I’m the only person at work who qualifies for a free massage because I work so damn much. They figure they can get more miles to the gallon by giving me regular tune-ups. They’re right.
I’m seriously getting my ass whooped. I accomplished 50 hours of massage in the past two weeks. Even my co-workers are starting to feel sorry for me.
“You have three 90 minute massages and you only get a half hour break?! That’s crap. Why do they do that?”
I shrug my shoulders and wipe the sweat off my brow.
The thing is, I told the girls at the front desk to load me up. To keep them coming. And they happily oblige. I’m like a Godsend to them because of my availability and lack of hostility. My arms feel like string cheese at the end of the day, but it feels good.
Now my friends want to go out. It’s 9:02 pm and I’m in my pajama’s with my hair all messed up.
Oh man I look so tired. Poor me! Okay, I better get ready. Oh what the heck, one more pic.
Awwww there I am. I love me.