Searching for Serenity

I just made an appointment for a massage with a MALE therapist.

Nothing could possibly go wrong with this, could it?

(Oh, you think you know how to relieve my stress, do you?? You can make me feel all better, huh? Mother Fucker, I JUST met you. What makes you think I can't rub this kink out of my shoulder myself? I don't need a man to help me. Look! Look!! I'm doing it on my own cause I'm an independent bitch. That's right. I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T, do you know what that means, mane? It means this WOMAN -- not a girl -- this WOMAN -- is gonna walk out this door and live her life the way SHE wants to. I don't need you telling me I'm not pretty enough or young enough or I shouldn't move to the Czech Republic. Please, dick. I'll be living it up on the Vltava, looking forward to my Christmas Carp. Of course, I'm not gonna eat it! I don't eat meat. You would already know that about me if you EVER took the time to get to know me beyond JUST MY BODY . . . You know what? FUCK THIS!! I'm outta here. I don't need your lying, cheating, stealing ass thinking I need you. Cause I don't. NASHLEDANOU, you piece of shit!!!

*wraps blanket messily around body and storms out of massage room with purse and clothes in hand, tripping at least three times before finally slamming the door*)