After the house landed, the Munchkins threw a party. That’s the universe’s way of saying, “one person’s tragedy is another’s halftime show.” I’ve seen that at potlucks—someone burns the beans, and suddenly it’s a whole saga.
But the witch under the house is never truly gone. She lives on in every lost sock, every stuck drawer, every email you meant to delete. Remember: she’s not the monster; she’s the symptom of a world that’s just a little too magical for its own good.
In the end, we’re all just trying to avoid the bucket of water—or the boss who throws a tantrum. Keep your head down, watch out for flying houses, and for goodness’ sake, don’t argue with the green lady.
And if you ever find a pair of ruby slippers in your attic? Just wear them. They’ll probably get you home before the Wi-Fi goes out again.
