Goat Urine, it's a Satan thing!

I'm a smitten kitten on crack. And he's a Satanist. Thing is, I'm an Eclectic (mostly Discordian) Witch, so it doesn't really bother me. It doesn't quite jive with my personal spirituality (it's almost too Christian for me) but Spirituality is such a personal thing so I don't expect everything to jive. Plus, several of the things - like the spell work & the rituals - that drew him to Satanism are very similar to what drew me to witchcraft. I hope not to offend, but it cracks me up. Then I had this dream....

In this dream, I'm a total Bitch.
I'm at my friends' wedding and he's with me and I'm going around introducing him to everyone in this ridiculously high voice as my "Satanist Boyfriend!" He tells me to stop, but I just pinch him and keep doing it. Then we're out by Clark and Belmont, actually on Belmont. It's the weekend and the air's a bit brisk and the sidewalk is crowded. We're standing in front of the Dunkin Dounuts and I put a collar on him and attach a leash to it.
"What're you doing?" He asks, trying to take it off. But I've padlocked it. I put the key on a chain around my neck that I drop into my cleavage.
Grinning, I put my finger to his lips, "shut-up now. You will crawl behind me and every thirty seconds or so, you will shout 'Hail Satan' and howl."
"No I won't," he says, taking the cutest sulky stance of defiance with his back slumped and his arms crossed over his chest.
I look at him and see a gleam of delight in his eyes, so I say, "Yes you will. And every third time you will shout, 'Hail Eris', or you will cease to be my boyfriend." Then, I start walking forward, yanking the leash behind me.
"Hail Satan," he growls, getting down on all fours.

And I woke. And this fucked up dream made me all wet. Should I find that sexy? I wonder if he'd find that sexy.....

SATANIST BOYFRIEND!!!

Butterfly Box - origin

It’s no larger than the palm of my hand. The detail of the carving mesmerizes me. I’d been drawn to the cobolt blue of these tiny butterfly wings sitting on the dusty metal shelf in amongst all sorts of tattered curtains and ancient blenders and random nick-nackery. But the box is unmarred. And the detail...
“What could I use it for?” I think, snickering slightly at my pack ratting tendencies. (I was born in the year of the rat, after all.) My eyes roam the crowd of the cluttered thrift store. I can’t see any of my friends. Perhaps they’ve abandoned me. Or, more likely, they’re busy looking at clothes. I know I should be looking at clothes, especially pants since mine all look like they’ve been thrown onto a trigger-happy minefield, but I hate shopping - especially for clothes. It sucks my soul.
Forgetting I still have the box in my hand, I resolutely wade through the store and begin the impossible rummage through pants that will never fit me but I desperately need.

“What’s that?” Al asks, pulling back the pile of old man style pants to reveal the box resting in my palm.
The ka-ching! of the cashregister startles me as we move with the line. I flinch and snicker. “It’s this box I found. I ment to put it back but...”
“But,” Al grins coquettishly, her lake water eyes fluttering, “you want to get it for me.”
Flipping it discreetly in my hand, I cunningly peak at the price tag and see that it’s only a buck. “Sure sweetcakes. I’m getting it for you.” Al giggles as the line moves again, spilling us forward.