 To The Powers That Be:
On this Hollow’s Eve, I, Hagatha Darkwood, hereby resign from my position of Scary-Ass Witch in the Spooky Woods where I have spent three hundred years lurking behind lichen-covered tree trunks in the shadowy forest, luring children and stray dogs alike into my primitive cabin. Due to the recent allusions to my kind made by Donald Trump and Rudolf Giuliani, I have discovered I no longer wish to hold the title of “Witch” and hereby request to cease all connection to The Salem Witch Trials. For centuries, evoking the name of a witch conjured images of women with spidery fingers and wart-covered faces, wiry grey hair and cackling laughs. Beautiful, if you ask me! Alas, presently Donald Trump and Rudy Giuliani have associated themselves with this most beloved word, turning a once-respected title into nothing more than a way to gain pity from musket-toting rapscallions. When people think of witches, they no longer think of independent women with a vast knowledge of herbal medicine and a fondness for black cats; now, in our place is the carroty face of a foul-mouthed swine and his bald little friend. The innocents hanged at the Salem Witch Trials were just that: innocent. For decades after learning the this truth, when we thought of Salem and 1692 we envisioned a chaotic scene of false accusations and spectral delusions—bored teenagers and territorial adults spitefully lying about their dull neighbors. Now, when we think of the Salem Witch Trials we shall involuntarily envision two Beelzebub-possessed fools fumbling over their 50-word vocabulary, whining in their New York accents for mercy for which they do not deserve. Curses! They sully even the darkest moments of history! I can no longer allow myself to exist in the same category as these imbeciles! Especially since I was no innocent at the Witch Trials, and truly am a badass, powerful sorceress who’s got more talent in her long, green fingernail than those two turds have combined. Therefore, it is with a heavy, Satan-possessed heart that I offer my resignation for title of “Witch” as well as my association with the “Salem Witch Trials of 1692.” Any company that Donald Trump and Rudy Giuliani claim to be part of is no company of which I wish to be. And I’ve already spoken with Lucifer Himself. He says he doesn’t want them in any of the circles of Hell, either. Signed in blood, Hagatha Darkwood Ex-Witch
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 Gather round, children. Let me tell you a story.
There once was a young woman who hadn’t a care in the world. She was beautiful and smart, popular and wealthy. In her closet hung clothes of only designer labels, which fit her svelte-yet-curvaceous-in-all-the-right-places-body without needing a tailor to employ. Her home glimmered sparkling white, brand new and spacious, an open floor plan with all the latest Restoration Hardware furniture tinted the same dark wood. Nary a piece was handed down or used; hell would freeze over before a mismatched pillow or mug weaseled its way into her Country Living worthy home. Every item that lined the shelves and sat upon rustic benches fit her brand: all her pillows and blankets and dishes and candles were tinted the same faded blush. When it came to life goals, every goal she had she crushed without breaking a sweat. Every six months she was promoted without asking. Her megawatt smile earned her bonuses from bosses and adoration from colleagues. By thirty, all of her career dreams had come true, and she rose to the top of that blush-colored mountain with a proud smile. She climbed and she climbed, her path linear and absent of falling rocks and mudslides. Her positive attitude and penchant for platitudes inspired envy in the hearts of others. She never complained, just kept calm and carried on, sipping her coffee and stopping for Instagram-worthy photos on sunshiny days. Every few posts, a dark cloud emerged in the sky, which meant a perfect opportunity to wear her adorable new rain boots, her eager boyfriend snapping a photo of her splashing in the rain. #learntodanceintherain she’d caption for inspiration. Her life was perfect. She was happy—blessed—grateful. And every day was like this until she died. Now, children, wasn’t that the most boring fucking story you’ve ever heard?  It is seven o’clock in the morning on a Saturday and I am awake. The October sun bursts through the unveiled windows at an autumn angle. Its buttery light temporarily blinds me as I open my eyes. My bedroom is freezing. I have left the window open to counteract the blasting heat. I asked my incompetent roommate to turn the heat to sixty-eight degrees or lower at night; sometimes, I think she actually cranks up the heat, just to piss me off. That is the narrative I tell myself. I have often been told I make up stories in my head—that I project my own vengeance onto other people. No one is out to get you, Lucinda, my mother has often told me. But I think otherwise; I believe that at the core, everyone is out to get everyone else. We are selfish beings who are trying to survive. We all operate on one single objective: we want to get what we want. When things stand in our way of getting our way, we are angry and combative. Or, we become passive aggressive. And I am certain that she is passive aggressive. I am always certain of what people are thinking and feeling, because I am a witch.
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