I want a massage. Desperately. Passionately. I find myself forcing my back into other people’s capable hands. It never is enough. I feel like this is somewhere along the scale of a heroin addict’s addiction strength. I am poor however, and begging along the corner of University and Center in Provo would probably only engender some fairly alarming experiences. I don’t know if there are any honest folk who would rub a random female’s shoulders.
I have stopped caring even about whether or not it’s appropriate to ask for a massage from someone. I’ll ask just about anybody. (I have yet to ask a professor or other authority figure. This may not last for long.) There are many blessed souls who are willing to help me out, but it’s such a temporary fix. My neck puts out more knots than can be undone.
Perhaps I will find a hundred dollar bill lying next to a vending machine and with it, I will go bonkers and get a wicked massage. A wicked massage.