Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Three Witches
I was catching up with two old friends after the big Beltane.
X was talking. Her husband this, her daughter that. Family, family, blah blah blah.
Gods, I thought, X has really turned into a family bore.
Then it was Y's turn. Her dog this, canine rescue that. Dogs, dogs, blah blah blah.
Gods, I thought, Y has really turned into a dog bore.
Then it was my turn. Grand Sabbat this, Robert Cochrane that. Witchcraft, witchcraft, blah blah blah.
Gods, I thought, I've really turned into a witchcraft bore.
I chuckled inside, pondering the mysterious ways of friendship.
If you can't be a bore among friends, then when?
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I can see this, I can hear it, it's like I'm there.