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Well, it wasn't acually Juror B37 from the Zimmerman trial. You know, the one who only used newspapers to line her parrot's cage and is proud to admit she doesn't want to be informed. The one who admited in open court all she wants to do is play Candy Crush. (Yeah, I know it's addictive but would you admit that crap in a courtroom) I would rather perjure myself.
Anyway, we will call the masseuse Cindy. I have never been to Cindy before. Nice lady, but a talker. That's a problem. I don't want to hear your babble about your kids or whatever when I'm getting a massage. It's supposed to be relaxing. I like to think I'll go in there and meditate or just clear my mind but I will admit that never happens. The whole time I'm thinking things like, "is my butt as big as a Kardasian's? I'm going to have to google the measurements."
Nevertheless, please don't talk.
Cindy started talking about people's "energy" and all I could think is, "I bet she thinks my energy is $%^#. She's totally thinking about it right now."
She kept talking about nothing blah blah blah I love my job blah blah my co-workers are great blah blah and then, "What do you do?"
"Oh, I read the news at a radio station."
"I never pay attention to the news. I hate the news. I don't want to ever hear any of it."
And then it hit me, Cindy does seem really smiley happy. Maybe this is the key! Dig my head in the Candy Crush and ignore it all!
But then I realized I would never, ever, ever make it as a masseuse. All those nasty bodies? H to the no. So, here I am at work reading the news, releasing my $#*% energy and definitely not playing Candy Crush.