On Behalf Of The World’s Witches, We’re Damn Tired Of All The Judgment

It’s not easy being the Fairest Of Them All. We’re on top of it, checking in with our trusty mirror every day. The worst is after a night of tequila shots or arriving home in the wee hours after a walk of shame. Still, we do it for our subjects.

Not too long ago we shared our best Turkish delight with a boy in Narnia. He shovelled it down as if we had an endless supply.

Another time, we gifted land-legs to a mermaid for the purpose of wooing a prince. Fickle bastard, he married someone else.

We also joined some girls to dance naked in the woods, even though Salem was rife with rumors of witchcraft. Who turns down a party invitation?

Selfless acts, the lot of them. 

Witchcraft is not real and frankly, we’re tired of all the damn judgment. We want to set the record straight.

For starters, we’re not evil. We’re just trying to help. It’s vile that those with ill-thought-out plans put it back on us when it doesn’t work out. How about stopping with the hoity-toity ideas about how to have a better life and suck up the one you have.

Three hundred years ago, black pointy hats and black cloaks were spell-binding, mischievous and otherworldly. Quite the fashion statement. Then along came that bewitching, cleavagey LBD. Argh. We’re trying to update our look. Just waiting for Stella McCartney to get in touch.

About the cauldron. It was Thanksgiving, we’d invited over the whole family, all the neighbors, and while possibly ill-considered, the puritans too. After all, Thanksgiving is a time to embrace heated disagreements and push people’s buttons. Anyway, everyone wanted soup. We could have gone the many-small-pots route, but the cauldron was cheaper and came with a smores kit.

The green face and warts were a downright fiasco, even though the avocado cream came highly recommended. Never trust a movie director. When we realized it made us ugly, we dumped the remaining jars, which we’ll note were discontinued after our complaints. Committed as we are to being the Fairest Of Them All, we’re looking into a new Cheetos-based cream that an infamous bighead swears by. 

Once, but just the once, we imprisoned a little boy in a gingerbread house and fattened him up with the intention of eating him. That was wrong. We’ve since all signed up to Skip the Dishes so that will never happen again.

Not a single one of us has ever been in a relationship with Satan. Sure, he’s a total flirt, fiery when he whispers sweet-nothings and has piercing black eyes. But he doesn’t clean, rarely showers and tends to bring everlasting hell with him. Plus, his horns have been known to rip the bedsheets. We’d rather be single.

Do we sometimes gather in small groups of thirteen? Absolutely. Salem is a small town, a village even, and aside from vigorous dancing, not too much else goes on here. We meet up to talk about the latest cosmetics, exchange caldron soup recipes and gossip about Satan’s one-night stands. We don’t micro-manage the exact number of our friends, and nor should you.

Some – okay all of us – own black cats. When you live alone, it’s inevitable you’ll want a roommate. For us, the main quality of a good roommate is not giving a damn, followed by cleans own food bowl and cleans self. That they are all black is merely coincidence. Or maybe they’re related. We’ve mentioned Salem is small.

Finally, riding brooms. We’re not going to lie: when you’ve been single for a few centuries, it happens. 

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