A Meaningful Encounter
Patronizing a certain upscale supermarket is always a dreaded experience in the PSYOP-19 mass induced fear new normal.
Checking out last night with one of the unmasked cashiers that I’d developed a rapport with — disclaimer: I only ever check out with unmasked cashiers whenever possible — we once again started joking about all things “pandemic.”
Ahead of me was an elegant lady in her late seventies, her gray hair curling over her dark purple woven scarf. She was pulling her credit card from out of the keypad terminal.
She turned to me just as I was telling the cashier that on that evening I had observed that around half of the shoppers were still masked up, despite all of them most likely having been topped off with the latest boosters, which meant injections number 4, and even 5.
The middle-aged cashier was shaking his head in dismay, and both he and the elegant old lady glanced behind us when I noted that the other checkout line had four masked customers and two masked employees, thus a one hundred percent masked rate versus our one hundred percent unmasked rate.
At that point the elegant old lady was staring me down, still not having collected her small bag of groceries from the counter. I thought maybe she forgot wear her mask, and that I had angered her.
Realizing that she was offended by my irreverent comments, I politely said to her, “Don’t listen to me. Please. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m just another crazy conspiracy theorist.”
She glared at me, and then replied in a firm and piercing voice, “No. They are the conspiracy theorists. And what a stupid saying. I’m so happy to be hearing someone say what you’re saying. They’re all crazy in their masks.”
As the cashier and I were pleasantly taken aback, a KN95 beak tightly affixed under tense angry eyes was creeping toward us. We turned to the masked middle-aged woman slowly rolling back her shopping cart from our little checkout soiree.
Just then a young African American engineering student wearing the supermarket’s acid green and yellow vest approached us. He gave me a fist bump, and said, “I looked up that Margaret Sanger.”
I asked the elegant old lady and cashier if they knew who Margaret Sanger was, and they both replied that they thought they did, but weren’t sure.
I nodded with a thin smile at the student worker. He proceeded to give us a brief history lesson in American eugenics, then mentioned that I had him look up the Tuskegee experiment the week prior. He concluded his mini-dissertation by stating that in his opinion the COVID “vaccines” were the 2.0 version of the syphilis injections, minus the racial targeting.
The middle-aged KN-95 beaked woman was at that point checking out with the masked cashier, listening in on our little “conspiracy” party as the elegant old lady was grinning, excitedly agreeing with the young student worker. She then asked him if he was “vaccinated” to which he regretfully replied, “I had to. For school, and to be able to see my grandparents.”
She shook her head in dismay, but the student worker quickly added, “I’m not taking them anymore. No boosters or anything else, even if they try to kick me out. I’m not doing it no more again.”
The elegant old lady shook her head in relief. She was proud of this young man, as was I.
The elegant old lady ended up walking me out of the supermarket. We chatted for quite some time in the chilly parking lot. She confided in me that despite her objections, her daughter ended up getting the injections due to pressure from her significant other, but that her son flat out rejected them, even though his wife was forced to take them for her job. She proudly told me that she had homeschooled her children, only ever fed them homemade organic food, and was very disappointed by her daughter who last year told her that all “vaccine” discussions were verboten in her home.
“It’s just I feel like I can’t say things anymore. No one wants to hear what I have to say. They just don’t want to know...”
I told her that I often felt exactly like she did, but that I felt it was my duty to let my social filters fail me, “In some ways it’s our moral duty to speak the truth, to wake people up. Or at least try. Who gives a shit if they don’t like it. Most of them are the living dead anyway.”
She looked away into the far distance. And then she turned back to me and nodded, “I’m going to start saying exactly what’s on my mind from now on too.”
She then started telling me about her metaphysical movement course that she was teaching. She tilted her head from side to side, and extended her arms out, “That’s how you connect with your true self. You free yourself from all of those things that you think you are. That you were told you are. You just connect to energy of who you really are; none of this other stuff.” That was one of the techniques she used to get into character during her acting career.
We then spoke about biodynamic and regenerative farming, and various other topics.
She mentioned that she was looking to purchase a parcel of land so that she could once more live with her two children. I told her that was a beautiful idea, but perhaps to wait until early next year given that the housing bubble was on the verge of blowing up.
And then said, “that’s me over there.”
I looked in the direction of her pointing finger to a circa mid-1980s dented up white RV with pieces of duct tape holding up the front bumper and random stickers. There was a blue tarp covering what appeared to be some kind of scooter affixed to its rear door. The tires were worn and muddy, and there were patches of rust. One of the doors had strips of duct tape for a window.
“I’m driving over to Walmart. That’s where I park. They let you stay overnight. There’s no bathroom or shower, but it’s safe. There’s drug deals all night, but I park near the other RVs. I don’t know who’s in them, but it’s safe.”
A miserable heaviness came over me. I wasn’t really listening to her go on about the pros and cons of overnight Walmart parking. I had an overwhelming urge to ask her to follow me home in her RV. I just wanted her to be really safe in a warm loving home, not huddling alone in a corner of her cold RV in some forlorn parking lot.
I was angry at her grown ass kids. I told myself that I didn’t know her real story, or what really happened in her past: what sins who was guilty of when. I tried to not judge her or her children. I tried to snap out of it. I wanted to let her finish explaining why she didn’t mind living in her RV, that she didn’t want to pay rent again because she wanted own her place, and that she was going to figure out a way to finally buy her little piece of land.
“All I need is three acres. I can make gardens and grow food for us. Three acres is perfect.”
A beautiful and intelligent old lady is barely staying alive in America, while the illegitimate Federal government steals money via unconstitutional taxes in order to illegally fight proxy wars in Ukraine, sending hundreds of billions of dollars to a CIA installed puppet, as the Southern border remains wide open so that the illegal invaders can be rewarded with “free” money, hotel accommodations and healthcare, and nations like Pakistan and South Africa receive billions for sex education and “climate change” respectively, while grifting politicians on relatively modest salaries and their crackhead offspring become multimillionaires in dirty backroom deals and treasonous insider trading schemes.
And who could ever forget the “free” slow kill bioweapon injections, test kits and masks as paid for under threat of State violence by the American tax slaves?
On my drive home I kept thinking of this elegant old lady. I was both heartbroken and enraged. “How the fuck can this be happening in America,” I kept asking myself. To which I was continuously reminding myself that this is what America has become. All by design. There are hundreds of thousands of homeless people just like this elegant old lady, and that trend is only getting worse.
I cursed through the windshield at the dark road and the tiny red lights getting brighter up ahead. I looked up at the starless sky and cursed some more. And then I slowed down, and made a call to my mother. I could still talk to her, and I could take care for her the best I can. She told me she was very tired and was going to go to sleep, that she loved me, and to drive safely.
Yeah, sure, it’s a fucked up cold-blooded world we live in, but it’s not all bad. Far from it.
The old lady just texted me. Next time I’m town I’ll try to help her. Maybe I’m just selfish, and that these random acts of kindness are nothing more than ulterior motives to help me live with myself a bit better. A kind of coping mechanism. I guess it doesn’t really matter in the end what the reasons are, just that we do whatever we can in our own small ways to try to unfuck this world, and ourselves.
Do NOT comply.
Damn man I legit teared up reading this. This is what humanity is all about.
This brought tears to my eyes. How tragic that these meaningful connections are so rare these days. I am so relieved you have her contact number. Please do keep in touch and give her a warm hello from me.
Keep us posted on your next encounter. Encourage her to join Substack if she has the ability to do so, then let us know so we can follow her adventures.
P.S. RV life may not be as bad as you fear—watch "Nomadland," and you realize many people feel the freedom is worth the tradeoffs.