Super Secret Entry
::whispers:: I'm a witch.
Yeah. Right. Like anyone is going to believe me.
I'm not a witch like Wizard of Oz. My skin isn't green, and I don't wear those ridiculous striped socks. I don't even get the tiara and the glimmery hoopskirts of Good Witch Glelnda. And I'm not at all like Broom Hilda. Or the hag that feeds poisoned apples to Snow White. Or the trick-or-treat witch, with a wart on her nose, and a crazy black hat. Or even the glamorous suburban Samantha, twitching my nose and making magic happen.
I'm just me.
But "just me" has a stash of books in her basement. A box of crystals. An uncanny ability to read a spell out loud and make it come true.
There. I said it. I know that it sounds crazy - if the guys with the straitjackets ever read this, they're going to show up at the Peabridge and take me away, lock me in a cell where I'll never have to worry about making another latte again.
But, really, what am I worried about? I mean, this is just my journal. I can't imagine that anyone else is ever going to read these words. So what can it hurt to say it again: I AM A WITCH.
I wonder if that gets easier to say over time? Because it sure is scary, right now.