I need backup to make it to 2027. But my powers are too strong for flatscans, and other mages keep trying to sell me rocks. So I’m calling a lifeline: God.
Or rather, his secretaries.
Doreen Virtue helps you to talk to angels. Not pray, which every Christian does for free, intuitively, without middlemen. Doreen starts conversations, and they only cost $16.99.
That might not sound like my jam, given past oaths to give God the Job treatment. Forget that. Someone else said it. God’s always been my homeboy, from the plagues to the endless warfare. Angel Therapy can only make us closer.
Check out Doreen’s team:
Only archangels get name checks? If I was the fifth strongest angel, I’d be…oh. That’s how that went down, got it. See how much Doreen has to teach?
Anyway, even if you insist on untwisting my words, God and I are still buds. I said I want to talk. Like Kratos, I treasure dialogue. This isn’t a trap. The black Suburban down the street is full of masked pilgrims.
Besides, we go way back.
My photos look worse.
As for profits, Doreen’s saving you money. An hour of her time costs more than the couch you complain on. The therapy in the title isn’t abstract: Doreen has a normal master’s and unaccredited PhD in psychology, and purportedly practiced. She just prefers Jesus now.
But don’t take my word for it, or Doreen’s. Listen to the angels:
Stay calm. Alien forces drawn to fear can be nice. And grabbing weapons mid-introduction is always rude.
That’s inspired jacket copy. I’ll admit: this terrified me the first ten times I read it. After changing my locks and renting a Roman spear, I’m willing to give it a shot. Therapy demands trust. I’d die before trusting Biblically accurate angels, but the cover’s all Baroque cherubs.
I know it’s odd that we’re still on the cover, given my love of brevity. But Doreen’s power is even less bound by sanity than unsaved wizards. Note her co-author:
Inspiring. I didn’t have questions, but Doreen explains trading useless therapy for helping patients hear angels. As a child, she embraced healthy speculative friendships with the Seraphim. Then she grew into an empty, angel-less doctor and mother:
Tragic, really. Until she almost died. A long-jilted angel sends Doreen a warning, despite decades on read:
Sadly, therapy makes Doreen ignore the voice. Only a near-miss with a carjacker unlocks Doreen’s halo chakra:
The point: Doreen started hearing voices after trauma. Now those symptoms can be ours. Instead of hoarding God’s voice notes like a Pope, Doreen brought them directly to the people. Whether they thought they were in for angels or not.
I’ve tried therapy, for reasons that escape me, and beat it pretty quickly. If my counselor had started rambling about angels, I’d never have left. I’d be ten years into My Therapist’s Angels, every loud apostate’s favorite podcast. Material that pure transcends simple luck. It’s a gift from The Lord.
While Doreen’s angels returned around the age mental illness starts working overtime, I’m closer to an angel-whisperer than a therapist. I will note that “Doreen Virtue” makes “Silver Ravenwood” sound subtle. “Mary Heavengoer” must be in the House somewhere.
Channeling returns! With a new flavor: whereas Fox Taylor defined it as making shit up, Doreen means an angel told her. And while Fox was a delusional apostate, Doreen has 366k followers. Hopefully that clears everything up.
Though I prefer miracles that I don’t have to outline, draft, edit, submit, revise, and promote myself. Perhaps that’s why the angels haven’t chosen me. Yet.
Touche, Gabriel. Forget everything after “draft.”
How’s Doreen know these weren’t demons? If I were a demon (I’m not, I tried), Plans A through Y would be “imitate angel.” And you can’t always trust your human senses. Despite Doreen’s holy knowledge, my mortal body won’t stop laughing. It thinks Doreen sounds bugshit. Nuttier than a therapist telling patients first draft poems by Michael. No, wait: nuttier than the author of an unedited Christian spellbook. No, wait: nuttier than the co-author to over seven books with “The Angelic Realm.”
Then again, Demons would try to distract us with sexual tension.
Hmm. One second.
While I suspect Doreen prays with multiple windows playing, there’s potential here. For one, “Want to channel Abdiel, Defier of The Deceiver?” is already my new opening line. I’m a half-employed non-nazi, so it should land.
We’ll exploit Doreen’s untreated prophecies. Anything less would be malpractice. God might have trouble with his own children and career, but I’m sure he’s qualified to advise. Or even try helping.
Ready for cosmic behavioral therapy? Unlike heathen spells, angel therapy gets dictated to clerics. The Angelic Realm’s a bit more controlling than Hecate, and could give two shits about your candle collection. You can take their advice, or fuck off.
Still, what the Healing Messages lack in flexibility, they make up for in variety. Sessions start small, with fixing addiction.
Angels write like my students on the football team. While the Lions bring fewer wins home, they take D1 blows to the head. Mostly from the NYPD.
“Your God-substitute of addiction” is my favorite new phrase. The host skips stock lines about bootstraps: they get in the way of gentle shame.
Strong start. If this takes, the average fentanyl addict is two Hail Marys away from walking it off. More of them should get on that. Angelmancy might rule: it replaces all that hippie hand-wringing with insults.
Quite near.
The collective “we” stands out. It inspires raw terror rich in biblical authenticity. Opening night jitters are the last thing on my mind. The angels in my walls/windows/wallpaper/blood demand attention. We’ll need therapy for this therapy.
Forgiving readers might see a call for general confidence, or a broad sense that God is with you. No. Literal angels are on your shoulder at call time, and they’re ready to feed you lines. By mortal therapy standards, Doreen is out to Lent. Cuckoo for Creation Puffs. Insane in the refrain.
I’d pay extra for it.
Again, wonderful word choice. If any human said this, I’d never leave home again. Maybe Doreen’s really tapped a swarm intelligence with demands for lesser life. Yudowsky can finally, happily, shut the fuck up.
You heard heaven, sadsacks. Turn those dopamine receptors upside-down.
Are you cured yet? I’m new to light magick, so it may take time to kick in. I’ll try again tomorrow, in case fixing you needs a little extra chanting. Don’t worry, it’s on the house.
Now that’s dedication! I didn’t ask for it, and I truly don’t want it. But The Angelic Realm really puts in impressive hours.
Does Uriel watch?
Yeah, Uriel watches. His spirit’s rigid. Maybe we’re losing track of therapy here.
No help, got it. Spend our empty afternoons in the pews. The Angelic Realm saves job leads for friends and relatives. Instead of wailing about it, we should try grace.
I was wrong, that’s an immense overpromise. Is God love bombing us? Waiting for angels to sort out your next job is like waiting for angels to sort out your next insulin shot.
Handy, I’ll need some cantrips to defend my fort when the economy turns.
“The riot’s fine. Go away, Uncle Michael’s sneaking in a nap before the rapture.”
The angels botched this one. Half the clerics casting Crime want relief for a stabbing that’s unfolding or finished. The mugging is fait accompli, and Dor—The Angelic Host says the situation’s in hand. I’m glad Gabriel reached Doreen in time to say “lock your fucking doors,” but the news ticker crawls on.
Ah, so it’s mortals’ fault for thinking about stabbing. Heard. Nice of the angelic host to admit it, instead of oscillating between God’s unnamed plan and the price of free will. The law of attraction simply applies to bullets, like Magneto in reverse.
What kind of therapy is this? The Borg prose is one thing, but the base advice sucks. Does the angelic host have a certificate? Internship experience? Have they watched a therapist on mortal tv? “Stop thinking about that” is somewhere between leeches and a cheese-based food pyramid.
The heavenly host sounds like Delta. I’m writing from a city I don’t live, work, or play in, waiting for a new transfer and/or death. The angels’ position seems to unify people that have, in fact, wasted vast amounts of your time.
Fucking what? How can cosmic beings contain so much earthly nothing? How can mortal eyes read divine sloth? If angels can glass cities for kicks, they can get my train moving faster than tectonic drift. My job interview is real, while heaven remains an unconfirmed rumor from a known layabout.
At least Delta gave me a coupon when they dumped me in Alabama. For another Delta flight, to Doreen-knows-where. I think I like God better than Delta.
Never alone.
Jesus fucking Christ, Doreen. Wait, sorry. Upper fucking management, Angelic Realm. Do you want me to have two heart attacks? Or just spend my whole life in constant fear of MOTHERFUCKER. I should have known. The church loves sprinkling shame on fun derangements. Why would wytchcraft be different?
Time to snitch: the preface isn’t Doreen’s whole backstory. Instead of print Doreen’s half-truths, have web Doreen’s compulsive truths:
Doreen’s a reformed wytch, aside from all the magick. After years as a fun New Age hack, she graduated to born-again influencer in 2017. Unlocking new, tax-exempt income streams. Before studying The Craft, I’d compare some tendencies of congregations and circles here. Now, I know that my inbox attracts the energy I put out. Whether or not piss-jar curses work, the pictures ruin your day. And Christians shoot you.
I’m less interested in Doreen finding Jesus, and more transfixed by Doreen sprinting away from manifesting. She fled the coven like it was on fire. Likely one she set.
Like many late converts, Doreen has admirable zeal for purging herself. Becoming a daycaster. An Ur-wytch. A Log Tower Archmage. The greatest conversion oracle alive.
And she’s still doing the same shit. Take her advice on cranking up the voices in your head:
I could hear Doreen from space.
This means everything to me. I’ve written a bit about self-help, glanced at magick, and considered writing about Christians. Doreen Virtue’s a Jesus Wytch that disavows the word wytch. No one’s hated the word more without taking up bonfires.
I’ve found The One. My true mentor. The UnWytch.
Doreen would, of course, disagree. Instead of arguing in good faith, I’ll skim her crash-course on summoning angels yourself. E.g., melting votive candles and incense together.
We’re back to Doreen writing as Doreen, by the way. While Doreen’s a fundamentalist of The Angelic Realm, The Angelic Realm are fundamentalists of the empty inbox. We play around with art school games, and they show up if they feel like it.
Here’s Doreen’s first, non-magickal technique:
Familiar. Though wytches didn’t invent stenography or bullshitting, so we’ll give this a pass.
Two thousand percent wytch. Doreen couldn’t cast harder beneath a boulder.
And I appreciate the warning to never sleep unarmed again. I’m napping with all of Bayonetta’s guns from now on, including the heels.
My worst fucking subject. And thus, the heart of the enterprise. Doreen’s preaching from a floating broomstick, asking why the pews smell like sage. I hope she never learns.
Continuing is bullying. Good, since I dig bullying.
Beyond wytches in denial, oracle cards are great for keeping publishers alive after the board game boom. Every noun is a prompt for 70 cards that mean nothing and cost more than Doreen’s old medication.
Hmm. I seem to live in Ohio.
Doreen’s overlap with Fox Taylor could fill a book. And earn me a cherub-shaped nail bomb. My pendulum says to go for it anyway, but my hands drift towards comic self-harm.
One point Doreen—this one’s just prayer. Only worse, since the suggestion box is rigidly, firmly closed. You’ll take whatever Gabriel has in clearance, and thank him for it.
Wytches do this one a little less. Obvious, violent, public insanity can treat them poorly. “More weight” may be out of fashion, but the American Psychological Association will shred your certification in front of you.
Still, a medium will do this for three bucks in most public parks. If you’re as worried about angelic stalkers as I am, I’d delegate. I don’t want anyone stalking me but every company and government on Earth.
My powers have leaped forward, along with my mental health. All they needed to grow was a violently self-hating tutor. In time, the gospel paparazzi will catch Doreen at a Vegas tarot party, making the star charts and piss bombs of her people. Until then, we study at her feet.
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Good Satan and His Hot Witches, who you can totally trust as they whisper affirmations and commands into your ears. Burning this Burger King down really would help you get a job! It’s called being proactive.