“It’s just a little Salem magic before the big reveal.”

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🧙‍♀️ The Chaos Coven Chronicles

The plot makes no sense, and that’s exactly why I love it. Hocus Pocus is chaos bottled and blessed by accident—a spell miscast that somehow stood the test of thirty Halloweens. It’s part slapstick comedy, part feminist allegory, and part love letter to every 90s kid who lived for pumpkin nights and VHS rewinds.

The Sanderson Sisters are theater kids turned necromancers. Loud, dramatic, and delightfully unhinged. But behind the sequins and shrieks, they’re deeply human. Winifred fears obsolescence the way modern women fear the algorithm. Sarah weaponizes charm in a world that punishes desire. Mary clings to her sisters because loyalty is the only safety she’s ever known.

It’s camp, yes—but it’s also commentary. Hocus Pocus endures because it understands the female condition: the hunger to be seen, to matter, to last. These witches don’t crave eternal youth—they crave relevance. That’s a curse most of us can relate to.

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🧵 Loose Threads & Perfect Imperfections

If you watch Hocus Pocus looking for logic, you’ll lose the magic. The plot is stitched together with threadbare logic and wild imagination—like a thrift-store costume that somehow fits perfectly. Why didn’t Thackery Binx ever leave a note? How did the witches learn to drive? And why, in the name of all things spooky, does a virgin lighting a candle cause this much chaos?

Because the story doesn’t care about coherence—it cares about energy. It hums with the same reckless charm as the witches themselves. Every plot hole is a wink, every inconsistency a reminder that cinema doesn’t need to make sense to make feeling.

Hocus Pocus isn’t a flawless film—it’s a lived-in one. The kind that reminds us that art, like life, gets better with wrinkles and weirdness.

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🕯️ What the Witches Taught Me

Every October, I light my metaphorical black flame candle and think about resurrection. Not of the dead, but of the self.

I think of all the women I know who’ve rebuilt from ash—mothers, artists, survivors, dreamers. The ones who’ve been dismissed, burned out, or burned down, and still managed to rise again in a puff of glitter and sarcasm.

That’s the heart of Hocus Pocus. The witches lose the battle, but they win the war. They are remembered. Their story is told and retold. That’s legacy. That’s power.

The Sanderson Sisters remind me that we don’t have to live forever—we just have to live loud enough that no one forgets we were here.

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🎬 The Movie Monday Magic

Every great cult classic has one ingredient that can’t be replicated: sincerity. Hocus Pocus never winks too hard at itself. It plays with abandon, as if unaware of how iconic it will become. That’s why it feels like a time capsule cracked open every October.

It’s the kind of movie that doesn’t just entertain—it haunts gently. Reminds you that imperfection can be sacred, that laughter can be a form of survival, and that sisterhood, in all its messy forms, might be the strongest spell of all.

So yes, it’s absurd. It’s camp. It’s chaos.
But it’s also—unapologetically—magic.