Tuesday, April 9, 2013

*Bed Sheets, Peggy, and Irish Singers

I hate Enya. There's nothing relaxing about attempting to decipher indecipherable lyrics whilst lying naked with a measly three-hundred thread count bed sheet between you and a complete stranger. It was stressful enough to strip off all my clothes, not knowing who or what to expect for my first massage experience. . .

The massage therapist was interesting, to say the least. I silently gave her the name ‘Peggy Roughskin’ due to her leathery complexion, bright pink lipstick, and thick, familiar aroma of aged cigarette smoke on her polyester pants—I find women donning the name “Peggy” usually resemble this description to some degree.

(Excerpts from chapter twenty-four | mama told me (not to come). Everything's Hunky Dory: A Memoir

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