So an Asian man punched me in the neck

And in the back. And in the foot. And in the hand.

And I paid him $40 to do it.

I’ve been feeling tension in my left shoulder for the past couple of days and because I know my body and emotions quite well, I know it’s all to do with my harbouring negative emotions re man stuff and the fact that I’m turning into a large serve of waffle fries around my tummy area.

Anywho, when this happens, my body gives me a dose of ‘OW’ in my shoulder so I know to wake up and make some vibrational changes. The main thing I do is make myself cry – this usually releases the pent-up emotion stored in my aforementioned pain area. I did that this morning. To that kid from Britain’s Got Talent who got bullied because he sang church songs. So sad. That made 40% of the tears come out but for the rest, I thought I’d enlist the help of Sunny’s Chinese Massage just around the corner, here in the Lower East Side. I thought that maybe through massaging the area and oxygenating my blood, he’d be able to release the rest of the emotions.

Be careful what you wish for, Nisrine. Be careful what you wish for.

Why I will never get a Chinese massage again:


You’ve been to a massage before, right? Where they lay you on the table face-down and give you the ‘hole’ part of the table that you’re meant to put your head through so that you can, you know, breathe? I don’t think old mate Sunny got that memo. I had to lay face-down during the hour-long torture fest on a hole-less table situation where I had to invent new ways of staying alive. I tried the whole come-up-for-air-every-couple-of-minutes thing but that got in the way of his process, then I tried holding my breath but that got in the way of my living, and so finally I had to resort to inhaling my own exhales and praying to God the hour would pass. On top of this, my mascara smudged all over my face because it had been squashed for an hour and so I walked out looking like I had been crying over a failed Tinder date. Which brings me to point number two.


There’s something magnificent about the body, isn’t there? It takes only one prod of this thigh, or one slap of this toe to incite physiological reactions. And boy did I experience some of those. For the duration of the session, Sunny prodded and poked and twisted and slapped every part of my body and while this was beneficial for my internal organs I’m sure, it made me want to fart and cry and blow my nose all at the same time. At one point, when I was turned over on my back and he was pulling my toes, I honest to God felt as though I was going to blow air directly into his face but because at that stage my body was so bruised and tormented, I would have done it and not given a fuck. It would’ve been payback. Luckily for him and the other customers who were a curtain-divider away, I held out on externalising any internal sounds until I got home. Or until I got to the street, let’s not fib.


No matter how ‘professional’ you remind yourself these massage therapists are, the fact that someone is rubbing your body down with ‘essential oils $5 extra’ and readjusting your underwear to get to the next sore spot, is still weird man. Totes weird. I couldn’t help making pain noises that sounded like ‘Ah’ and ‘Oh’ and Sunny couldn’t give up his oil-lathering noises; it was a very 50 Shades situation except there was no contract or helicopters. On top of this, my hand and foot and head kept accidentally brushing against his penis and I was also very aware of the fact that my boobs were seeping out of the side of my body because they were so squashed on the table. There was no happy ending to this massage, let me tell you, so all the sexual tension was a waste of both our times. Dammit.


Look, if you don’t like breathing but enjoy farting in public and accidentally touching penises, and happen to be in the tri-state area, go and visit Sunny’s Chinese Massage on Rivington Street. Tell him Nisrine sent you.


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