Fucking Day: Silvers Spells for Love

Wow, I’m pissed already! Silver’s stronger than ever.

Dope cover: if dating doesn’t work out, we can fuck ghosts. Though the earlier prints have their charm:

A master wields clip art as easily as their Yankee Candle membership. After Silver’s guide to money, I hope no one got paid for Cupid’s MS paint arrow. Credit restoration sonnets only go so far.

After solving murder and poverty, Silver turned to romance. Silver’s Spells for Love ends the anxiety magick cycle, and our journey up the hierarchy of needs. I guess Silver’s Spells for Meaning sounded a bit dry, so love’s our capstone. For our records, I think meaning magick would look something like this:

We’ve learned a lot with Silver. Why mugging’s our fault, and can be avoided by chanting in new places. Why poverty’s our fault, and how to keep it. Don’t extrapolate that to love. My numbers go to shit when you catch the game early, and I have coffee dates to fund. They’re like normal dates, with work stimulants to keep things chill. Silver can help all of us get more coffee herpes. Dates. Coffee dates.

Just in time—management wants more bodies.

I know, you grew up hearing we’re overfucked. That Yahweh, a notably moody wytch, fills open legs with locusts. Times and regimes change. The average human’s getting darker, and Super Earth citizens must fuck back the tide. Meet our armorer in the Breeding Wars:

Sorry, same shit again. She does that a bit.

Some wytch-controversy hovers around Silver. She emerged when the Satanic panic got embarrassing, and made it into bookstores before more fashionable mages. Some appreciate her making black candles marketable. Others hate her marketing black candles. Because magick’s important and real, this distinction’s vital. Battle on. I suspect there’s an “I always thought Metallica sucked” effect in play, but I can’t even fly yet. Ask someone over Level 6.

On to her theory of love:

Fair play so far. As an internet clown, 4chan escapee, and writing professor, I’ve read more incel manifestos than the FBI. Think Jane Goodall for mass shooters. If there’s one lesson, fixating on romance is like a mercury cleanse. Love’s complicated, and the sooner you ditch easy answers from vapid charlatans, the sooner Silver can teach you love magick.

A watershed moment in glurge history.

I can’t describe my relief. After Silver’s advice on court, muggers, and medical debt, she’s only fucking up my love life. Abundance and protection are back in my world. Sad to see sex go, but there’s always hot ghosts. Or building an army of nazis. Is it easier to reach the dead or lonely nazis? I’ll keep you posted.

While I fear her aid, I don’t doubt Silver’s powers. If magick were real, which it is, you wouldn’t want half the idiots you know chanting for you. Imagine that friend offering to voodoo some spice into your life. You know the one. Whatever slithered out the void would have three heads and six maws, all trauma-dumping in unison. A blind date probably inspired the Inquisition.

Silver’s got a bit more confidence.

Love arcana requires purring. I don’t make the True Blood fanfics, I just bring them your way. Since I mostly date romantasy archivists anyway (they’re drawn to my warm nature and stable lifestyle), I expected ivory toys. Just less wholesome use.

The MMO sexting style makes this legit. For many drawn to spirits spooning wizards, it evokes first love. Laugh all you want, but once you’ve survived Arthas and sleep deprivation together, nightly, for three months, to unlock an obsolete sword neither of you can use, things happen. Virtual bodies meet, and real hearts heal. I still love you, KawaiiBlayde82. My therapist says you might be a Blood Elf my age in real life too.

What do I need to win her back? I’ll do anything but crafts.

Boring. Spirit is just Jesus in a pointy hat, and I dropped logic nine spellbooks ago. Hit me with the crafts. My magick protraktor and ba’ndsaw are ready.

Nice and flexible. If you’ve typed “sapiosexual” without irony, aim at your favorite anime studio. If you want a sponsor for your WytchTok channel, aim north and block the bank’s calls. And if you skipped ahead to cursing your ex, aim south or west. Your friends are worried about you, but Silver isn’t.

Several pages on circles and the moon follow. Ready? Draw a circle, when the moon’s a circle. You’re welcome. Remember me when you’re dating Dr. Strange.

You know why I’m here. It’s incantation time. If I had less pride, I’d just paste laughing emoji under Rupi Kaur misquotes. Instead, I add fun graphics.

Perfect, down to me writing the poem. Silver mixes every wytch habit in one candle. And adds fresh ones, like jerking off candles in the most platonic spell present. Do I tell said friend that I’ve pleasured their clip-art candle, or do they see it and know?

Handy. As in useful, not a candlejob. Like any Brooklyn singleton, I have amethysts that I neither purchased, requested, nor wanted. And like any black writer, I have five years of unanswered hate mail from a Texan convinced I stole his destiny. They’re getting better, he should just staple it all together and look for an agent.

Ideal tutors are rare. With Silver, I’m closer to completing The Moronicon: a condensed guide to magick by dumbshits, for dumbshits. That’s a working title.

Don’t worry, you can still kill me before I finish. For now, here’s a nice trick for the next Depression.

Hey, scam magick! More of an Abundance entry, but better late than never. While Silver and I love this for different reasons, a win’s a win. You can ask if this century-old story about an unnamed relative in a fuck-spellbook happened, or enjoy a koan on belief.

Now, I can’t prove that Silver panicked after leaving job interviews out of Silver’s Spells for Abundance and shoehorned it into the fuck-spellbook. But I’m fine saying it, as a clown with nothing to lose. I love jokes more than the sandwich in my bank account. I might even burn it trying this.

“Hey D-day. Like any patriot, I like money more than anyone in my life, and use friends as lookouts for more money. But what about that love stuff from the cover? You know, the handsy ghost? I bet I could make a buck off that.”

I’ve got you. Per Silver, the most important step of stacking love is listening. The second’s summoning love from space.

Aight.

Well, Silver probably meant relationships.

Wait, this is magick. I should be honest.

Probably need a full moon to fix that. Jot down that stalker-erasing spell too, I guess it didn’t make Silver’s Spells for Protection.

Good thing I built a stone altar to Aphrodite, goddess of DPS, to hold a reverse Swear Jar. I can’t tell if Silver’s Earth’s strongest mage or weakest therapist. Not to let my Princeton out, but “sharing the limelight” kneecaps the whole self-esteem angle. It’s my limelight. Get your own, Yalie.

Odd first result for “quickee.” Unlike the piss-bombers in How to Be a Sensuous Witch, Silver’s too vanilla for this premise. Even when she gets around to sex, the tone’s very “saucy sitcom aunt.”

Her husband’s favorite! Pavlov tells me pairing any smell with “time to fuck” works. Lob tear gas into the bedroom each time, and he’d learn to love it in two weeks. It works for other senses too. Try dating someone that likes Sousa marches to unlock the funniest kink in the world.

Let’s address “throbbing delight.” If those words belong together anywhere, which they don’t, it’s fuck magick incantations. I respect the lyrical ambition, which swiftly dies. Here’s a boner spell rhyming “be” with “me.”

“The allspice hints that it’s going down. We’re the palest coven in the South, neither of us cook with it. I’d probably go into shock. But my dick knows it well.”

Throbbing is Silver’s favorite sexual vocab, unless you count “passion” or “mote.” If you want to imagine your parents fucking in Camelot, here’s your word bank. In fact, sit with that vision. Soak it in. Your father, passive-aggressively hucking half the fridge into an Elder Scrolls alchemy kit. Your mother, rapping like feudal Cardi B. Nine months later, you emerge into the bright, loud, stupid world. If that joke seemed gross, it’s your Puritan sensibilities.

There’s aces in here for job hunters and bored couples. If you’re single, don’t fret. You can imagine sex.

Some of Silver’s more clever outreach: we’ve all been wytches. At least, everyone with ten free minutes in their teens. Unless you were Baptist. Then you were a wytch and a liar.

This helps someone imaginative enough to believe in magick (which is real), but too dull for a wet dream. Ironically, I can’t see it. Despite all my bully training, I can’t find this strawman’s button eyes. Luckily, Silver keeps hers on the prize: avoiding emotional affairs with your imagination.

What about the cover ghost’s feelings? They’re a dream lover, not a dream prostitute. You’ve learned nothing from karaoke night. Why conjure life to make it sing “Self-Esteem?” Ask their stance on O.P.P. before throwing them in the deep water. A spooky cover of “Just a Friend” is funny the first time, but eventually it’s kitschy and sad. Kind of like “Just a Friend.”

Eventually, you’ll have to repair your relationship with your flesh-and-blood partner. This time, Silver suggest sleepless nights:

The setup and shopping list for destroying a Marriott. Books can’t teach you this spell. You learn it the first time you like someone’s face more than their brain. Selling spring break as a spell is a little scammy, but I’ll overlook it for preserving Atlantic City’s finest tradition.

“You smell like a posh hobo. I can’t tell if you live in a boxcar or Bushwick, but I know there’s no mattress. Where, exactly, did you plan to fuck? The astral plane? Because it reeks up there. The entire dimension smells like Bernie Thot’s Every-Flavor Condoms and psy-lube. No thanks.”

Silver worries I’ll burn down my house, which stings. Though I’m surprised by all the non-vodka ingredients, so maybe she’s onto something. The Tom Cat Potion slyly formalizes the undergrad strategy of “get plastered and pray.” Nostalgic, I think. The memory’s fuzzy.

With these rites, the spouse you started with should be amused. At worst, annoyed and confused by their new allspice kink. For single warlokks, they’re all you need to start and ruin a relationship. Or make a new enemy. Depending on your DSM-5 status, that ex may be your new definition of evil.

Silver’s ready for that. There’s a whole chapter for that. And you bet the piss is back.

Ten days? Maybe we can work it out. I don’t have two digits of piss-hate for anyone I’ve shared a couch with. And why waste the graphite? I’ve got a fancy mechanical pencil from Tokyo, and I think it’d self-destruct.

This chapter’s full of spells for getting rid of someone without talking to them, summoning cops, or leaving yourself. The slyest strategy of all: none. For example, getting rid of an evil-aligned partner with spices:

Elite nothing. No Nancy Sinatra pun beats borrowing money, starting a couple’s TikTok, or hiding the allspice. The sexual hara-kiri playbook isn’t short or obscure. I have the social skills of a historical fiction author, and can do better.

You can see where Silver clashes with the hex first, ask nothing later meta. Since said partner is ontologically evil, Silver could break out the dolls and weaponized piss. But the world and/or sales need peace and love.

Then we get into divorce. Here, my duties as a human, clown, and warlokk conflict. I can dwell on the crimes that might make invisible divorce magick appealing, mock Silver’s cartoon pitch, or ask where the lightning spells are hiding. I suspect you can find tragedy elsewhere, so let’s take a look at Summon Alimony.

Life’s hard enough. Why add magick to blaming yourself? Is your candle collection responsible for your husband dabbling in crack? Or involved? Indulge your inner skeptic in family court. Hera will forgive you. You should’ve had a lawyer nine days of piss ago.

Our first courtroom hoodoo (today):

“Yeah man, it had damiana and verbena. Not a hint of allspice. It’s over.”

Silver’s dumped the lawyer that screened the first three chapters. For other Yankees: you can only get a covenant marriage in Louisiana, Arkansas, Arizona, and Bethlehem II. While Bethlehem II’s pretty sane about it, the other three make divorce harder than chewing off your arm. A shame, since the best sign of needing a divorce is having a covenant marriage.

The next legal folk remedy:

“I know, she’s burying lich stuff in our yard again. Let it ride, she’s leaving that cop for a nice ghost, and we all need a little grace to get by.”

Building over battlefields and graveyards is old news. How many of us live on divorce landfills? Your colonial home might be soaking up generations of broken dreams and “political differences.” Dip into those protection spells when you get a chance, unless you already have an attorney’s card.

Spin the glass on your nose. Catch it with your bare feet. Kick the glass in the air. Catch it in a butterfly net. Take the glass on an emotional journey to find its family, and ultimately, itself. Part ways with the glass. Run back. Tell it you love it, and you finally have the confidence to call a lawyer. Call a lawyer.

More proof wytchcraft works: they have grenades.Less lethal for targets or users than flashbangs, but Silver believes in restraint. Members of the Sensuous subclass can add piss for advantage on the attack roll.

I wish the nazi fad hadn’t killed “based.” I need a word blunter than “quixotic” for the equally idiotic and admirable. Honorable? Heroic? Fuck it, let’s re-reclaim it. Based.

With family court down, Silver rides into the sunset.

By God. No one stop her, I need to see where this goes. Is she a vampire? Is Nick Fury here with a job offer? Have I been Silver all along?

A moment: I’m relearning to breathe. My default’s asking “What’s fucking happening?” and “Are you snorting love?” Yet my spiritual plan demands honesty. I know what’s happening, I’m certain Silver’s snorting love, and I’m laughing in a Burger King. And I don’t dig Burger King. It’s the best argument for veganism without a talking spider. Silver’s jackknife turns into 1-player D&D just spark that much joy. I wish every self-help book did this. I’d probably be fixed by now.

Oh thank god, bailing’s brave. Bravery’s good! I aspire to bravery. That’s why no one catches The Flash. While Silver’s iffy for finding love, I can keep enjoying the whole couch.

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