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The great philosopher Christopher Julius Rock III once said, “Some people say life is short and that you could get hit by a bus at any moment. Bullshit. Life is long. You’re probably not gonna get hit by a bus. And you’re gonna have to live with the choices you make for the next fifty years.”
That being the case, I’ve decided to live my life to a certain degree of…comfortability. I do this by treating myself regularly to massages, spa days and facial treatments. What’s wrong with wanting to be relaxed and look young forever (which is so California it makes me fucking sick)? Go ahead and laugh it up at my expense. I’ll be the guy with the great hair and skin when I’m nearing 30. Oh wait, I already am that guy.
I can’t pinpoint exactly when it was, but one day I woke up with the inability to walk. I’m 28 years old and I have a lifetime of back, hip and heel pain as a result of being a moderately talented high jumper a DECADE ago. Hope it was worth it! (it wasn’t) There’s a spa a few blocks from my apartment in Nob Hill called Fairyland Spa (yessss). My girl Koko at Fairyland will, for $30, take a leather bound booklet of tools and her own dieseled fingers and work all of the scar tissue out of my arches, heels and toes until I can moonwalk out of that fucking place. They even have a punch card system, like a sandwich shop. Every tenth reflexology massage is on them. Better prize than any scratch off card I’ve ever bought (and cheaper, too).
You haven’t lived until you’ve had a 95-pound Thai man walk his bare feet up and down the length of your IT Band and open hip flexor. Sure, sometimes I’ll black out from the pain but my guy Nick (not his birth name) at the Marina Thai Massage has done more wonders for my jacked up back and hip than half a dozen doctors have. And a full hour long body treatment costs 50 bucks. Are you fucking kidding me? I’ll gladly sacrifice one subpar sushi dinner with the Capital R Roommate to have Nick kick my ass once a month.
Have you ever looked at the pores on your nose? No I mean really looked at them. Those black specks aren’t freckles. It’s dirt that’s been clogged in there probably since you finished puberty. Which for me was like age 9. So once a year I go get that shit scraped out. There’s a guy who runs his own 5 Star Yelp reviewed place in Union Square named Caesar who, after generously applying layers of moisturizers and soothing steams literally claws the dirt out with a mini scalpel. Afterwards, you feel like you washed your face in the Arctic Ocean. There’s a joke in here about getting a facial in San Francisco but I’m better than that.
Some men are born with thick calves or big arms. I was born with great hair and bushy eyebrows. When I came out of the womb I looked like Bert from Sesame Street. I tried plucking each individual hair one by one but it always resulted in me looking like I just headbutted a weed wacker. So instead I would go see my girl Beatrice every three or four weeks when I lived in Chicago. She’d wax those suckers perfectly until it looked like I had a normal symmetrical face, which would last for about 3-5 days.
You know what, my old man’s gonna kill me. .
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