Blog

I see it all over and throughout society; people losing touch with who they are within themselves. It is a slow, steady decline into the ignorance of one’s own self, and of one’s own nature. Within every single one of us, there lives and breathes a delicate sunrise to brighten our lives, and a ferocious beast; seething to rip apart anything which may come before it. The beast will usually cast an eclipse; reining over the Sun’s nurturing rays. This beast is part of our human heritage; the commonality which unites us as a species, the greatest of all the strong subhuman breeds. A certain spiritual ascension will not maintain, as long as the beast deeply breathes within us. Are you able to tame the beast, which is your human nature? If so; would it still be considered a beast, and would it still be considered human nature? Unbeknownst to you, external forces and wavelengths, have already decided to tame your inner beast. Humanity is slowly and steadily descending; willingly becoming an ignorant lot of tamed organisms of sheeple. This ferocious beast has been castrated, and is now displayed; parading around solemnly, as to be very careful to not hurt anyone’s fucking feelings. There is no need for the beast to dwell within humanity, as there is no more need for humanity. The majority of women have bigger cocks than most men have. Strapless flaccid egos; waiting to be ignited by defilement. This is the same moronic mentality, which these so-called, Satanists possess. They are not real Satanists! These infiltrators, are your basic, run of the mill paid social activists; exploiting the moniker of Satanist, as an unscrupulous, attention seeking tool. Misuse of this propagandized title, seems to be in vogue with these young, charlatanical activists, who blatantly manipulate, drool, and salivate for the mainstream media, and for the notoriety of gaining more followers and likes on their social media platform. These parading propagandized charlatans are absolutely useless, fucking lame! They are pretentiously lame emo activists, haphazardly parading around as nouveau-Satanists. If these bought and paid for activists, actually spent an evening with a true, hardcore Satanist; I guarantee you, they would find Jesus on the following business day. There are many different forms of Satanism, which are all focused on the individual. I do not see how “Satanic Activism” is a real part of Satanism. Protesting, demonstrating, and standing up for another’s rights, directly falls into the realm of Christian ideology, not the Satanic ideology of the individual. True Satanism, is not designed nor catered to by the mainstream; nor is it designed to be exploited by sheeple, who do not understand true, fundamental and foundational roots from where Satanism is birthed from. Satanism is older than antiquity itself; it was the thought, which thought the Universe into existence.

Slice it down the middle. Open it wide. Allow it to slide. Reach into it. Catastrophe within, contained within the blasphemy. Below your low hanging, swinging, wrinkled, and stretched-out jowls. Questing without reasoning. Searching without perching. Learning the bounds of your body’s putrid justification. Purging your sepsis for all to see. Your own personal resurrection. Time lies within the hands of the shattered remembrance. Forgetting all it has ever watched over. Anathema for all you have ever lived. Sacrifice nothing you are about to relive again. Symbiotic cesspool of experiences within your withdrawal. Brain dead. Necrotic bed. Your soul dies within its crawl. There is nothing beautiful about your bleeding lips. Questing and infesting your shattered depths. Bleed into me all of your sickly desired reasoning. Slowly pulling me out of my diseased intake. I watch as this disdain, slowly drips itself away from your lizard-esque tongue. Wanting to taste your memories as you speak them away. Thin lips know nothing of thick desires. Only the flesh can be remembered within these drippings. Delicately bland, is what I have become to know you as. Claiming to be the goddess of light. There is no light I can use to see you with. I am blinded to your existence. You should persist from within, until you become deceased. I will maintain my own resilience. I have met you before in the past, only you had a different name back then. There are many of you who are the same, but always go by different names. I can still smell the rotting depths within your stench. Your type of necrosis makes my cock so hard. The smell of your depths is quite intoxicating. Killing the lovers, you may have thought you conquered within your lost past. Cautiously masking your poisonous ambrosia with another putrid aroma. I like watching you; exerting yourself through the effort you think you are putting into living your life. No one knows better than another. These are complicated times. Complicated and time consuming, is your ethic of personal aesthetics. I love watching you; watching how you casually create your personal blend of a petrified suicide. A fatality within the genome. Roots that were never sewn. A home that was never planted. A chance was never given for it to be grown. The mind living behind its own bars.

Jules called me again last night at 3 am. This is the usual time of night, when she calls me upset. She is either upset about waking up from a bad dream, or upset about making “a sex mistake” as she puts it, with some random guy she picked-up at the bar that night. When I wake-up from the sound of my phone ringing at 3 in the morning, I always play a little game with myself. I try to guess the reason for Jules’s call. I have known Jules since grade school. She and I used to live next door to one another. It’s funny, our parents still live there to this very day. I have been in love with Jules since I can remember meeting her on the first day of 3^rd grade. There was something magical about Jules. It was a magic I could not quite understand at such a young age. There was magic in the way her freckles were meticulously placed on her cheeks. There was magic in the way the wind would blow through her strawberry blond hair, when she would swing back and forth on the swing set. There was magic in the way she would smile at me; numbing every single part of my body. Jules’s magic was a beautiful magic. It was not until I became older, when I came to understand the magic I felt for Jules, was actually the love I felt for Jules. Unfortunately, Jules did not feel the same love towards me. She thought I was the best friend in the whole wide world, when all I could think about was kissing her alabaster body from head to toe. Every night before I would fall asleep, all of my thoughts were about Jules. I use to imagine how her lips tasted, how her hair would feel in my hands, and how her naked body would feel embraced with mine. Nothing romantically ever developed between Jules and myself. No matter how hard I tried, she was only interested in friendship. After high school, Jules left Houston; attending college at Ohio State. Jules’s flunked out of school in sophomore year. Apparently, she developed a very bad drug and alcohol addiction during her stay at Ohio State. When Jules came back home, her parents checked her into a mental health facility, where she lived for the next six months. After her release, I used to see her sitting on the front steps of her parent’s house. Jules would sit with her arms around her legs, with her head resting on her knees. She would just sit there; rocking herself back and forth for hours. It was heartbreaking seeing her this way. Jules never opened up to me about her addiction problems, nor have I ever asked her about it. Sadly, I have never seen Jules wear a short sleeve shirt, even in the summer time. I always thought if she saw me differently, more than just her friend, maybe she would not have gone off to school. Maybe she would have stayed here, never developing a drug and alcohol problem, because I would be there for her; loving her. I know now, none of that would have made a difference. Jules had problems; deep emotional and psychological problems, which could only have been treated with the help of a professional. I know that now. I always thought I could have helped her, but now I know the truth. Jules and I are still friends to this day. From knowing Jules since we were young, I can see how being in a relationship with her would have never worked out. I would have never been able to love her romantically, but only as a friend. I guess this too would also be a part of her magic. At a young age, she knew we were only meant to be friends; nothing more. Nowadays, Jules only seems to contact me when she is experiencing one of her emotional distresses. When I heard my phone ring, I knew it was Jules without even having to look at it. I laid there in bed; thinking, Jules, when are you ever going to learn? Reaching for my phone; I leaned back into my soft pillow as I answered, “Hi Jules. Everything alright?” I could only hear her heavy panting, as though she was having a panic attack. I asked, “Where are you? Are you home?” A soft reply came through, “I am.” I asked, “Are you alone?” Another soft reply, “I am.” This is when Jules opened up, “I’m glad you answer the phone when I call. I know it’s not okay for me to call you this late, or this early. I just wanted to hear your voice. Your voice has a soothing effect on me. It calms me to hear your voice. Ever since we were young. When we were young. Why didn’t we ever date? How come you never asked me out, or tried to kiss me?” I replied, “Did you forget? I asked you out, several times over several years. You would always tell me you only had feelings for me as a friend. You did not want to go out on a date with me, because friends did not date one another. I asked you out several times over the years, and you always blew me off. You have always known how I have felt about you, so don’t even try to act as though you never knew.” There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. Jules finally replied, “Oh, I just didn’t know any better back then, maybe now, maybe I still don’t know any better. I did something tonight, something I shouldn’t of.” I hesitantly asked, “So, what did you do tonight Jules, that you shouldn’t have done?” Jules was silent on the phone for a good two minutes. I could hear her breathing; lighting up a cigarette, then exhaling. After her third exhale; she says to me, “Well, I met this guy online. He and I have been talking online and on the phone for about three months now. We finally decided to meet up tonight for dinner. I was not sure if it was the right thing to do, but three months is a long time to talk on the phone with someone, without ever meeting them. Of course, we sent each other pictures, but I guess the pictures, and the phone conversations just weren’t enough. I met up with Steve, that’s his name, at Big Ralph’s Bar, down the street from my apartment. I thought if things went well, or if we both had too much to drink, it would’ve been easy to just come back to my place. Well, things did go well, and we both had way, way too much to drink. When we came back to my place, Steve asked me if I fixed. His question threw me off, and right then I knew he wanted to shoot up. I could feel my mouth salivating and my skin beginning to itch, after he asked me that question, which threw me off because I thought I conquered that habit a long time ago. I knew as I looked him dead in his eyes, as he stood there right in front of me, I knew I hadn’t conquered a goddamn thing. Steve and I found our way into my bedroom, and onto my bed. We started kissing and one thing led to another. Before we really got into it, he wanted us to fix before we fucked. I knew it wasn’t a good idea, but I fixed anyway. He gave me more than what I wanted to start off with. All I can remember is him removing the needle from my arm, before I went dark. When I awoke, all of my clothes were on the floor, I had blood on my chest, and I could feel a wet, sticky, slimy feeling between my legs. When I reached down to feel it, I knew then it was his cum. He fucked me after I fixed, and then left me naked and bloodied. I’m not sure if this is my blood or his. I’m not cut anywhere. So, where would it come from? It must be his. I’m sitting here naked on the floor, leaning against the bed.” I would get these types of calls from Jules almost every weekend. This is when she would meet up with the men she was talking to online. I asked her, “Do you think maybe it is a good idea for you to not meet up with strangers you meet online, and then take them back to your place?” Jules angrily replied, “Well, how the hell else am I supposed to meet a man? At one of those fucking Narcotics Anonymous meetings? They are all drug addicts and pedophiles! I mean, I know that I got problems with certain addictions, but I’m not fucked up like those other people in there are. Holy fuck! That motherfucker! That motherfucking motherfucker! Hold on!” Jules apparently dropped the phone down on the floor next to her bed. I could hear her cussing fading in and out, as though she kept walking in and out of her bedroom. After about five minutes, Jules picked the phone back up. She proceeded to tell me, “That goddamn motherfucker! That piece of shit motherfucker! I’m going to kill that piece of shit! The blood on my chest was my blood! When I was talking to you, I could feel my ass getting wet. I looked down, thinking I might have spilled my beer. It was not beer I was sitting in; it was blood! My asshole was bleeding, and I didn’t even know it! That goddamn piece of shit motherfucker fucked my ass, then rubbed his cock all over my chest! What a piece of shit motherfucker!” I laid there in bed; thinking about when Jules and I were in high school. I thought about all the times I asked her out on dates, only to walk away from the sound of her laughter. It is confusing how someone would choose a tortured way of life, as opposed to a grounded, loving way of life. I can hear her whimpering over the phone, as she is trying to keep the tears within her. Jules rarely cries; holding on tightly to her sadness. She tries to act strong, as Jules is the strongest weak person I have ever known. I somberly replied, “Why don’t you change your sheets, take a shower, and then you and I can go get breakfast.” There was another long pause on her end, as though she had to think about it, weighing out her options. After a long deliberation; Jules replied, “No, I need to stay here and clean. And just so that you know, I can take care of my own damn self! I don’t need you, or anyone else trying to help me! Why do you always try to take care of me? You’re not my father, and you damn sure aren’t my man! You couldn’t handle me even if you were! You wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like me! All you men are the same! All you men want is my pussy and my ass, that’s all you men think I have to offer! There is a lot more to me than just my pussy and my ass! I know who I am, and I definitely do not need your help or anyone else’s help! Do you understand me? What would you do if I did allow you to help me? Put me in another psyche ward like my parents did? Do you know how many times I was raped in there by the doctors, the orderlies, and the other patients? It was every fucking day! I had to have two abortions while I was in there. My parents didn’t believe me when I told them! They kept insisting I was lying! They would yell at me, telling me to stop lying! How the fuck can anyone ever help me? I have learned that everyone is on their own in life! There is no one who is going to make everything better for you, and there is definitely no one who is going to take away all of your problems! There is no one who will tuck you into bed, and watch over you, protecting you as you sleep! When you can sleep, you have to do it with one eye open. At those shitty Narcotics Anonymous meetings that I go to, they always talk about a higher power, God, Jesus, and all that lame fucking bullshit! Let me tell you, there is no fucking power higher than truth! The truth in life, is that we are all fucked! Life is not designed for people like me, for people who just want to be free and explore. Life is designed to tie you down to a job, mortgage, kids, and paying fucking bills for the rest of your life. What kind of fucking life is that? And I’m the one who everyone thinks is fucked up? I don’t know if you know this or not, but the summer between junior high and high school, this is the summer when my father started visiting me in the middle of the night. I would wake up to his cold hand, caressing my lower back and my ass. He said this was what a real father and daughter relationship was supposed to be like. He also told me that if I told my mother, she would kick me out of the house for lying. My whole life I have been telling the truth, but nobody ever believed me. This was the real reason why I never went on a date with you. Of course, I loved you and wanted to be with you, I just didn’t want you to find out about my father. I have always regretted not being with you, I just never felt good enough to be with you.” I laid there in bed, thinking about the past; remembering all of those times I walked up on Jules as she was mumbling to herself. I always wondered what that was about; now I know. I asked her, “Is this why you always call me when you need help?” She replied, “I call you when I need to hear your voice, and those are usually the times when I am hurting, when I am in trouble. Yeah, when I need your help.” This is what I hear from her, every time she calls me. I have been in love with Jules, since the first time I laid eyes on her; I still am. I do not think there is anything, or anyone, which could ever change that. I know it is not psychologically healthy for me to talk to her; knowing she and I will never be together, but I cannot help it. My heart hurts and misses Jules, when I do not hear from her; consequently, my heart also hurts when I do hear from Jules. I know she and I will never be together, as I want nothing to do with her romantically. There is a sick and self-defeating compulsion, which resides deep within me. This sick compulsion will not allow Jules to leave my life: never.

The dreams while we sleep, still cast their spells upon us even when we are awake. These tricks they play within our minds are apprehensible. Conquer your dreams while you are asleep, even more so while you are awake. A remedy for life is to conquer your thoughts, eventually conquering your own mind. There is no way to get around life, other than through death. You must face life head on, while you still have a chance to do so. There will be fears, deeds, people, situations, and other fucked up experiences, you will come face to face with. Unfortunately, you will have no other choice, than to deal with these circumstances, while you are living within this systemic defamed life you have chosen for yourself.

The withered have been delivered and denied. The quenching needs to be satisfied, then devoured. Thoroughly devoured. The certain demise of what lies in between your thighs. The orchids will no longer bloom for you. Seething teeth shred the denial upon your tongue. More words wasted than swallowed. Gagging on rotted remembered memories. Swallowing the prided prize of shame. The gender will surrender with absolute splendor. All cocks and cunts are the same. Wanting. Needing. Tasting the others fulfillment. A lost fulfillment. Given away. Lost within a disdained charity. Clarity was never part of the agreement. You signed the contract on your own free will. There is no point in crying over spilt blood. You have beautiful teeth. It always looks good if you smile when you are in pain. By doing so, no one will ever be able to tell you are dying slowly from within. Just put on the mask you usually wear during the holidays, when the pain is at its worst or its greatest. No one will ever be able to tell the difference. Sadism is now one of the most common serviced goods. Not many people are buying, but everyone is selling it. The world is filled with pieces of shit, who are always trying to sell you something.

She is an advocate for foster children, who become lost within the system. I met her last week, when I was sitting outside at the circular concrete table in the corner of the graveled patio. The sunshine slowly dissipated, as the back patio became cloudy, with lite rain, before a heavy down pour ensued. I heard her high-pitched scream, as she was being drenched by the rain, along with the rest of her belongings. As the rain ensued heavily upon the graveled patio, I casually turned around to see who was making theses high-pitched screams. When we made eye contact; she asked me, “Are you getting wet?” I replied, “No. If you would like to come sit with me, I don’t mind.” She quickly grabbed her wet belongings, and ran across the graveled patio; joining me at the dry, secluded, round concrete table. “This rain is crazy! Right?” She commented; flopping her computer, and wet belongings down onto the concrete table. I replied, “Yeah, you know how it is in Houston. One minute it’s sunshine, and 20 minutes later, a flash-flood. So, what are you working on?” She replied, “I’m working on my blog. I’m an advocate for foster children.” I replied, “Oh, that’s awesome! I saw that story on the news last week about the foster family, who were sexually abusing the kids. Pretty fucked up!” She replied, “Yeah, and they have not been arrested yet, since the sexual abuse reporting’s from the kids were supposedly allegations, not factual. Two of the foster kids recanted their accusations, so the foster parents have not been arrested, but are only under investigation at the moment. Very few of the people who run the foster homes go to jail, since the kids always recant their stories. I personally think they are threatened, or the police just have too much to investigate, that they don’t have the man power, or the time to do anything about it.” I replied, “Yeah, that’s so fucked up! The amount of abuse that probably goes on within those homes, fucking those kids up more than they already are. There is no end to the abuse, or the pain those kids will have to endure for the rest of their lives.” She sat their quietly for a moment, staring at my pack of cigarettes; before she replied, “I grew up in the foster system, this is why I am an advocate for them. Right now, my mother is homeless, living in Seattle. But this is how she wants to live her life. It’s her decision to be this way, and I can’t help her. It’s her decision to do what she wants to do. So, what do you do?” I took a moment before I replied, “I am a writer. I write about the personal development we go through as we live out this life sentence of life. At different times and intervals within our lives, we create different goals and visions for ourselves. Sometimes our lives take an unexpected turn in a different direction than what we intended, when we set out on our life’s path. We wake up, and see how our lives are nowhere near where we intended for it to be. Somewhere along our path, our life fractured; breaking away from what we originally intended to do with it.” She asks, “So, you write about self-help?” I replied, “No, I would not necessarily call it self-help. I see it more as life philosophies, being presented in the form of poetry and short stories, layered within sublevels of meanings and textures. I believe self-help is an oxymoron. In truth, if people could help themselves, they would never find themselves in an undesirable situation they could not get out of. I believe life is simply a result of the decisions and choices one makes through their journey within their lifecycle, which is all life really is.” She sat there quiet, looking deep within my eyes; she purposefully asked, “What sign are you?” I laughed; replying, “Scorpio. And you?” She answered, “Aries.” She continued, “I have dated plenty of Scorpio’s, and they were all very sexual! Are you like that?” I replied, “Only with the right woman.” She nodded her head; replying, “Yeah, you have to have the right partner for it to be enjoyable. When I was younger in my 20’s, I slept around a lot. I mean, a lot! It was not until I got married when I cut that shit out!” I asked, “How long have you been married for?” She hesitantly replied, “Well, I got married young, when I was only 19. But I have been divorced for two years now, but we are still really good friends. We are actually really good at co-parenting together. That’s who I was on the phone with before it started raining. He just picked our kid up from school.” I asked, “You have a son or a daughter?” She replied, “A dau… a son!” I asked, “Ok, how old is your son?” She replied, “8 years old this month.” I asked, “So, if your family is in Seattle, what are you doing all the way down here in Houston?” She replied, “Going to school, but I only go part-time, since I work part-time as a foster child advocate. The group I work with is based out of the University of Houston, and we have our meetings at Lakewood Church Monday, Wednesday, Saturday, and Sunday evenings. I am always at church, and I just can’t get enough of it!” I replied, “Well, I am pretty sure your family probably misses you, especially your son.” She responded, “Yeah, but I facetime with him and my ex a lot, so we get to see one another.” I sarcastically replied, “You facetime with him? Oh, then that definitely makes up for your absence within his life.” She replied, “Absolutely! I do it every chance I get when I get home from work, or from church! I can’t get enough of church!” This foster child advocate obviously did not catch my sarcasm when I threw it at her; as most self-absorbed idiots never do. She asked me, “So, how often do you come here for coffee?” I replied, “I come here pretty often.” She commented, “The first time I came here was a couple of nights ago. I was on a date, a pretty bad one at that.” I asked, “What happened?” She replied, “Well, I just wasn’t feeling it. It was our third date, and he professed his love for me, and was trying to kiss me, and wanted me to go home with him that night. I just wasn’t feeling it.” Internally, I was laughing at this young woman, who is actually still a girl. This advocate for foster children, did not know what she wanted out of life; how could she expect to know what she wanted in a man? I asked, “So, he was not your type? Do you even have a type?” She replied, “Well, I like foreigners. This guy I went out with the other night was Indian. I prefer dark-skinned men, as opposed to light-skinned men. I like my men dark, tall, and confident. They need to have their own thing going on, and they have to know how to treat a lady.” After staring at my pack of cigarettes, she cracked; asking me, “Would it be possible if I could get one of your cigarettes?” I replied, “Sure!” I picked up my pack of Parliament Lights, opened the top, and pulled out a cigarette for her. She held the cigarette limply, between her thumb and index finger. I took out my lighter, struck the flint, and raised it towards her cigarette. She did not put the cigarette in her mouth, as she was trying to light it holding it away from her. I quickly pulled the lighter away; when I asked, “Have you ever smoked a cigarette before?” She giggled; replying, “It has been a long time, but yes I have.” I replied, “In order to properly light a cigarette, you will have to put it between your lips, and inhale as I light it.” She laughing replied, “Yes, I know!” I lit her cigarette, as she inhaled deeply; without a choke or a cough. I added, “Now that you are smoking it, you have to smoke the whole cigarette. There is no only smoking half of it, because you decided it was too much for you.” This is a pet peeve of mine; social smokers who waste a perfectly good cigarette, simply because it’s not theirs to waste. After she takes another long, deep drag off the cigarette, she asks me, “So, what’s your type?” I replied, “A woman who can think for herself. A woman who does not need to call her mom, or one of her friends, to discuss a decision she is about to make. A woman who knows who she is, and does not conform to how society tells her how she needs to be. She will have a natural ability to see the real me, which lives behind my eyes. This woman shares the same interests as I do, such as: philosophy, art, music, books, reading, and a deep love for everything that is New Orleans.” With disbelief; she asks, “New Orleans? You actually like New Orleans?” I replied, “Absolutely! I love it!” She asks, “If you love it so much, how come you don’t live there?” I replied, “I eventually will move to New Orleans, I just know once I move there, I will never want to leave the city, and I probably never will.” She replied, “I just don’t get the attraction to New Orleans; it’s dirty, it smells, there’s a lot of violence there, and there are some really strange people there too!” I replied, “Yes, everything you mentioned is true. This is what makes the city so unique. These characteristics, are filters for keeping the people out, who simply do not belong there. Houston has more crime and violence than New Orleans ever will. The majority of the crime and violence occurring in Houston, is just not covered by the media. New Orleans has its own grit, its own way of living life. The culture within the city and the people within it, are unlike anywhere else on the planet; this is what makes New Orleans special and unique. The city of New Orleans is its own universe, with its own culture, its own way of life. The antiquity within the city is unlike any other in the United States. Here in Houston, they will tear anything and everything down, no matter if it is historic or not; just to build a midrise, or a fucking shopping center. It’s sad, but that’s the teardown culture here in Houston. The history and the antiquity which was once here; has been erased, and replaced by Trader Joe’s, Starbucks, and Whole Foods. It’s funny in a way; the consumers will throw away their hard-earned money on over-priced crap, while living in over-priced housing, which has no soul to it whatsoever. You could say, New Orleans has been able to retain its soul, even after Katrina, yet Houston has lost its soul a long time ago.” She paused for a moment; before responding, “Wow, I never looked at it in that way before.” I replied, “Most people never do, this is what keeps most of them from moving to New Orleans.” She randomly asks, “Do you date; are you seeing anyone?” Seeing that her intentions were starting to surface; I replied, “I was seeing someone for a couple of weeks, but it dissolved rather quickly. Why do you ask?” She replied, “I was just wondering. Maybe we could meet up sometime?” I shrugged my shoulders; replying, “Maybe?” She proceeds to dig deep into her purse; taking out one of her business cards. She hands me the card; stating, “That is my cell number, you can call or text me anytime you like, day or night! If I am at church I probably will not reply until the next day, I usually get out pretty late. You really should call or text me next week. I would really love to talk more with you, and really see what you have to offer, and what you’re all about!” I asked, “What I have to offer; what I’m all about?” She casually leaned into me, about 6 inches away from my face; when she softly stated, “I would absolutely love to know what you are ALL about. I would especially love to know how far you could shove your thick cock down my throat, but only after you fuck my ass as hard as you possibly could.” I just sat there in silence, as this was completely unexpected. As she stood up to collect her belongings; she stuck her hand out and stated, “My name is Sarah by the way. It was very nice meeting you.” I shook her hand; as I replied, “It was very nice meeting you as well Sarah. Have a great evening.” She replied with a wink, “You do the same, see you next week.” As Sarah walked away, I began to laugh. No one ever believes me when I tell them about my experiences at the café. I waited until Sarah was completely out of sight, before ripping her card in half. Sometimes, I meet the strangest people at the coffee shop.