First of all, this isn’t a pagan bashing article. If that’s what you’re looking for, you can see yourself to the virtual door. May your quest lead to an accidental encounter at the adult toy factory (story yet-to-be written).

I’ve spent a large chunk of my life within and around the pagan community from my military days and into my adult career. It was a secret, for the most part, because that’s how pre-social media paganism was back in the day. It wasn’t about attention or revenge or causing fear to the normals. It was about fellowship and your personal relationship to the planet. Modern Tik-Tok Wicca is why I won’t. I can’t.

Let’s be fair; the year 2025 isn’t looking too good for anyone who worships anything other than the Christian god anyway. It’s getting scary out there folks, and you should be keeping a copy of 1984 atop your toilet tank. Read, re-read, and prepare.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not Christian bashing, I just think it has no business mixed with our government and NO ONE should be persecuted for how or who they worship. Keep church in church, and church shall be fine.

Because of social media, there are no locked doors; because of our societal narcicism, we can’t help ourselves. Myself included, but I’m trying.

At least I’m what some circles would call a professional writer. I’ve gotten paychecks for almost 20 years. That’s my excuse, and I’m sticking to it.

Anyway, back on track, I’m certain that every stomach ache and tumble I’ve had in my travels was due to an ex wife or girlfriend poking my Voodoo doll, and I know I deserved it. The best example would be stepping off an old friend’s porch at my wedding to get the festivities underway.

In the distance, a tiny dot caught my eye on the flawless, August blue sky. It approached in slow motion as though life had slipped into The Matrix – we have, but that’s another story – and I was in severe need of some bullet-dodging training. Nature was about to snipe me.

I could tell it was a red wasp long before it stung me. For the sake of not looking like a middle-aged wimp who’d been softened by city life, I stood my ground. I was stupid.

Of all the spacious alternatives to its flight plan, it never faltered, and I spent my wedding vows with wasp venom coursing through my veins. It was bad enough that I was in a dark suit outdoors at sunset on the final day of an August North Texas summer. You don’t have to be a mathematician to know when to send anniversary gifts (wink).

I’m not a billionaire politician, and I’ve done nothing of that magnitude to piss off the planet. That shit was intentional. Preach truths, toke jokes, and shoplift Amazon.

Scorned country girls are crafty. Just now, before hitting “publish”, a tiny fruit fly landed atop my wrist; right where my tendinitis aches the most after guitar sessions. Instinctively, I swatted it.

Hello, personal history. I see you’ve found me.