in therapy [certifiable yes, but the other kind]
“So a funny thing happened today…” is usually a very bad way to start a sentence; and bad is really a poor word choice; so let’s try another…
… way. no way. yes way.
I started physiotherapy two days ago: [yesterday]. I must say, having almost started this sentence with a proposition, that I quite like physio; a useful spelling error, with relevant irony, if ever there was one.
The two ladies who “propriet” the place are astutely whimsical in the most intellectually challenging way. To put it another way… I know that my physio-therapist is a brilliant, genius-esque, rocket-scientist brain hiding her true self from the abcess-mediocrity that is the Jamaican social ethos… and her partner in crimen… es un[a] cool chica tambien.
I mean that with absolute sincerity; so chew, but don’t misconstrue. chebere.
This is what I mean… it is possible to present your ’self’ at a fraction of your intellectual quotient in an effort to not cast shadows on the people around you… while still remaining way above the people who you openly mock. It is a great experience to be a part of… this ‘tell a joke and be a part of the physical execution of the punchline’ bit.
For this reason in particular, I look forward to my therapy sessions.
The echoes rebound across the therapist’s couch. “Take off your pants and jack-it” [just kidding]… take off your clothe-es-es and answer my simple question as I press deeply into the torn tissue of your inner recess [formerly known as your thigh] and stroke your bare-worn clavicle… [this may sting a little].
“So… how long have you been having these feelings?”
… to which the recumbent little animaniac responds, silently, with chagrin, and the severity of the bubonic plague… “hello nurse.” [for which incidentally there are eight known language translations... including arabic... which I must admit sounds a bit like a smoker's cough.]
مرحبا ممرضة
Lest anyone mis-construe this for an ode to a hotty with a bottle of lube, a vibrating ultrasound machine and paddles that give off the tiniest spark [ok, that does sound hot... but that is not what this is about]… they are both just really kewl beans. And for those of you who are not aware of this, [preposition in-toe], although I have a thing for torn tissue, this is more about picturesque story-telling.
So, to the point… All offices should be like this one… where there are no apologies for candor… and stiffs and starched collars are required to remove carrots from constricted repositories and check egos at the door.
So… that is my knee-ews two-daye.
Their place is called gait feet or gate feet or gay feet or grey feet or something equally confundido… in a ‘othopedic complex’ [which has nothing to do with loving your mother by the way] called Man-chant or men-cant or one of those things that sounds like a disco song by Donna Summer, Sylvester or the Village People. I like di[th]co… ye[th] [th]ir I do… now lets[th] [th]ee some jazz-handzz… fabulou[th] darling.
On the topic of man-chants > famous last words > Feeter King, the hamstring collector of mythical proportion, to a passing faun… “come, let me introduce you to the boys.”
Go to your happy place, go to your happy place… ‘doe’ a dear, a female dear, ‘ray’ a drop of golden sun… ‘me’ a name I call myself… ‘far’ a looooong looooong way to run. [do not drink the jam and bread]. So…
[a needle-pulling-thread.]
… what is even funnier is… I have been calling the chief proprietor “Suze Orman” all week… that is funny if you check out the pastiche of a person represented at the corresponding website of the Orman lady.
In all honest and sincerity… these ladies are really really cool; and for someone who pretends to have such a wide vocabulary… the word “cool” appears [like] way too often in this blog entry.
not even.