I want to give up my words and copyright for minimum wage. Remember? I'm a realtor in Los Angeles with a very big, nine-letter name.

You guys, I have never been more embarrassed, frustrated, and downright angry. Certainly nothing a little cold saki with some lovely friends last night couldn't fix, but still. Can I tell you and only you how miffed I was?

One of the girls who interviewed me had food in her teeth the entire time. And I didn't tell her. No, I didn't.

Wishing for a cheery weekend for you all. I love telling you my stories and hearing your confident voices back at me in the comments. It means the world to me. Typewriters all found on tumblr.