Deal with that title, Google.
I find it bizarre – and potentially pathological – that I hand over my credit card to a man so that I can suffocate myself in (freshly-scented) linens while he takes a full sixty minutes to find every single aggravated nerve that I never knew I had and make them all scream for mercy.
And yet, I know I will go back. In the near future. I stayed away from him for nearly a month, out of consideration for the new tattoo, and it was far too long a time. So, yes I’ll go back to see him. Or his co-worker. See, that’s how bad it is: I’ll go see either one of them. I’ll take it from whoever is available.
Massage therapists must be a twisted breed to want to go to work and aim for pain in the name of healing.
But if it weren’t for the twisted likes of me, they’d run out of work pretty fast.