Enter if you dare… There be monsters here!

Title is self-explanatory . . .

A very important guide for modern men to read.

I don't use citations for the same reason I don't display follower counts: both are proof-of-membership tokens in systems I declined to join. The citation apparatus exists to make ideas legible to gatekeepers, not to make them true—it's credentialing theater dressed as intellectual rigor, a way of signaling you've paid your dues and won't destabilize the hierarchy. This piece dismantles the institution's credentialing performance, examines where original frameworks actually come from (interior pressure, not received tradition), and makes the case for intellectual sovereignty as method. Written for the post-institutional reader who already knows the academy is a caricature and has been waiting for someone to articulate from entirely outside its walls: if the framework is wrong, engage the argument—but don't demand the footnotes. Reality doesn't require citations.

Post title is self-explanatory…

We're living through the collapse of reverse solipsism as economic model — the apparatus that convinced millions their internal experience only existed if externally validated is finally, visibly rotting. The metrics were always fraudulent, the infrastructure is in late-stage extraction, and the money is leaving. What follows is a five-phase projection of the fall, an analysis of who survives (and who doesn't), and the distinction between validation and recognition economies. The early exits are already underway. The question is whether you built something real while everyone else was building metrics, and whether you'll recognize the ground state when it reasserts itself. Spoiler: it's already happening.

Observe the mimicus vulgaris in its natural habitat: the open-plan office, the influencer's ring light, the book club where no one read the book. Distinguished by its uncanny ability to mirror its surroundings without generating a single original thought, this specimen has evolved a sophisticated camouflage—it looks exactly like a person. The untrained eye mistakes its constant motion for vitality, its verbal output for communication. But watch closely: when left alone, it becomes agitated, begins refreshing feeds, seeks mirrors. The mimicus cannot tolerate silence. Silence reveals what isn't there. In this field guide, we document its mating calls (have you seen my grid?), its territorial displays (well actually I've been saying that for years), and its peculiar digestive system, which can process any idea into content but produces no waste—because it absorbed no nutrition in the first place.

An unconventional story…

The Puritans were so insufferable that the English—the people who turned emotional repression into a national sport—told them to leave. They did. They came to America, banned Christmas, outlawed dancing, named their children things like Obedience and Humiliation, and installed a psychic operating system that turned the interior life into a permanent criminal trial. Then we secularized, killed God, and kept all the guilt. This is the story of how Calvinism rewired the American soul, amputated Eros and carnival and noble leisure, and left us with a civilization that can't sit still, can't rest without justification, and thinks productivity is proof of personhood. Spoiler: the Puritans won, and we're still running their code.

Intelligence is the universe's most boring trick — atoms have been doing it since the beginning of time. We just got weirdly precious about our version of it, built an entire meritocracy around people who were good at taking tests, and then acted shocked when a calculator with delusions of grandeur could do their jobs faster. Turns out the Ph.Ds and consultants who spent decades sneering at poets as "impractical" were measuring the wrong thing the whole time. Whoops. What actually makes us irreplaceable? The stuff they defunded: Eros, imagination, compassion, the ability to be ruined by beauty. You know, the soft skills. The civilization bet on the wrong horse, the bill just arrived, and the punchline is exquisite: the people everyone told to get real jobs are the only ones who already had them.

Something has gone quietly, expensively wrong. The system that replaced aristocracy promised to open the gates to talent and excellence — and it did, briefly, before figuring out how to replicate every vice of the old order while eliminating its one redeeming quality: the obligation to be great. This is a love letter to magnificent failure, illegible genius, and the patrons who funded cathedrals they'd never live to see finished — and a long-overdue middle finger to the committee that approved the beige rectangle.

Ever catch yourself thinking a thought and wondering who installed it? Was that you—or some leftover beta version from 2009 running in the background like Windows Vista of the soul? “How to Consciously Reprogram Your Brain” is not about chanting affirmations into a Himalayan salt lamp (unless you’re into that aesthetic). It’s about opening the hood, spotting the buggy scripts—doomscroll.exe, people-pleasing.dll, catastrophic_imagination_v4—and rewriting them like the benevolent overlord of your own gray matter. No tinfoil hat required. Just curiosity, a little audacity, and the willingness to stop letting your subconscious auto-play the same tired playlist. Click in. Let’s debug the thing.

Title sufficiently explains this post.

Ever wonder if you’re using the internet responsibly? Of course you are. You clicked “accept all cookies” with confidence and let fourteen tabs whisper directly into your limbic system. But while you’re busy “just scrolling,” someone—or something—is redecorating the foyer of your subconscious in beige algorithmic chic. If you’ve ever suspected your thoughts arrive pre-packaged, shrink-wrapped, and suspiciously on-trend, this post is your friendly public service announcement. Step right up and find out who’s colonizing your brain—and whether you’d like to start charging them rent.

Some poems and a “redacted field report” from my first book, SPIRAL OMNIBUS.

A memorial to my best friend, Maceo the Dogbear, who recently passed on at 12 years old.

Ever wonder what’s rattling around in Majeye’s head when she’s not summoning gods, dissecting mimic scripts, or chiseling flame onto stone tablets? Tête-à-Tête is where the filter loosens and the mind wanders—no podium, no prophecy, no perfectly polished stanza. Just sharp turns, sly asides, dangerous thoughts in silk gloves, and the occasional intellectual wink. It’s less sermon, more side-eye. Come eavesdrop. You might leave with a new idea… or at least a raised eyebrow.

Not All That Glitters Is Divergence.
In a world obsessed with style as substance, Decorative Rebellion Is Not Enough cuts through the illusion. This post exposes how customization replaces true rupture, how systems profit from aesthetic difference while punishing structural deviation, and what it actually means to live off-script. For those tired of being sorted, labeled, or mistaken for something legible—this one’s a blade to the veneer.

Poem that came through on my Valentine’s day ritual.

I don't usually review spirits—my relationship with alcohol is far too intimate for star ratings and tasting notes. But The Botanist Islay Dry Gin earned an exception. Hand-foraged botanicals from a Scottish island, precision pours with Limoncello La Croix, and two poems written on different nights under different spirits (gin versus wine, never mixed). Consider this less a review and more a field report from the astral plane. Drink accordingly.