Thirsty Thursday: I’m a Witch, You’re a Witch

witch

Hey y’all and welcome back to Thirsty Thursday. I’m going to attempt to keep things on the briefer side since I took you from Neptune to your dad’s fucking gooch last week with my single white female story. I hope everyone had a nice Easter holiday. My family doesn’t even really celebrate it secularly anymore because we’re angsty, lower-middle class white people that distrust joy and leaving the house. I mean, what are we supposed to do, attend a nice mimosa brunch? That’s way too dangerous. Someone might actually crack a smile.

Anyways, I had a flash back to one Easter Sunday that I spent doing some type of Wiccan spell to make my stomach ache go away. He is risen, indeed! Fourteen is a hell of an age. I think I might have mentioned this before, but basically I was Wiccan for about six months until I became Red Emma and believed religion was the opiate of the masses. Yes, even neo-paganism. Fifteen is a hell of an age. Man, the kids in school used to make fun of me so bad for being a fairy fuck. I think someone made up a rumor that I masturbated with a crucifix, which was kind of embarrassing at the time but now it just hits me in the giggle dick. But apparently being a witch isn’t anything to be ashamed of anymore. In fact, it’s right on trend. You’ve got Urban Outfitters selling pentacle-covered crap and I’m a little bit salty about it. I mean, I don’t want to make myself seem like the OG witch bitch or anything. I’m pretty sure they were turned into kabobs centuries ago. But fuck, I’ve got to keep up with my pattern of being old and disgruntled somehow.

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Editor’s note – i have this shirt…  uh..  yea.

So what thrusted witchhood into the mainstream spotlight? Honestly, I’m a little bit stumped on this one, and I’m curious to hear your thoughts. The best thing I can come up with is that it’s aesthetically in-step with the whole 90’s sad girl thing. I guess if there’s a plus side to visually-based trends it’s their greater accessibility. I mean shit, it’s the reason I’ve got one cute ass diamond crescent moon/purple opal in my belly button as we speak. Thanks, Hot Topic. But maybe the witch fixation also runs a little bit deeper. Take for, instance, the cult fandom of The Craft (1996). I’ve actually never seen it all the way through, but the scene where the ladies are changing the traffic lights with their minds to speed through the streets quicker has always stayed with me. One big room, full of bad bitches. But I thought it might be fun to share some (somewhat?) lesser-known witch gems that have me feeling some type of way. So without further ado, here’s some bitchcraft (share this article on the Facebooks or Titter if you want me to dish on my encounters with Dahvie Vanity. Spoiler alert – he’s terrible):

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editor’s note – i have this too….

Oh, girl. This was my shit as a child. Don’t ask me where I got it. It just sort of appeared. The first twenty pages or so are missing. But I still adore it. Some of these stories are creepy as fuck, too. Sadly, they don’t seem to make children’s horror fiction like this anymore. Has anyone seen what they’ve done to Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark? An utter travesty. Personally, I think school shootings and college debt are a lot more scarring than the series’ original art, but what do I know. While this one certainly perpetuates a lot of Judeo-Christian witch stereotypes, I think it did a lot to pique my interest in horror. So if you have a little one running around, be sure to get ’em while they’re young. Go apeshit. Show them Human Centipede. Show them the sequel. In the words of Jenelle Evans’ chest tat, “yolo.”

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I thoroughly enjoyed this film. I thoroughly enjoy all of the Rob Zombie movies. I thoroughly enjoy Rob Zombie. I would let him fuck me like that stripper in Halloween II and I don’t care who knows. In fact, I think the world needs to know. I never realized how hot he is until one of my Facebook gal pals pointed it out and it changed my life, and I hope I just changed yours too. And there’s just something about his goddamn vision. I still remember watching his Halloween movies over and over again when I had mono in my youth from kissing too many senior boys and being utterly transfixed and inspired. He’s like stepping into those pretty 70’s doom-stoner lady art pictures, but with a hint of unease that pulls right at your adrenaline. I really appreciated the concept of The Lords of Salem, as well. I don’t want to spoil too much if you haven’t already seen it, but let’s just say the last fifteen minutes or so are an actual mindfuck. Be prepared to take yourself back in time and suddenly fast forwarded into a future dimension that we can’t even begin to conceive.

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Yeah, these were my prized my possessions freshman year. I acquired the books from a fellow member of my high school’s gay-straight alliance. She had a pixie cut and wore peasant skirts and I’m pretty sure I never actually paid her for these like I was supposed to. Sorry, girl. 2009 was some tough times. Even though I know in my heart that none of this stuff is super real, it’s cool to think that there was a time when nature prevailed. If someone held a gun to my head and made me practice some sort of something, I would go back to neo-paganism in a heartbeat. The sun shows me the way during the day, provides safety as it saturates my skin, and is responsible for growing all of my delicious bananas, berries, and shrooms. The moon shows me the way during the night, tugs at the tides that move my inner mermaid, and is the only sky daddy I’d ever accept. Fuck, eat, drink, work, and harm none.

One common thread throughout all of these faves is women doing stuff. Sometimes we do stuff in groups. Like going to the bathroom together. That scares the shit out of people because, as Jenna Marbles points out, we’re probably in their deciding the future of your penis. But other times, just being a solitary practitioner of life is enough to set people off. There’s something about a lone woman that terrifies and intrigues. That’s one of the reasons why I chose to report on Horrorfest in a narrative-gonzo style. Countless times throughout my time in San Antonio I had random festival goers come up to me, wondering what my story was. A couple even asked me point blank what I was doing there by myself. I could never really come up with an answer aside from that I don’t need anybody.

Although I’m probably jinxing myself by disclosing this, there’s a somewhat maybe decent change that I may have the opportunity to move to Oregon before the year is out. The prospect of having a little hobble to myself buried within the realm of the still and sturdy evergreens practically moves me to tears. Maybe the neighborhood children will come by to ogle the East Coast cat lady. I wouldn’t mind, just as long as they leave a nice trail of breadcrumbs, preferably from a delicious naan. Who wouldn’t love that?

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I’m sorry that my column always concludes with me implying that I hate everyone and want to be left alone. If anyone is actually still reading this, you’re really rad. Email me at jennaDIAG@gmail.com and I’ll send bulk snacks to your house via Prime Pantry. One of my daddies actually did that once. He’s the drummer of an undisclosed Texas band. Not Vinnie Paul, though. Oh god, not Vinnie Paul. Four of those big cartons of Goldfish and a vibrator he did send. Batteries included. I only used the Goldfish, though. I gained ten pounds that summer. I’m just not really about the devices, you feel me?

When I think of sex toys, I think of that couple in their late twenties, early thirties. They go to Texas Roadhouse. She orders the Roadhouse Cosmo. He orders a lettuce bun on his hamburger so she doesn’t yell at him for breaking their Atkins diet. She gets tilapia with mango salsa. She doesn’t really want to order that deep down, but she orders it anyway. They complain to the manager that the food is taking too long to come out. The manager comps their drinks to make it up to them, but she still posts a Facebook status complaining about the service. It gets 12 likes. Two stars on Yelp. They get in their Chevy Malibu. They go home to their townhouse. They turn on their kitchen light, illuminating the third of Captain Morgan sitting on top of their cabinets. It serves as a reminder of their college days. They peaked during their five years at State. She stares longingly into the refrigerator, but then retreats to put on her yoga pants and Victoria’s Secret half-zip dog logo sweater. She joins him in the living room. They sit on their sectional under their Broncos blanket. He picks up the remote to the flat screen that was resting temptingly next to the Homegoods frame that reads BLESSED. It contains a photo from their engagement photo in that cornfield. She talks him into finally watching their latest Netflix movie. They’re subscribed to the DVD delivery option, bridging the gap between Millenials and Boomers. The movie, is Fifty Shades of Grey. She hopes to see some side penis. She is disappointed. He hopes to see a plot. He is disappointed. They watch, silently. The credits roll. Ellie Goulding sings. They act like everything is normal. She puts on an episode of Dance Moms on demand to try to cleanse the past hour and a half hour from their minds. They get in bed after their nightly ritual of removing and piling the accent pillows. Some are solids. Some have the sparkle thread. Some are chevron. But they all loosely color coordinate. They lay there, but they’re unable to rest because their minds are lost in their sexual insecurities. Is that what everyone else has been doing? Swinging from whips and chains while we were registering for wine glasses? The next day, she orders a butt plug on Amazon, and also some Pretzel Crisps from Prime Pantry. But not the buffalo flavor. White people are scared of buffalo. She opts for the lightly sea salted. The butt plug comes. “Well I’m not wearing it,” he says, his voice wavering. “Next you’ll have me doing yoga and eating that quinoa. I’m a man. Have a mentioned I’m a man? It’s Miller time.” So it goes in her butt. But the gold gem in it doesn’t make her feel like a star. They both wait for the ordeal to be over. She eagerly pulls it out. Neither of them know how to clean it. It rots in their bottom nightstand drawer, next to the personalized Bible his mother gave them as a wedding gift. Neither of them ever talk about it again. They go to Texas Roadhouse. She drowns her melancholy in the Roadhouse Nachos. They wait for death to take them.

I’m sorry. I’m hammered. I’m listening to Fetty Wap. The YouTube autoplay is about to change it to DJ Khaled. I’m afraid. Send help. And please send me your address. I’ll show you something you never seen before. You smart. You loyal. You grateful. I appreciate that. Go buy your mama a house. Go put money in your savings account. Go spend some money for no reason. Come back and ask for more. Baby, let the music take control.

Wait, hold on; say my name.

DJ Khaled.

That’s right

That’s right, baby

You remember that.

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