One would think a day spent pampering myself at the Ritz Carlton spa would provide respite from the mundane tribulations of everyday life, alas, the universe had other plans.
My serene state was rudely interrupted by a bumbling massage therapist whose ineptitude verged on criminal negligence. I tolerated her fumbles until, horrified, I discovered a razor nick on my thigh. It took the combined efforts of three therapists to soothe my wounded pride—and skin.
I made sure the management heard of my grievances; they fawned over me, showering gifts and apologies like rain. One learns early on, dear readers, that even amidst luxury, vigilance against mediocrity remains paramount.
Thus, I departed the Ritz, victorious and rejuvenated, a stark reminder to all underlings: never presume to challenge the invincible Karen Final Boss.
>Soulkyn