Vietnam is a massage

A lady with burn marks across her face and an arm tattoo saying "no space in my heart" washed my hair and gave me a head massage. I lay there, eyes shut, sucking my belly in, thinking about how Vietnam is like a massage. Sometimes hurts, sometimes boring and pointless, occasional flashes of pure pleasure, but no matter what they’re always around you, squeezing, probing, getting in your ears. One day you're going to sleep drunk and hungry because foreigners with no Vietnamese skills starve in Càu Giấy, but everyone can say 'ba ba ba'. Then you wake up years later and realize you haven't had a 333 beer in a year. The lady who parks bikes in my office building told me I should get married with a haircut that amazing.