Nombre: Inocencia Locura
Edad:12(No es mi verdadera edad yo sólo quería que quedara infantil :v)
Especie:Bruja(Es una brujita -3-)
Carácter: Divertida,amistosa, desordenada,despreocupada y no presta atención
1-Si se lleva bien con Black Hat y los demás
2-Dibuja en las paredes (solo en las de su habitación)
3-Son 2 niñas en un solo cuerpo que comparten a la mitad
4-Nacieron por medió de un hechizo fallido al una bruja tratar de dividir una manzana (raro no?)
5-Puede hacer magia sin necesidad de una varita
6-Le gusta romper cosas con su hacha
7-Puede dividirse (solo por 20 minutos)
8-Nunca juegues a las escondidas con ella (la razón esta censurada,no piensen mal es por su mitad asesina)
9-Una de sus mitades se llama Inocencia y la otra Locura
This spell comes from the idea of “sweet talking” in order to achieve a goal. It works a lot like a honey jar which I have a post about if you’re interested in the history/how to make them. The sugar and honey act to “sweeten” your speech convincing the candle/spirit to work for you.
For this spell you will need:
1) Honey (or any other liquid sweetener ex. agave, syrup, molasses, etc)
3) Something to mix with
4) A bowl or cup
5) Candle of your choice
What you’re going to do is mix the honey and sugar until it makes a paste. It should be pretty thick and not too runny. Then, using a candle you have already put your intention into your going to smear some of the honey onto it. Be careful not to overcoat it as this can cause fires/uneven burning. With the rest of the honey you’re going to put it on your tongue (DO NOT SWALLOW YET) and “sweet talk” the candle. Tell it what you want it to do, when it will be done and how. After you have said everything you wanted to say light the candle and swallow the honey mixture.
This spell can be used for money, love, or anything else really. I have had amazing results using this for money and have noticed this spell always works fast when I’m in a hurry.
Additional ingredients can be added of course, for example when using this spell for money I usually use cinnamon (powdered) and bank dirt (I have a post on this!) Happy casting!
November 14th. In the coffee shop, the man in the Make America Great Again hat smiles at me, so I take this as an invitation.
“Pardon me, but I have to ask— do you think Trump’s ideologies keep every person in this country safe?“
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Ma’am, I can’t get wrapped up in identity politics, all I can worry about is how I’m going to feed my girls.”
At my 40th birthday party, an acquaintance asks why we have “so much Mexican art in the house.”
“It might be because I’m Mexican,” I say.
“No,” he laughs, “you’re not Mexican.”
“Yes. I am.”
“No,” he continues, reassuringly, “and if you are, you’re only, maybe, 17%.“
The winter air stiffens between us. An old, familiar pain.
There was a time when I would have thanked him.
The early years, when I wanted only to pass, to rid myself of my last name— the dead giveaway, its muddy lineage
crawl out from the burying shame that held me down every time my father picked me up from school in our shitty car, his bushy mustache & brown face magnified by the sun.
A local white woman posts a photo of her new tattoo: a Mayan god etched eternal on her flesh. When I point out the disrespect, she assures me she speaks Spanish fluently, spent three years in South America.
For the next six hours, I argue with her friends. They demand I quit being so divisive. Judgemental. Close-minded.
“We have a racist running for President, and you’re complaining about a tattoo?” asks the white boy, who spray paints murals all over this city with impunity.
O, to be permitted the luxury of only worrying about one thing at a time.
O, to be white in America, to wake up knowing every god is your god.
When you never see yourself, you search for yourself all the time.
You know the white girl in the sombrero isn’t you. The bro dude in Calavera makeup isn’t either, not the ponchos and glued on mustaches, not the lowrider Chevy in the Disney movie or the hoochie-coochie sex pot on the Emmy award-winning television show.
Maybe you are only this:
the scorched bird pulled from the chimney, covered in soot. Not the actual bird, its velvet sack of jigsaw’d bones, but the feeling of recognition.
The ash of knowing.
A white comedian tells this joke: “I used to date Hispanics, but now I prefer consensual.”
The audience laughs. And you do, too. Until the punchline hardens, translates into a stone in your throat.
You swallow it, like you always do.
You don’t change the channel, but you also can’t remember a single joke she tells after that.
A few months later, the comedian’s career blows up. She’s so real. So edgy. Such a hardcore feminist. When someone writes an essay on her old stand-up routines— noting her blindspot when it comes to race,
her response is:
“It is a joke and it is funny. I know that because people laugh at it.”
If two Mexicans are in a car, who is driving? A police officer.
How do you starve a Mexican? Put their food stamps in their work boots.
What’s the difference between a Mexican and an elevator? One can raise a child.
What do you call a Mexican baptism? Bean dip
How do you stop a Mexican from robbing your house? Put a help wanted sign in the window.
What do you call a Mexican driving a BMW? Grand theft auto
What do you call a Mexican without a lawnmower? Unemployed
What do you call a building full of Mexicans? Jail
How do you keep Mexicans from stealing? Put everything of value on the top shelf.
What do you call a bunch of Mexicans running downhill? A mudslide.
Why don’t Mexicans play Hide ’n Seek? No one will look for them.
What does a Mexican get for Christmas? Your TV.
What do you call the Arizona man shot to death by his white neighbor, screaming, “Go back to Mexico!” Juan Varela
November 29th. For weeks, I’ve avoided eye contact with strangers. My face is a closed curtain. My mouth, the most decorated knife. I pay for groceries, grab the receipt & let my half-hearted thank yous trail like smoke. I no longer want to see who refuses to see me.
Anyone is everyone.
December 1st. I keep waking up. There isn’t anyone white enough to stop me.
Pantomime the living until the body remembers: wicked bitch. Bloodwhirl. Patron Saint of the Grab Back.
Still. Still. Still. Still. Still. Still here.
I etch my own face upon my wicked flesh. I am my own devastating god.
I want to see more fat witches on mood boards. I want them in every color. Show me the witches, because searching “fat witch” “plus size witch” “body positive witch” yields too little. I know you’re here.
It’s okay to use the same three herbs in all your spells. It’s okay to have a simple altar. It’s okay to give the store brand as offerings. It’s okay to modify spells, chants, recipes to fit you and your practice. Being a witch doesn’t have to be expensive.
I came up w this idea the other day when I bought some cat nip. But basically it’s a sexy time tea
-½ Tbsp mint (I used a mint blend of peppermint and spearmint)
-1 tsp Catnip
-1 tsp lemongrass
Steep for three minutes or more. I put in some honey in the shape of a heart and stirred clockwise. No kidding, my husband tried to get frisky w me after drinking the tea. I even made a joke about with him after our kid barged in before anything could happen.