I fretted that day because I knew it would be my last.

I worked at People’s Bank as a teller. I enjoyed my job. I enjoyed cross selling bank products, the vault area, counting money, the signage of my signature and importance of it on every traceable document in the bank.

For days I concentrated on creating a signature, what would mine be like? Should I wrap the R a certain way? How about the D? It should be this way or that way?

And after I selected a signature, its permanence would be immortal.

I wore my gray corporate attire with pride. On this day a few buttons removed themselves off the cashmere  I had grown so comfortable into wearing. As a bank employee, you know that it is always cold inside of the bank. The cardigan always kept me warm. It was always founded folded neatly on my chair.

But the sun rose warmer outside, and it was time to shop for a lighter sweater, perhaps silk next time.

Somewhere, in my mind, I had those kind of thoughts.

The bulk balance on my computer read $11,500, and I recalled that I missed the opportunity the night before to have the $7000 overage  locked inside the vault. The Vault Supervisor decided not to wait for me to wrap up a transaction with the last customer of the night while everyone else closed their draws. I had $7,000 overage in my drawer, which was past the limit.

The Vault Supervisor said to just put it in the tiny vault with the cashier checks and money orders under the counter behind the teller line. She had a thick italian accent.

I squinted a bit as I rummaged through my mind if that choice was not ethical, but a right protocol to follow because everyone had access to the combination code.

But we were all leaving so who would have access to the vault to steal the money? Upper management maybe, but noone else so I should be okay.

Because she was the Vault Supervisor I followed her instruction.

Counting the money in hand to ensure that the sum matched the  balance on my computer, I was short $7000. That’s right, I thought. I walked over to the lower cabinet and bent  forward to spin the combination on the lower vault. I opened the door.

The money was gone.

I write this post because lastnight here in Florida, I sat near a woman at Denny’s who looks alot like Jennifer, upper management.

I didn’t notice her face until she walked out of the restaurant and stared at me through the storefront, until she was off the street. Her head was turned back at me as she walked forward. Her head was completely out of alignment with her heart.


A man shouted in front. I look up as I pick up my bookbag to shoulder. I sigh because I get alot of these. He is standing in line at the bakery, in conversation with a woman who is with him. I am seated at a table. He screams. He said there is a show on HBO about a man who is a tranny. He is a woman but lives most of his life as a man and that he keeps messing with the FBI.

I told him I am not a tranny before I got up to use the bathroom.

When I sat back down, I heard the voice of my husband in spirit, scream louder than the other voice I heard. He said, “I miss you Danielle.”


But Jennifer…

I thought about the woman I saw lastnight, and remembered a girl named Rosemary. We were almost friends in 1st grade. I had been to her house once. We played barbies in her room, it was us and another girl named Casey. I began to find interest in Tarot and palm reading after meeting them, and recall giving an oral presentation about the life line in the palm of your hand. I also taught ESP (talk about x-men training).

But I thought today that Rosemary looks much like Jennifer. I find that some people I know look similar to others.

Then I thought about time travel. Before you continue reading, I am not blaming anyone here.

A man came into the bank one day, and demanded that my friend seated to my left give her all the money in her drawer. She did. Cherita also told me, she put a chair to the door in her apartment because she was frightened.

The FBI came in and asked Cherita and myself if we would identify the man in court. It was a lineup.

The FBI official was 6’3″ tall, heavy wasted, blue eyes and gray hair. He had to be in his 40s. During my tenure in college I would often see him out. I remember a time I saw him right before graduation speaking to a few of my classmates.


When I was in highschool, I started a fight. I walked right up to a girl who bullied myself mostly, and my sister. It came to a point where she continued until something had to be done. I saw fear in her eyes right before I punched her in the face. She hit me a few times, but they weren’t heavy punches. She wore cheap rings on her fingers. You know, the kind you get when you are young, the ones with the nameplates.

Listen. I can’t fight.

This girl went all around highschool telling people she beat my ass. I was told I was jumped and one boy called me scarface.

I remember getting punched twice, then the arms of a security guard holding my arms back. That’s when her cousin came to punch me in the face.

Now I am going to explain why I write this to you. I do not remember anything after the two weak hits to the face. I can’t fight. I don’t know who she fought out there in the parking lot. A beast? Gabriel? Alien? She did not fight me. I was turned off. It was not a guardian angel, more like a disciplinarian.

The alien told me I died that day, and he saved my life.

We really do have spiritual obligations here. We have assignments

You’re scared now, right?

And this girl named Jasmine thinks she fought me and beat me up. Yes, whomever she fought let her and others see that. But whomever it was caused a pause in my brain.

Maybe it was the Angel that wrestled with Jacob. He is white and muscular from what I saw, and daring, but not arrogant.

And I shared that story with you because she looks very much like a little girl that attended class with my daughter. And she looks very much like the bald older lady named Diane that lived next door to me. She might be a troll. You know, a paranormal creature?

The school security guard looks very much like the leprecaun, short, thin white guy I use to work with in the past. I have seen him in his 70s and in his 30s. This one might also be a warlock. He has spiritually cursed me by calling me retarded in spirit. (purposely).

We all have spiritual obligations here. We all have assignments, and depending upon who you are, they will discipline you until you figure it out because life isn’t life here, it is 3D reality with pain, suffering, loss, debt. You gets no love.

Here, you act like the people in the picture below the above title, Flashback. Here your subcoubcious acts like a character out of your fav movie or television script.

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