WAKE

WAKE: (wāk) 1. Ignite a transformation of awareness.

W.A.A.C: (wāk) Widespread Agglutinating Autoimmune Contagion.

Rain pelted his poncho as he heaved the rusted jaw-trap from his satchel, and clanged it to the mud. When Nina saw the iron adversary she flattened her ears, and whined in protest. “Still holding a grudge, my dear?” he teased her.

When he discovered the Rottweiler pup eleven months ago under his trailer window, her paw wedged in the trap, he had sobbed with relief. He was desperate for company by then…and protection. He’d recently been ambushed by three grim rapers the size of silverbacks while scavenging inside a Gas’N’Gorge. They dragged him to the parking lot where massive heaps of female bodies had been transported for cremation. The stench from those putrid piles of delicate limbs, and the sadistic jeers of the men as they took turns with him was impossible to shake. He was certain he would die that night, and he was not relieved when he didn’t.

Later, he stood under the amiable oak behind his double-wide, pulling his greasy hair into a ponytail so it wouldn’t tangle in the noose, when he heard the trap spring shut. There was Nina; clemency on tap.

She soon lumbered faithfully attached to his lanky hip whenever they explored the dilapidated city. Her monstrous size helped discourage harassment from lecherous fuck muggers.

You’re sweet looking…You wanna choke on this cock, faggot?!”

Yeah! You’ll be burping our cum, dick chugger!”

But it was the heartsick advances from the loneliest ones that lingered, disrupting his reason.

I have clean water at my place, bro. I’ll take care of you…if you take care of me.”

He secured the trap’s steel jaws into position as the rain ceased, and spotted disheveled Jerry defecating in a puddle across the street, babbling nonsense about “consequences” again. The old-timer’s sanity hadn’t survived. He rolled a can of Alpo over to Jerry’s filthy feet. The old man caught it, and beamed a toothless grin of gratitude in return.

He missed the finer things but cat food spread on stale saltines was pleasantly reminiscent of his Grandmother’s tuna casserole. Before the fever usurped humanity he’d been quite a famous musician. Unfortunately, at thirty-two, his unfading pretty boy appearance wasn’t an asset anymore unless he chose to work for a ‘Toy-Boy’ brothel, and he’d starve before surrendering to perdition. Nina stretched her ham-sized head upside down across his lap, and he popped a fishy cracker into her mouth. Loafing together on their mangy plaid couch at sunset soothed him somewhat but it was no substitute…

He didn’t just miss their bodies. He craved their soft spirit more than heroin. He hadn’t seen a breathing one in years. The fever claimed them all by thirteen, and his obsession pondering past events always settled with the same awareness; it was the kindest outcome for them…

It’s origin unknown, WAAC seemed a Godsend with overpopulation out of control but it soon reached epidemic proportions late-21st century leading to strict regulation of female rights. The ‘Honorable Conception Act’ passed, and the forced insemination of ‘breeding-aged females’ began. International laws were implemented proclaiming abortion illegal, and vaginal rape legal. By the time real brawn was utilized in finding a cure it was too late. WAAC was more ruthless than history itself.

Once men grasped that they now existed solely to witness each other die, the grid crashed, and there was nothing left but regret to keep house with. The deserted boys succumbed to primal familiarities in the plague’s wake, and the decade since was a clusterfuck of males hoarding resources, and warring over any remaining females to breed with until the banality of hedonism, cults, and cannibalism conquered society.

As for loners like him, who chose to endure humanely, a hollow misery shelled their existence in resignation.

The crumbling warehouse was probably emptied but he was surprised what people missed during their ransacking. He had discovered his trusty crossbow under a moldy mattress.

As they crept into the sweltering depot, weaving through cavernous aisles, Nina abruptly hunkered down and blocked his path. When WAAC’s familiar perfume struck his nostrils, he anchored the crossbow against his shoulder before they proceeded to the ‘Import’ office. The stench grew savage as he nudged the door open…

She had built a nest of ragged blankets in the corner. Under a veil of blonde locks, beads of dried blood trickled from her nose and mouth. Her colorless eyes were frozen in unblinking fixation to the coat on her lap. She looked twenty-five. He was bewildered to see a female corpse that wasn’t adolescent.

Nina sniffed the coat, nuzzling something awake. It was around two years old, swaddled in the jacket across it’s dead mother’s legs.

Fuck.

It stretched and shivered before snuggling back into a ball.

I’m leaving now.

He listened to the gentle whisper of it’s breath.

It’s dead no matter what.

He exited the office but Nina was no longer in tow. She sat devoutly next to the body.

“Don’t get sanctimonious with me,” he warned the dog. Nina sprawled out further with a haughty exhale.

“Let’s go, you bitch!” he barked. Nina yawned leisurely, and nosed the bundle again. It turned it’s tiny body over to confront him.

He inhaled sharply. Her diamond eyes looked into him with poised curiosity. He tightened his lips. The infant reached out her delicate limbs, claiming him as her own. He vomited saltines onto the rotting carpet. Still patiently expecting cuddles, she regarded his collapse with tender squeaks of concern, each gentle chirp splicing devotion to his bones.

If discovered, she would’ve roasted over a man’s spit that night but she didn’t utter a peep even as he zipped her up inside his backpack, and bounced her the two miles back to his trailer. After plopping her down on the mangy plaid couch, beside her new comrade Nina, panic consumed him again. He couldn’t protect a girl during the Goddamned Apocalypse! After ten minutes of hyperventilating under the scrutiny of Nina; the drooling judge, and Baby-girl; the thumb sucking jury, it dawned on him; he’d be clueless under superior circumstances so she’d get his best attempt at fatherhood either way.

‘The World’s Largest Jack-in-the-Box!’

The rickety hinges of the sun-bleached sign creaked as Simone slid down the ladder with an acrobat’s flair. Ancient Nina, her nursemaid, paced eagerly below.

He stopped sharpening the arrow tip to gaze up at the giant clown’s head perched atop the 30-foot silo that glowered over the barren highway. He was satisfied with that demented bastard watching over them. Circus-themed rot made this remote roadside attraction appear worthless to marauders yet it was abundant with fertile soil, and prime terrain visibility.

Simone leapt to the ground gracefully. “All’s clear in clown town!” she singsonged through Nina’s sloppy kisses.

“Will my girls be alright while I’m in the city?” he confirmed.

Simone threw him a pirate smile that graduated to a giggle. He swore he saw Nina’s antique eyes roll in agreement. “I think we’ll survive, Dad.” Her grin suddenly cracked with uncertainty, “You gonna be okay?”

“I’m always aces, Baby-girl,” he winked.

She tentatively conceded an optimistic nod before snatching up the crossbow at his feet, “Maybe you’ll find a book about building beehives this time!” She glowed.

“Anything’s possible, Jackrabbit.” He loathed leaving them but Simone was an even better shot with the crossbow than she was a medic, and although Nina’s hips no longer matched her moxie, her vicious loyalty compensated their pack. He would work ‘fetish shifts’ at the brothel to earn faster, trade for seeds, and drive the four hundred miles back in time for Simone’s birthday next month.

He watched her swishing blond braid mirror Nina’s wagging tail as they trotted towards the straw-man for target practice. Feral, fifteen-year-old Simone; his sacred reason. He would chew glass for her if need be.

On his final evening in the city he neared his collapsing trailer humming the hundred-year-old Van Morrison tune Simone had suckered him into singing to her before they parted ways twenty-eight days ago.

Me and Jerry should celebrate with a can of Alpo, he mused.

He surveyed the street. Jerry’s haggard body lay face down in a puddle.

After reverently carrying the old-timer’s remains to the amiable oak for burial he searched Jerry’s pockets, and found the old man’s faded employee ID from the Center for Disease Control along with a tattered government document…

CLASSIFIED TOP SECRET: Attention all constituents of the CDC: WAAC’s mutation has nullified intended purpose of virus’ creation. Vaccine has become ineffective. To prevent grave damage to national security, all evidence of ‘PCP’ (The Population Control Project), must be eliminated immediately.”

Numbness permeated his cells. He slowly pulverized the paper in his trembling palm.

It was midnight when he finished burying Jerry, and departed with a truckload of farming provisions. He barreled through the darkness, weeping. He needed to be there when Simone woke in the morning. After all, how often does your daughter turn sixteen?

Story by Mikeka Fellez

I must not fear…

“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”

Frank Herbert, Dune

Copy-of-Principles-of-Courage-SQUARE2

The ‘Telephone Effect’ in memory recall. Every time we remember something – we are actually remembering the last time we remembered it.

Keep the following research in mind if you have become obsessed with a certain memory connected to guilt for something you did in the past or resentment towards someone who hurt you in the past. Most likely, the original event that has been haunting you, sometimes for years, is not being recalled as it actually happened. It has grown into a monster of your mind’s own making. That event is gone and done. You deserve to be free of past pain, and stop letting it steal the peace of the present...

Remember the telephone game where people take turns whispering a message into the ear of the next person in line? By the time the last person speaks it out loud, the message has radically changed. It’s been altered with each retelling.

Turns out your memory is a lot like the telephone game, according to a Northwestern Medicine study.   Every time you remember an event from the past, you may not be recalling the original event, but what you remembered the previous time.

“A memory is not simply an image produced by time traveling back to the original event — it can be an image that is somewhat distorted because of the prior times you remembered it,” said Donna Bridge, a postdoctoral fellow at Northwestern University Feinberg School of Medicine and lead author of the paper on the study recently published in the Journal of Neuroscience. “Your memory of an event can grow less precise even to the point of being totally false with each retrieval.”

“Every single person we tested has shown this effect,” she said. “It’s really huge,” said Bridge.   The reason for the distortion, Bridge said, is the fact that human memories are always adapting.

“Memories aren’t static,” she noted. “If you remember something in the context of a new environment and time, or if you are even in a different mood, your memories might integrate the new information.”

For the study, people were asked to recall the location of objects on a grid in three sessions over three consecutive days.  “Our findings show that incorrect recollection of the object’s location on day two influenced how people remembered the object’s location on day three,” Bridge explained. “Retrieving the memory didn’t simply reinforce the original association. Rather, it altered memory storage to reinforce the location that was recalled at session two.”

“This study shows how memories normally change over time, sometimes becoming distorted,” Bridge noted. “When you think back to an event that happened to you long ago — say your first day at school — you actually may be recalling information you retrieved about that event at some later time, not the original event.”

The research was supported by National Science Foundation grant BCS1025697 and National Institute of Neurological Disorders and Stroke of the National Institutes of Health grant T32 NS047987.

Author:   Marla Paul, Northwestern NewsCenter

A MESSAGE FOR MEN….❤️❤️

I get a lot of random messages online from strange men asking what turns me on. So, I thought I might just put something out there because I think I speak for a lot of women on this and I’m here to help…

Do you want to know what turns me on? What makes me burn for you? What makes us breathless? What awakens every passionate instinct and unwraps every layer of fiery feminine sensuality?

Go to freaking therapy.
Do the work.
Heal yourself.
Lead yourself.

Be brave enough to get uncomfortable for the sake of wholeness and depth.
Be willing to build your emotional muscles so your arms are strong enough to hold the fire of an Awakened woman.
Be open enough to lean into a level of depth you’ve never experienced.
Talk.
Be humble enough to admit that you don’t know everything.
Go deep.
Get real.
Stop hiding behind surface-level sex.
Evolve.
Confront what you need to confront so you can move forward without the shadow of your past.
Stop thinking that vulnerability is weakness. It takes a GIANT of a wild man to get vulnerable and it’s HOT as f*ck.
Stop running from magic when it’s exactly what you need.
Stop telling yourself she’s too much when the reality is you’re just afraid to be enough.
Lead yourself so you can lead ME.
Believe that you can handle it. Act accordingly.
Be the safe space. The strong ground. The calm for her storm.
Do this and you’ll find your Goddess. Do this and you’ll be taken to a place of wholeness and ecstasy you didn’t know existed and likely wouldn’t have found on your own.
Do this… and you’ll be home.

P.S. Girls – do the same.

-Gina Hussar

Tbilisi, Georgia is like a hard drinking, tatted-up beauty… and I think I’m in love.

Tbilisi, Georgia has a vibe somewhere in between Albania and Armenia in terms of how it looks and feels. Tirana, Albania had the look and feel of a city and country that wants to be part of the EU, but isn’t really trying that hard. Mostly old, run-down buildings, with seemingly very few improvements happening, Tirana reminded me of an old woman, [if you’ll please forgive the feminine analogies], who’d been smoking all of her difficult life, had a husky, raspy voice, and just seemed resigned to the way things are. Yerevan, Armenia on the other hand, kind of reminded me of a Kardashian or maybe Scarlett Johansson. It may have seen some rough times, but it was a beautiful, almost pristine, city…and it knew it. The vibe you got from Yerevan was, “Yes, I’m beautiful, and you’re going to love me…but you’ll never deserve me.”

The early feeling I’m getting from Tbilisi is somewhere in between. Tbilisi, like the rest of Georgia, has gone through some hard times, both during and after communism. But it’s working tirelessly to improve and become part of the EU. It’s definitely a work in progress: you can see the old and the new built right next to each other all over the city, but it’s definitely a city that WANTS to be on the rise. Whether it is right now or not, it is determined to make it. It kind of reminds me of a girl who’s probably been abused, is tatted-up, smokes and drinks with the boys…and will usually drink them under the table! But she’s still really pretty, has a lot of character, in part because of what she’s been through. You’ll like her, probably even love her, but she doesn’t necessarily give a shit about what you think. She’s going to become the best version of herself possible either way.

Blog entry by Richard Johnston. https://www.facebook.com/richard.johnston.75839923/posts/pfbid02Vyd9crX8uVQcoBaDqVPoC63zCwK6f8WN3SHNZYAKY9UQiucMqgcRPhB5ntFdEKM3l?notif_id=1659409524847975&notif_t=feedback_reaction_generic_tagged&ref=notif

I love you too much to think about you…

I love you too much to think about you.

I won’t sully you by assuming anything of you or about you.

I won’t burden you with any expectations or demands.

I’d like to meet you just as you are.

I love you too much to separate you from me.

I won’t impose any distance at all upon us.

I won’t tolerate the distance of thoughts between us.

I want to meet you exactly as you are.

I love you too much to believe anything about you.

I don’t care to project onto you.

I respect you too much to know anything about you at all.

I won’t limit you that way.

I want to meet you in your authenticity.

I love you too much to label you or categorize.

I won’t allow thoughts to define my experience with you.

I prefer to meet you exactly as you are.

I love you too much to try to know or understand you.

I care too deeply to have a relationship with you at all.

I cannot bring myself to externalize you.

I want to meet you exactly as you are.

I love you too much to define you.

I won’t allow any restriction at all on you.

I don’t care to imagine how you are.

I want to meet you exactly as you are.

I love you too much to think about you at all.

I love you so much that I forgot about you.

And I forgot about me.

All that is left then is the pure experience of Being.

And meeting each other exactly as we are.

-Helen Hamilton- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L2iYdHrrBsE&t=194s

Eating the best Latinx food I’ve ever tasted… In Albania!

Tucked on an unremarkable street in Tirane, Albania is Fogo Latino. Reviews on line about this hidden gem are absolutely stellar across the board and for good reason. It is – without a doubt – some of the best Latinx food in the world! Seriously, folks. It’s worth visiting Albania just to eat here.

It has a warm, and colorfully eclectic atmosphere with impressive artwork and greenery hanging on every wall. It even has a glass floor revealing a cactus atrium under your feet! The owner and wait staff were immediately gracious and helpful to the point where by the end of the meal we felt like old friends.

The menu is epic at almost 20 pages so there is something for everyone but I would highly recommend taking the advice of the owner on what to order if you haven’t tried a lot of Latinx food before. It is vegan friendly but also a great place for the carnivores. HIGHLY RECOMMENDED!

https://www.facebook.com/fogolatinotirana/

The Silent Warrior: A tribute to men who fight their personal battles alone.

A comment I often hear from people is that if you are a real warrior, you would not have to speak about it. Perhaps they mean that your actions will speak for you, and that real confidence is silent while insecurity is loud.

However, there is a kind of Warrior whom I believe should speak out about his struggles and strengths. The one I call the silent, wounded, warrior. This is an ode to that Warrior. We all know at least one. Here’s to the silent warriors of the world…

He who does not know how to reach his brothers

He who is unable to ask

He who silently fights his demons

He who fights his phantoms in solitude

He who combats against low self-esteem

He who is being ridiculed for showing emotion

He who is being taunted because of his absence

He who feels he has failed as son, partner, father

He who is not heard, not seen and not felt

He who cannot give form to his pain and sorrow

He who sees the sword lying, still out of reach

He who goes against the cynicism of the world.

He who is regularly about to give up

He who sometimes ends his struggle

I see you.

I hear you.

You are worthy.

Transcending the guilt of leaving narcissistic family behind…

I haven’t spoken to my brother in many years…

He was the type of man who would call his own sister, his own wife, and even his own mother a ‘CUNT!’ on a regular basis, and then blame us for ‘making’ him say it. As children he was physically abusive towards me, and when he was strong enough, our own mother. If you even hinted at disagreeing with him, in ANY way, you ran the risk of him literally tearing the house apart in a rage.

The worst part for me is that no one outside his closest family has ever seen this psychotic side of him. Only the ones who have lived with him have. All our Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, and his in-laws have never seen him be anything other than the kindest of gentlemen. Honestly, some of things he has said and done are so horrendous that they would never believe it if they were told anyway because his facade has been so convincing for so long.

Once, when we were staying with our Grandparents, and my brother thought no one was listening, our Grandfather overheard him call our mother a ‘cunt’ while my brother was on a phone with her. My Grandpa was so appalled and enraged that he nearly smacked the hell out of him. My Grandpa died a few years later without having shared this story with the rest of the family, and my brother was very careful to never let his true colors show in front of any of them again. He’s smart. Sociopathically smart.

My brother got cancer a couple decades ago, which I thought might inspire him to self-reflect on his alienating behavior but, cancer just became another excuse to get away with abusing us. Once he realized that no one would confront a sick man, he indulged in some pretty dreadful abuse towards us.

When he became a Trump supporter, (something he denies when people ask him now), I finally cut him out of my life. It just became absolutely impossible to be around him. Everyone assumed I was heartless because of his cancer, even though he’d been in remission for years by then. I guess I was expected to let him get off on treating me dreadfully because people who have recovered from cancer get a free ‘bad behavior’ pass forever? I don’t know. I just couldn’t absorb any more of his toxic abuse any longer.

It’s disheartening that most of the family will never believe how monstrous he can be, and I will probably always be painted as the villain sibling, but I am still endlessly grateful everyday that I had the strength to finally leave him behind. My life has been infinitely better without him in it.

If you’re struggling with guilt about cutting ‘family’ out of your life due to their relentless abuse – PLEASE DON’T. Society, culture, religion, and family dynamics have ingrained many lies into us since infancy. We literally HAD to believe these lies as truths in order to survive. The belief that ‘Family should always come first’ or ‘You must always forgive family’ is just more conditioned nonsense that can be discarded once you finally realize you can trust thinking for yourself. Just as we all stopped believing in Santa Claus, at some point we all have to grow up, and start questioning ALL the things we’ve been believing since we were five years old. Many of the ideas that our families taught us are just unquestioned gibberish that has been passed down from generation to generation like a virus.

The world has changed greatly over the years. It’s time to trade in cultural and family conditioning for true experiential knowledge. What in your present experience of yourself and the world around you is actually true? Develop compassion for yourself. YOU ARE WORTH IT. You do not need to endure abuse from ANYONE – including ‘family’. You deserve to be treated with respect and love even if the only person you’re getting it from is yourself.

Getting a Thai massage in Armenia, and wanting to die in the worst and best ways possible…

She smelled of lavender and cucumbers…

I’ve never had a massage in my life. I’ve always felt very dodgy, not only about a stranger touching my body but, also about paying someone to do it. There’s an elitist element to the whole concept for me that I am very uncomfortable with. “Massage my feet, peasant!”, has always been the vibe I’ve gotten from the whole process. But, since traveling again, I’ve acquired some pretty major nerve pain in my extremities. Sometimes, I can barely sleep because my legs, feet, arms, and hands are either experiencing shooting pain or going completely numb. So, I finally broke down and decided to try out a Thai massage – for medical purposes only.

When we entered the hotel, the front desk lady told us that the massage parlor was on the 14th floor but when we got in the elevator, the floors only went up to 13 where the sky bar was. Okay…does this massage place exist in another dimension of reality or something?

Once we got to the sky bar, a hotel employee showed us to a dilapidated back stairwell, cluttered with random hotel debris, and we made our way up the concrete steps to the 14th floor. But, as soon as we got through the parlor doors, we could see that the place was beautifully serene; beaded curtains, golden Buddha statues, and soothing music.

A pretty young Armenian woman checked me in, and showed me into the changing room. I took off my shoes, socks, and pants to change into some canvas Capri pants, and slippers they provided. I was glad I painted my toe nails and shaved my legs for this.

I walked out of the changing room, and past my husband, who was sitting on a bean bag chair playing on his phone. The look on his face said, “Good luck, baby”

I was led through a beaded curtain into a candle lit room with tiny Buddha statues lining the walls, and a large wooden table covered in silk pillows in the center. It was so dark that all I could make out was the back of a willowy female form in the far corner washing her hands in a basin of cucumber water. She was so tiny, I honestly thought child labor laws were being broken in this joint but when she asked me to “Lie down, please.”, it was with an adult voice. Whew! I already felt like a snobby inbred monarch as it is without having a kid massaging me.

My eyes were starting to get use to the dark by now, and as I laid back on the silk pillow, I finally saw my masseuse’s adorable face smiling down at me just as she placed a towel over my eyes. Uh oh. Why don’t you want me to see what you’re about to do to me, girlfriend? I took a deep breath. Relax, control freak. Trust the process. I suddenly noticed that the woman getting a massage in the room next to us was making sounds like she was giving birth. That’s not a good sign either! But, then my masseuse slathered my feet and legs in oil, and started rubbing my toes so lightly I thought, Oh, lovely! She’s an angel from Heaven!

She almost immediately asked if I had nerve damage. “Muscles twitch too much.” she commented. I confirmed that, yes, I have nerve pain in my arms and legs. “I can fix for you.” she said sweetly.

“Awesome. I trust you. Go for it!”

The light massage then quickly began taking a turn to medium pressure. Okay, this will be good for me, right? Soon, medium pressure switched to intense. My legs began stiffening, and she informed me that, “You must relax. Harder you fight, worse it hurt.” Isn’t that something the Thai military says right before they begin torturing you? As she rubbed my calves, ‘intense’ turned to outright excruciating. Someone call Amnesty International!

“Can you do it a little lighter?” I asked meekly.

“What?” she replied.

“Lighter, please?”

She replied with a confused, “Umm…”

“Less?” I ventured.

“Oh! Yes! Less.” she agreed.

Cool. Now this will begin to be enjoyable.

Then, I realized that she had misinterpreted ‘Less’, and was not actually doing it lighter. She was just doing it slower. So, now the pain would be the same intensity only drawn out longer. Screw it. I’m just gonna trust her and deal with the pain. Maybe this will help me practice meditation. It’s like New York city. If I can meditate through this level of pain, I can meditate through anything, right? Wrong. There would be no meditation this day, my friends. This would be an exercise in absolute surrender. I tell you, folks, she was right. The more I fought and resisted the pain, the more unbearable it became. The more I accepted and relaxed into it, the better it felt. Soon, the pain went from, “You will beg for death in the end!” to “Am I secretly a masochist because this sh*t feels good!”

She dug deep into the nerves in my legs and feet. I found myself contemplating, How are your tiny hands so damn strong, girl? Do you crush coal into diamonds as a side gig? There were moments when my entire body went numb, maybe out of self defense, but then it would come back to life, and all the muscles were more relaxed then I’d ever felt them before. She knew exactly where to put the pressure too. She dug into the precise spots on the bottoms of my feet that have been causing me the worst pain over the past few months. I honestly don’t know how she knew exactly where to go but she did.

After she was done massaging my legs and feet, she violently popped my toes one by one. It was as loud as thunder claps, and I was sure I’d be crippled for life. There’s no way sounds like that coming from a human body are okay! Maybe from a mechanic working on a car! I’m not walking out of here alive today! But, DAMN, it felt amazing. Trust her, I kept reassuring myself.

She then moved up to massage my face and scalp. Mind you, we only paid for a foot massage. But, this was my favorite part. It felt heavenly and I really relaxed into it.

Next she turned me over onto my stomach, jumped up onto the table, stood with her feet on either side of my body, bent down, put her entire weight on her elbows, and dug into my back, neck, and shoulders. Holy crap! Okay, this is the day I die. I better just make peace with my God now because it’s over! But, once again, the more I relaxed and didn’t fight it, the better it felt. By the time she began battering my spine with her tiny fists, I thought, I think I’m in love with this woman. I wonder if gay marriage is legal here in Armenia? At one point, I turned into Morticia Addams after a night of passion with her husband, Gomez, “You frightened me… do it again!”

When she finished, she sat me up slowly, and asked if I was okay. Surprisingly, I felt as pliable as a water balloon. She warned me that I might be in some pain in the next couple days but that my nerve pain would be a lot better. I thanked her profusely, and she bowed goodbye.

When I staggered out of the room, I looked like I’d been mauled by a badger; smeared mascara, disheveled hair, and the gait of a new born giraffe. But, I’m hoping, over the next few days, my sleep will improve, and my nerve pain will have lessened. It’ll probably get worse before it gets better though so I may have a couple of Long Island ice teas and Ibuprofen in the mean time.

If you’re going to get a Thai massage, get your inner control freak under control because you better damn well surrender to the process. When you do, you’ll be thanking your God for the tiny Thai lady who took you from Hell to Heaven in one hour.