I seriously thought about going back to school to learn massage therapy.

Not for money.

Not for career goals.

Not for inner peace.

For power.

The idea of knowing every little pressure point on a woman?s body that makes people melt had me feeling like I was about to unlock cheat codes to life.

You press one spot and suddenly she is relaxed, smiling, and no longer remembers the stupid thing you said yesterday.

That is influence.

That is leadership.

That is survival.

So I started researching.

Where do you go.

How much does it cost.

How fast can a man become dangerous with oil.

Then later that night, right when the alcohol packed up and went home, reality kicked the door in like it owned the place.

Full time student.

FULL TIME.

Which is funny because my mortgage does not give a single fuck about personal growth.

Neither does the power bill.

The phone bill.

The car payment.

Or the part where I like to eat.

I tried picturing myself telling my boss, "Hey, I am taking time off to learn how to rub people properly".

That sentence alone should come with a termination letter.

Then I thought about stress leave.

But you actually have to be stressed.

It is real hard to be stressed when you do not fuckin work.

I sit in front of a computer coloring pictures and typing letters.

It is arts and crafts with adult consequences.

Still, I could not let it go.

I kept thinking about how good the girlfriend would feel if I could rub her shoulders without accidentally putting her spine into witness protection.

There had to be night classes.

Online classes.

A dusty VHS tape from the nineties hosted by a man named Chad who still says brother.

I even pictured my own clinic.

Soft lighting.

Calm music.

Oil everywhere.

Me walking around like I knew what the hell I was doing.

Then reality showed up again.

Because in your fantasy, it is always beautiful people.

Smooth skin.

Quiet breathing.

Grateful smiles.

That is not how it starts.

?

You start at the bottom.

You start rubbing oil on backs that look like a bear rolled in shag carpet.

Moles with their own postal code.

Fat guys with rolls you did not know were approved by science.

And they complain the entire time.

Too hard.

Too soft.

Too left.

Too right.

Then they roll over.

That was it.

Stomach turned.

Soul left.

Career ended.

Dream folded, labelled, and thrown directly in the fuckin trash.

I sat there in my head and said, "Yeah, no".

Where are my fuckin pens?

I will do what I do.

?????????????...and that's callin' it like it is!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Canadian artist & digital troublemaker Colin John Cook shares his louder-than-life, awkward, and honest-as-hell stories. Packed with humour, real talk & creative insights in a no filter, digital comedy space that laughs at life & calls it like it is. He is also the Founder and President of

The Hidden Gallery - Art Studio & Micro Theatre