I thought casting love spells would bring me a man. Instead, it taught me an important lesson.
I stared into my own eyes of my reflection in the shiny rose quartz sitting on top of my phone. I needed to concentrate. The pink tea light next to me flickered back and forth, distracting me from my target.
I shook it out of my head and turned back to the quartz, beginning the chant I memorised from my spell book:
“Crystal power, reach out to Barry and tickle his ear. Give him this message. Call me. Call me. Call me within five minutes.”
I repeated the mantra in a whisper:
“Call me. Call me. Call me within five minutes. Call me. Call me. Call me within five minutes.”
After quietly concentrating on the quartz for another few minutes, I said the closing line: So mote it be. Then I turned away and let the candle burn out while I read a book on the couch.
I carved names into candles with a wish for a date hidden underneath; I burned shells full of spices and herbs to attract my soul mate; I even slept with a charm in my pillow, written in essential oil on parchment paper, attempting to have someone dream about me.
I probably would’ve written it in blood if I wasn’t afraid of poking myself with a needle. After first being obsessed with guys, I was secondly obsessed with love spells.
I’ll spoil the fun for you now: none of them worked. Well, not that I know of, at least. I did attempt to cast a love spell on a friend of mine, who ended up being into me maybe six years later but it never went further than a mutual attraction and appreciation.