I’m Sick of Warlocks Locksplaining Magic to Me
By: Dangerstorm Dangerstrome
Published in the Special April “Assholes” Edition 2016
Dark or Light, Seer or Healer, Sea or Earth, there’s one thing that unites all witches: being sick and tired of warlocks Locksplaining magic to us.
It always starts the same. Maybe you’re chilling in the park and calling the corners with your coven, but then some salmon-pants- wearing wannabe saunters up to you and your sisters to tell you you’re doing it wrong.
Or maybe you’re reading your Grimoire on the subway and some lenslessglasses-wearing, over-musked type of joke sidles over to ask what you’re reading and tell you his book of spells is more ancient and more powerful.
Or maybe you and your sisters are out for a brew after a successful evening of brews of a different nature (potions), and some polo-shirt and his schlubby sidekick step into your circle without permission and start telling you about the potions they brewed that day. They can barely believe it when you inform their woefully minute masculine minds that no, they can’t, as your coven has a strict ‘no douchebags’ policy.
Why should my coven have to ‘be polite’ and talk to you, or rather, listen as you talk at us, Locksplaining spells we’ve been practising for the past three centuries without your useless input. Ugh, and do you really think we haven’t heard the “you don’t look a day over 200” line before? We have. It’s almost as old as us. And we don’t need you to tell us we look great, we’ve all got mirrors for that.
And don’t even get me started on attempts at negging us into spending any more than an already painful moment in your shitty presence as we pass by. So you saw me duck into an alley and change my hair colour real quick, and have the gall to say “That pigment alteration spell was cool, but you’d look better as a redhead.” Or maybe you noticed me having a conversation with a stray cat, but rather than say hi to me and the cat like any normal wizard would do, you just had to make it about you and tell me “That’s a cute trick, but I can talk to rodents and amphibians too, maybe I’ll teach you one day if you take me for coffee.” It’s like, excuse me? I can talk to all of Noah’s Ark, bitch!
Who died via dark magic and made you, a warlock who just barely completed a simple rejuvenation ritual last week, President and Secretary General of World Witches United. What’s that? No one, and not just because that doesn’t exist (officially)?
What makes you think we want your advice, anyway? If I wanted tips on how to maintain my otherworldly beauty, wand-sharp wit, and the almost burdensome tome of knowledge that is my very mind, from a man, I’d Ask Zandar. Oh wait, I wouldn’t, because that board game is weird and difficult to find in 2016!
“It’s not fair!” They’ll say. “It’s not nice!” They’ll say. “Feminist witches are inherently misandrous!” They’ll say.
“We don’t give a fuck about your manpain!” We’ll say, and watch them bluster and brag and belittle and beg until they finally depart, as we cackle joyously (modern witches have reclaimed the cackle) and continue to have the best night, because we fucking rule.
