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This weekend we roamed the streets of California in a boxtruck house with a national hero. The entire experience seemed like a lucid dream of imaginary playwrights.
After what this fake poet would call "an eternity," the Freakerteam and Sexy Sax Man finally had their moment to frolic in the fields of glory.
For the sake of RomComs, we're going to say that this is how we found Sexy Sax Man: roaming the streets of Venice, blowing the hearts of the masses through a silver horn with uncountable whistles and toots.
See that guy in monochromatic aqua? He represents the masses. See that saxophone? It's blowing his heart. The symbolism is profound beyond belief.
In the average love story, there is a singular moment of understanding: a coy glance, a brief touch, or a somersault into oblivion. We made sure to follow all of the rules.
By the end of the day, careers were changed forever. For the past two years, we've been fighting bottle sweat and freaking the world. Our weekend with Sexy Sax Man gave us the life epiphany: we were born to be back up dancers. Sax up dancers, to be specific.
Then we all ate donuts and lived happily ever after. Just like Shakespear would have it.