She’s here again. I’ve seen her every single day for the past couple of weeks. I feel like I know her, like we have some sort of relationship.

She sees me getting out of the station at 9am every morning, carrying two coffees and listening to my music, trying really hard to avoid her. Unfortunately, I can see we’re growing closer each time we meet.

First time I saw her she was standing a few feet away, watching me shyly with her magazine. Then she started taking little steps towards me, every time. Today, as I try to move as fast as possible and look anywhere but at her, she comes really close and shoves a magazine in my face.

The Watchtower.

Then I see her lips moving, but I can’t hear her. Instinctively, I take my earbuds off and she repeats her question. ‘Have you met Jesus?’ I look around, rather confused, expecting some hidden camera to show up, carried by some nerd I could punch. Is this a totally inappropriate spin-off of Barney Stinson’s matchmaking game?

Apparently not; she’s actually serious. And she keeps cramming that magazine in my face. Seriously, if she continues to shove that bullshit down my throat I’ll start feeling like Jenna Haze. If I have to deepthroat something on a Monday morning, I’d rather it wasn’t Jesus, thank you very much.

What is wrong with these people? What kind of twisted logic could have them believe that in order to get a ticket to Heaven they need to go around trying to ‘save souls’ and ‘bring people on the right path’? That’s like a kid trying to get into Disneyland by convincing his friends it’s a really fun place. You want to go to Disneyland, buy a fucking ticket and go, but don’t nag me about it. Same rules apply to Heaven.

Where does this arrogance stem from? It’s quite fascinating, if you think about it. Most of these religious cults praise humbleness, yet they also tell their followers that it’s their mission to save all the poor mortals around them who haven’t had the luck to find the way to redemption. Saving the world seems a bit removed from a humbling mission, if you ask me.

I know for a fact that if I found the way to immortality and a super-awesome afterlife, I wouldn’t share shit with any of you nitwits. I’d invite a few people to join in, of course. What’s an afterlife without a dealer and some people to party with? But stand in front of a tube station, freezing my butt off to get you on the amazing train to Super Fun Town? Hell no!

I don’t trust people who are so eager to share their secret recipes for happiness, whichever form it may take. That’s why I’ve never jumped at the opportunity to drink some disgusting shake that smells like manure just because some bloke promised it would cleanse my colon and turn me into the poster child for the upper middle class white girls with blonde hair, tiny waist and no boobs they always have in their ads. The one time I did fall for this whole “I can show you the way to everything you ever wanted” the promised happiness came in powder form and I ended up selling my used underwear on a Japanese website in order to fund it. I have learned my lesson.

I was so deep in thought the poor girl was under the impression I was listening to her, so she’s now super excited and trying to tell me about all the ways I can meet Jesus, because, so she says, he’s coming soon.

Calm your titties, dollface. I’ve already met Jesus. We did shots off each other in Mexico last summer. And if I remember correctly, he did come, albeit a bit too soon. Don’t get me wrong, that was really fun and all, but I have no intention of meeting him again.