Typically, when I meet a new therapist, she or he suggests three levels of pressure: 1. light, 2. medium, and 3. deep. Although we did agree on deep you failed to mention that you were applying a fourth level of pressure, which I have named HOLY SHIT! You probably don’t know that I am often dissatisfied with my posterior, but I only can conclude by the way you attacked it with such aggression that you must have been angry with it too. I haven’t looked, but I just might have finger bruises back there. As you paced around the massage table, I laid there anxiously with my eyes closed waiting for you to pounce and unleash the rage. When you would find a knot or an area of concern, you would dig at it how a blind hungry dog digs for a buried bone. At one point, my body wanted to break out in the cold sweats, but I willed myself from doing so out of fear that you might break out in grunts in some sort of primal song of conquer. To be honest I am afraid to look at the aftermath of your massage rage and I can’t decided if I in fact did just participate in a massage or a beating, and I can’t decide if I want to complain or ask for you again next week. For some reason, I think that your massages might build my character and/or be a way to work off all the bad karma I have accumulated over the years. But Dear Massage Therapist please understand when or if I see you again we will agree upon a safe word.