The Truth Nut

A lady approached my desk at work and, without any approbation by me, began to tell me of her time working with the sick and dying in Ecuador years ago.  I assumed she had worked with the Salvation Army or the Peace Corps or something similar, but she started telling me about all the people she'd seen with terminal cancer, and that it was actually the CIA that was injecting people with this irreparable cancer, linked to the Covid vaccine, and that it was created in a benign-seeming lab in Saskatoon (which I have to admit I chuckled at, because it's as funny a place name as Lake Titicaca or Toad Suck, Arkansas).  When I did, her feelings were hurt and she said, "I know I sound like a nut, but I'm a truth nut!" and started to cry.  I apologized, but she wandered away, presumably to look for watch for chemtrails. 

An hour or so later, I started writing this blogpost, and she came up to me again, interrupting.  She had written up a list of her references and the experts who were speaking the truth about the impending loom of transhumanism, and told me they were "not all from the YouTube."  I guess she was not offended by me after all, and proceeded to tell me all about nanotechnology and the secret tests being run on average citizens and her son-in-law in Edmonton who does autopsies ("but is not a mortician, he's the other thing") and can always tell the difference between a dead body that's been vaccinated and one that hasn't, because of all the irregularities and abnormalities in the corpses that were "jabbed."

She really had a lot to say, but I was a) afraid of hurting her feelings, and b) a little big curious how long she could keep her rant going, since I had already decided to blog about it.  And the answer was: 

I'll never know, because after fifteen minutes, I cut her off because I was late going on my rounds (and I was worried Abe on the other side of the building would wonder what was going on at the library entrance and call me).  She clearly had more to say, but seemed to understand and/or was used to being interrupted (and disbelieved).  She gave me the paper with her notes on it and left, and I felt bad . . . but did I feel sorry for her or sorry for me?