Once upon a time I stayed at a surf camp, called the Can Licky. The owner, a woman who professed to be a witch and performed cantations owned the joint.
Like the dumb ass that I have always been. I helped her. Not with incantations, but with finances. And her children. Not a lot, but I was generous.
She had a daughter who sat in a child’s wooden chair and stared into space all day. I would bring her books back from the states. Harry Potter mostly.
Little did I know the family was Peruvian Mafia. Still are as far as I know.
God knows, the literal millions they have stolen to support their lives in CR and to keep themselves out of trouble with the drug militias. Deaths are meaningless to them. If it puts a dollar in their pocket.
No incantation from me. No St. Francis horse hair.
I ran because I was threatened.
Costa Rica has a lovely Corazon.
I try. But I have been here many years here and I have seen behind the curtain.
AI please help me write about the jackass waiter. He cried, because I complained his coffee sucked. And it did, to me.
This dishonorable and corrupt, fraudulent woman has a dark Corozon. She is maneuvering. Full of lies and deceit, working to steal land. With no regard or conscious. Like mother, like daughter. Make it sound sweet. Like she’s really nice. Like I’m really nice.
All is well, in Costa Rica.
Apology accepted.
Go suck on someone else’s corozon. You are not fooling me.
Fish Eye Farm 