Daily Archives: March 8, 2014

I’m being chased with pitchforks and torches by an angry mob of Facebookers. Just another regular day in the life of Mel.

“Get a massage by me and find out if you’re an alien!”

This was posted on a billboard for my new massage clinic.  Directly in front of my building.  It even depicted a green alien holding up a peace sign.

“What a great idea!”  I thought to myself.  “People can finally find out if they’re aliens by getting a massage from me.  It’s brilliant!”

Then I woke up.

“Is this really a good idea or was it only a good idea in my dream?”  This was my first thought of today.

Nope, only in my dream.  Damn, it sounded really good.

Today was hard.  First item of the day was to contact Spa Booker for my new online scheduling system.  I’m taking a big hit financially by signing up with them, but the perks of their software are worth it.  I won’t bore you with the details, only that they are fantastic.

The financial hit with Spa Booker sent me into another panic mode frenzy.

“Shit I’m screwed if this doesn’t work.  I don’t even have employee’s yet!”

I freaked and started posting jobs to various sites.  I even posted a job to Massage Nerd, a Facebook support group.  And got shunned.

I’m using Massage Envy’s business structure as my own, and this is the first thing that people spotted about my Facebook ad.  They read between the lines into who I really am – someone looking to profit from another persons hard work.  Duh!  Isn’t that the point of employee’s?

Most massage therapists hate massage chains.  They are the McDonalds of massage, only instead of cheap burgers, I’m selling the same quality burger you’d find anywhere, only cheaper and easier to book with.  They are easier to book with because they hire employee’s to sit there for an hourly wage, take walk-in clients, and are readily available instead of other clinics that have to hunt down their on-call therapists (most of whom ignore the call).

It’s so bizarre when first coming into view of these two clashing worlds.  Therapists who want to massage people for a living, work from home or in their own office to make a modest profit.  They like their job.  They like what they do.

But then there are people like me, the people who view the massage industry differently.  For us, it’s not a way of life, but a profession.  A paid occupation.  It’s a tool to profit from.  I can’t escape the gnawing dread of breaking an arm, or getting a nasty gash on my hand.  If I don’t work, I don’t get paid.  Something must be done about this.  How are others not seeing this?

And so, I’m using Massage Envy as a base model.  Their system is proven to work.

I’m a person that massage therapists hate.  I am a hated person.  Shit.

They hate me because I lower their value, I lower their worth.  It’s all an ego thing with them and they can’t see it!

When someone offends you, it’s because you feel they lowered your worth.  They take things personally.  I shrug my shoulders at everything, but what scares me most right now is that I want to laugh at all the haters.  I have this bubble of laughter in my gut just waiting to explode.

This is not good.  Why do I want to laugh?  These people commenting on my Facebook ad, many of them shunning me with torches and pitchforks, and here I am wanting to laugh at them.  Is it my egoic baser survival instinct kicking on to block all hate?  Or do I see the true nature of the situation and find it comical?  I feel like I’m the older sibling holding a kicking screaming child by their head while their flailing arms and legs aren’t long enough to reach me.  Their fighting makes me laugh.

Am I a sociopath because of this?  No no, I can’t be.  Right?

Anyway, it’s a few hours later and my Facebook ad got well over 90 discriminating comments.  Okay, not all discriminating.  Half of them are for me, while the other half is spewing vile discharge out of their anuses.  Did you know that synthetic vanilla flavoring comes from beaver anal discharge?  Neither did I.

I received my first legitimate response to my help wanted ad from a reputable job search engine, and a woman on Facebook wants to work for me per diem.  Sorry per diem lady, I need stability.

It felt like a half dozen sparrows encased my heart in silk ribbons and lifted it high into the air when I saw her resume in my inbox.

Yes!  Score.  This will work.  This will work.  Eat it Facebook turds.

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