fuck quelling

it's been hours and I'm still pissed; actually, I've gotten more irate as I've listened to the conversation riccochet in my brain. suffice it to say that I shan't be crushed to leave the sanctuary. I will miss the work, I will miss the clientele, I will miss the rhythm... but I will not miss the condescending passive-aggressive faux-airy-fairy massage-industry BULLSHIT. I will not miss being compared to an excitedly pissing puppy. I will not miss cringing at the myriad hypocrisies and overall, just, CRAP. yes, I went to (an expensive) school, I studied my ass off, I commited 18 months of my life to just BECOME a massage therapist. and I knew that the world of massage is, overwhelmingly, a flaky, vapid, dubious one, full of bullshit and rhetoric and pretense that made me want to puke then and makes me want to puke now... so I don't know why, now, I have the ignorant audacity to feel indignant. I knew it was bullshit, but I thought it would not be. I wanted to be pleasantly shocked. I still believe that there is a place that is technically-minded and not saturated with flax-coated horseshit, but I have apparently not found it just yet.
the massage industry has taught me how to perfect the glassy-eyed smile of overt indifference. you don't want to know what I'm actually thinking. trust me.
whatever! thank you for listening to my iPhone tantrum.
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I had an awesome meal tonight that involved butter lettuce, fava beans, English peas and deep-fried artichokes. and prosciutto. and girl talk. afterwards I went to a bookstore and reread as much of "Lolita" as I could in the 10 minutes before they closed. it's still one of my favorite novels ever. "light of my life, fire of my loins..." the hotel room bit is my favorite- his oldness and dyspepsia and patheticness, smelling her on his pillow... it's a fucking hot read, and I don't give a fig what sort of psychological errors that suggests about me.
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at the west Seattle garage sale cornucopia yesterday, I procured a copy of "charlie and the chocolate factory." fucking Roald Dahl, tis you to whom I owe my love of adjectives! random page opening: "and they're certainly not showing any signs that they are slowing..."
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no edit; so sorry.