Lord John Marbury: Cold Pizza

 

Well fuck man, its Sunday night and I’m fucking blazed as usual, forntune favors the prepared, however, because I saved 4 slices of cold pizza from last nights dinner, and for that I deserve a high five. The night is not all weed and cold pizza though; I just recently got a bit of bad news, and I have 39 minutes before my Megavideo banishment is done. As I’m really not in the mood to rehash what happened today (in my head or to you), I’ve instead decided to tell you about my past lives.

Yeah, I know, I feel the same dirty awkward desire to make fun of myself for saying that that you feel, but this is a serious topic close to my heart. Believe me, I’m really not the type of gullible douche that goes around believing nonsense. I mean, my beliefs are far more rational than that. As I’ve heard it, an old Jewish carpenter does all those amazing things, then gets hammered to a cross for it, and because of that, my day is a bit better. Perfectly rational. Back to my past lives.

Twice in my life, I’ve come across someone willing to delve into their sixth sense and do a little voodoo to me. The first time, I was about 13 and ended up on a plane next to an Sri Lankan guy wearing a turban and an Aladdin vest. This was prior to 9/11 though, so we mostly just thought it was funny. About half way through the flight, he decided to break the ice. He grabbed my Dr. Pepper and pantomimed drinking it till he was sufficiently pretend drunk. Then he laughed, did it one more time for good measure, and gave me my soda back. He must have mistaken my shocked and appalled expression for awe, because he then grabbed my hand, and in a scene straight out of Temple of Doom, offered to read my palm. He had a brief skim of the material, then told me about all the past lives I’ve had. (There were abut 4.)

The second brush with the super natural I had was about a year ago, while I was an employee at a horribly mundane and painfully under appreciative electronics retail store. I was restocking the shelves when a well dressed, yacht club member looking guy stopped to ask me about a product. He took a liking to me, apparently and followed me around the store till my hands were free, then looked me dead in the eye and he also started to tell me about my past lives.

When he first started to talk, I was struck by how strange it was that two strangers had both decided to tell me about my past lives on a whim. Then, as he got into detail, something slighytly terrifying and amazing happened. Two of the 5 lives he told me about matched up with two that the mile high palm reader. And they didn’t just match up a little, either. They were pretty dead on. According to the men, I was both a civil war soldier that died in battle somewhere in Virginia and a booze runner in the 1950’s, running home made liquor to all the, then, dry counties in the south.

It has never really been a huge issue, but its always been a curiosity in the back of my mind, albeit one that I’ll probably never get any resolution to.  That’s all I’ve got tonight.

In case you needed proof.

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