Got a life problem no therapist should have to hear? Ask a candle.

Welcome to Ask a Candle, the worst advice column you never knew you needed. Each week, one of our judgmental little jars of wax and rage answers your burning questions with wisdom that’s somewhere between petty revenge and full moon lunacy.

Need help ghosting your ex? Plotting a workplace takedown? Cursing your roommate without ruining the vibe? There’s a candle for that. Enjoy!

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Dear Brains, Beauty, & Badassery,
My coworker keeps stealing my lunch from the breakroom fridge. I’ve left notes, but nothing works. What should I do?
- Hangry in Accounting

Dear Hangry,
Stop leaving notes. Start leaving scents. I suggest a lunch that marinates overnight in garlic, onions, and the unshakable stench of microwaved left-over salmon. Better yet, wrap a raw onion in foil and label it “Brownie”.  The nuclear option would be to just chuck the candle right at your co-workers face. Sure you will be fired, and possibly go to jail, but your cellmate will probably steal your lunch there too.

Real talk? Buy a cooler. Chain it to your desk. Trust no one.

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Dear Not Today Mansplainer,
My colleague keeps interrupting my ideas in meetings. How do I shut it down without getting in trouble?
- Fed Up in Marketing

Dear Fed Up,
Actually,  when he interrupts, calmly say, “Hold on, this is the part where I shine.” Reach into your computer bag and nonchalantly place me on the conference table while pretending to look for a pen. Then begin again with “Let me simplify this for you…”  The women in the room will find it hilarious and you can later explain to the men why it was so funny!

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Dear Meetings That Could Have Been An Email,
My boss schedules a 90-minute weekly meeting just to read the agenda out loud. Help.
- Slowly Losing It

Dear Slowly,
Pretend your Wi-Fi is “spotty,” turn off your camera, and light me up for emotional support. Then, halfway through, “accidentally” share your screen displaying a Google search for how to fake your own kidnapping. It’s a risky move, but so is listening to Greg from Accounting explain bullet point #7 for the third week in a row.

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Dear Bitches Against Bullshit,
My neighbor’s dog barks all night, and she ignores my complaints. What should I do?
- Sleepless in Seattle

Dear Sleepless,
You tried diplomacy. Time to go primal. Start barking back. Not half-hearted yips, we’re talking deep-chested, emotionally charged howls of generational rage. Bonus points if you do it wearing a robe and no expression. Just full eye contact with her security cam at 3:00 a.m. When words fail, go feral.

PS. While I'm not a candle, I am still a Malicious Misfit!

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Dear Calm the Fuck Down,
I’m trying to relax but anxiety hits me like a freight train every time I try to chill. How do I actually unwind?
- Stressed AF

Dear Stressed,
First, cancel everything. All of it. Work, social obligations, subscriptions, family…anxiety can’t find you if you vanish. Then build a pillow fort, crawl inside with a bottle of wine and a Costco-size bag of peanut M&Ms, and refuse to come out until Mercury leaves retrograde or someone brings you tacos. It’s best to hide from your problems.

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Dear Fuck Boy Repellent,
I’m two glasses of wine deep and considering texting my ex. Should I?
-Tipsy Texter

Dear Tipsy,
Bitch… can you read? The label says Fuck. Boy. Repellent. Not Fuckboy Invite Only.

But since you clearly need to learn the hard way, go ahead and text him something cryptic like “I had a dream about you…”
Then toss your phone in the bathtub, light me, and sit in the glow of your own terrible choices.

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Dear Chaos Witch,
My roommate steals my wine, hides my favorite mug, and still expects me to be chill. What’s the best magical comeback?
— Mugless & Mad

Dear Mugless,
Channel your witchy vibes. Light me and say three curse-like things under your breath, nothing too harsh, just enough to give them the vibe. Light me. Draw a salt circle around your mug shelf. Whisper three curse-adjacent phrases like “may your Amazon deliveries be delayed” and “may your socks always be damp.” Then, just sit back. I got you.

PS. Also there’s a hair from her brush in a mason jar under your bed, your mug shelf is now protected by spite and sea salt, and if she drinks your wine again… the walls will whisper. You’re welcome.

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Think your problem is too weird? Too chaotic? Too wildly specific? Perfect.
Send your life mess to [email protected] with “Dear Candle” in the subject line and let your favorite jar of flammable feminist rage sort it out. (Ok, it’s me. Lacie. Candles can’t type).

No guarantee your situation will improve, but it will smell amazing while you spiral!

Stay Malicious.

-Lacie