The thing that finally did it was an hourlong marma point massage, it opened up all sorts of energy channels and that is when Gretchen realized that she was not in fact, a female human pharmaceutical copywriter, but deep down under it all, an Native American transgendered horse who needed to run free.

That wasn’t the problem though.  The problem was what to do about it.

She woke up the next day and was still feeling the same way.  She sat up in bed and shook out her hair, which was already feeling more maneline, and she decided to go for a run.  She tied on her sneakers and ambled up to the park, which she circled in a brisk trot, paying close attention to the carriage horses, all of them.  They looked skinny and tired,  but when she caught their eye, she could tell absolutely what they were thinking.   “It’s a job,” they thought, “and this way at least I can send some money home.”

She wondered about the relationship between those men in the top hats with the whips and those horses.  What was going on there?  Was that a mutual relationship? She guessed probably not, and decided that, for the time being, it might be best to keep the whole horse thing to herself.

Which meant that when she had to go to the bathroom, she went inside.

Back at work, Gretchen felt that perhaps she was living a lie. What would a horse be doing sitting in front of a computer pumping out press releases about Zyflacam?   It just wouldn’t happen.  Her whole life was in question now, and she didn’t blame the marma guru, in fact, she thanked him.

For now she was on the path to truth. Whatever that meant.

Whinny, clop clop.

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