Eeyore.

Okay, so I rub naked people for money. It's what I do. I am licensed to touch and rub people. In turn, they pay me money for it.

So far, this little arrangement has worked out quite nicely. The smiley clients come in with aches and pains, I jostle their muscles to and fro, and they happily skip away onto rainbow clouds.

Until...Eeyore.

Now, I am an extremely professional individual, so as to not disrupt my strict massage therapist/client confidentiality, I lovingly call this particular client: Eeyore.

Here is a list of dreary things Eeyore has actually said to me:

Me: Hey, Eeyore! Happy New Year!
Eeyore: Yeah, another year down the drain.

Me: Sorry I couldn't massage you last week, Eeyore. I was getting married!
Eeyore: Hopefully it will last more than a week.

Me: Hey, Eeyore! Were you okay using a different therapist last week? My grandfather is deathly ill.
Eeyore: There are no other good massage therapists. Not getting a massage was extremely debilitating (proceeds to limp, pathetically).

Me: Hey, did you have a good day today?
Eeyore: I am being tortured at work.

Me: I have to drive back and forth between Stillwater and Tulsa now that I've moved.
Eeyore: Oh, I'll give you a book on CD.
Me: Hey! That's really nice! Thank you!
Eeyore: It's about the Holocaust.

I've worked on him for 4 years, twice a week for 90 minutes each time. If there is a God, (s)he will realize the extreme amount of patience I have had and give me full access to the open bar in heaven.

I would like 3 dirty martinis, 2 glasses of red wine and 5 dark beers awaiting my arrival. If he doesn't stop saying dreadful things, I may arrive earlier than expected. Or else, I'll just quit my job...one of those two...either kill myself or quit my job. I can't decide.