Coming out of the Broom Closet

Sorry for taking so long to post, my dearest readers (all six of you). I’ve been buried under essays. Literally. At one point they slid off the table and crushed me under nonsensical prepositional phrases and grand assertions. I’m back now, if a little bent, for a few weeks at least, and I am itching to write. I like to pretend that there’s someone out there who anticipates my new posts as much as I anticipate new books from David Sedaris. Yes, I am indeed delusional, which actually segways nicely into my point.

I am insane.

Ok, maybe not, but I am eccentric. I believe I have reached a level of education (certainly not wallet) that allows me to say that. Also, I believe my recent shenanigans really prove how very eccentric I am. For the one person who reads my blog that is not my facebook friend, let me catch you up to speed on current events in my life. Facebuddies, skip the next paragraph if you please.

I live in a little rental house that is absolutely charming and beautiful except for the fact that it apparently attracts trouble. Not only do I think it may be haunted by departed Americans, but I am certain that it is frequently haunted by junkies, robbers, and the occasional creeper. One of these creepers happens to be my neighbor, who, after I shut off the flow of personal charity to her, has been increasingly aggressive in her pitying attempts at eliciting my goodwill. You may find this harsh, but I’ve little sympathy for a woman who can tell me about the dog she just bought and ask for money for her children’s food in the same breath. Furthermore, her home is party to a series of increasingly shifty people.

So now that everyone is caught up, let me explain my home security. See, I’m not fond of guns, nor do I feel I should rely solely on the police for my protection. While I have protective devises and could probably use them if necessary, I feel that prevention is the best policy. In that spirit, I devised a simple plan.

No one messes with crazy.

See, as I am a woman who reads a lot of books, I am already surrounded in an aura of suspicion. If I lived in Puritan New England, I would already have a nifty hemp necklace, and, given my personality, I’d probably be shouting gobbledygook on my way up the gallows stairs. What I am trying to say in my circuitous way is that I am already very witch-like. I have a fondness for candles, an allergy to chemicals that means I have to use herbs for most medical/cleaning/beauty needs, and my laugh is frankly better described a as a cackle. After my neighbor peeped in my windows a few nights back, I decided it was time to give her something to gawk at.

I own several yards of brown velvet, which I’ve used as a hooded robe in Halloween’s past, so I wore it all day Sunday. I recited Shakespearean sonnets and bits and pieces of creepy sounding poems, walking around my house with burning sage. Once that was done, I traced symbols into the front yard and sprinkled salt at all the entrances. When the neighbor asked what I was doing, I laughed and whispered, “I’m tired of people bothering me and my things, so I’m cursing the home.”


“Yes, cursing it. If anyone enters the yard with malice or mischief in his or her heart, bad things will happen.” I leaned in conspiratorially and then spit near her foot. She ran to her house, and I hasn’t been in my yard since.

Since this is a fun game, I’ve been keeping it going. Every night I step out onto my porch in my robe, carrying a lit candle. I look up at the moon or the streetlight, and I nod deeply. I watched her scamper wildly in her front yard when she noticed me sitting at my little table in front of the window, lit candles and tarot cards all around me. I walk around inside my house, cackling until my throat is raw. The best part is the entirely coincidental black cat that has started hanging out in our neighborhood and the power outage today.

The moral of this story witches and muggles, is that it is always better to be crazy than to let someone be a bully or a leach. Or possibly that I was always just one stressor away from being insane.

Same thing, really.


About charliegreenberry

I grew up in the wilds of New Mexico in a strange combination of free and restricted. Now, as I stumble unwillingly into adulthood, I find memories resurfacing. So I dust them off, sand them, slap on a coat of paint and display them with the hopes that at some point they'll make sense and pull the room together. The blog is a space for writing, for sharing, someday sharing without worrying about who is reading it, and a place to practice. Virginia Woolf said, "A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction." Well, here's to having a room at least.
This entry was posted in Books, cheating, fail, fashion, hippies, people, Pranks, quirk and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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