Tuesday, 22 March 2011


They call it therapy but let me assure you that there is no therapeutic value to the
torture you undergo while on the table of a massage therapist! You bravely submit yourself to their hands, while they gently massage the affected area in question and
then their features change. The soft smile turns to a glare, and fire spouts from their nose and their fingers become the talons of a hungry vulture. They find every spot on the excruciating pain level and squeeze, until you ultimately utter the groan of their satisfaction. They own you now. When they see that you have drifted
off into escape land, they rub you with oil and annoint your soul and then ask for their fee and make another appointment. All this while you walk out in a fog oblivious that you just made a pact to return for more. Only when you get home, do you realise that you do have a little more mobility in the affected arm and it actually moves once again. But just a little bit. Because you have to go back again! Hmmmm - did I hear music during this physical abuse? I don't remember.

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