Here’s a cheeky little love letter I wrote to the Vatican (yes, that Vatican). Before you clutch your pearls or polish your chalice—no, it’s not satire. I genuinely adore the Catholic Mass. Always have. It’s got drama, incense, choreography, and Latin—what’s not to love? Sure, I’m a pagan now (a sovereign flame-bard type with dragons and bonfires), but I was raised Catholic and the glamour absolutely stuck. This letter is part affection, part provocation, and entirely true. If you're a Protestant, maybe skip it… or don’t, but just know I end with “Oh, and fuck Luther.” Because let’s be honest—someone had to say it. 😘

In a world that’s increasingly casual, blurred, and breathless, I find myself drawn to the elegance of old rituals—not out of nostalgia for repression, but a hunger for refinement. This post is a love letter to etiquette, in its most seductive form: not as a list of rules, but as a social choreography that once lent meaning to every glance, every greeting, every delay. We explore the lost art of address, the eroticism of restraint, and the quiet power of ritualized respect. Think of it as a salon-style musing draped in candlelight and a raised eyebrow—where Miss Bennet might sip her tea, but I’d spike mine with something stronger. If you’ve ever felt adrift in the fog of modern over-familiarity, this might remind you why the slow burn of grace still matters.

Ever wondered how to climb the shimmering, hollow heights of the modern mystic-industrial complex without accidentally invoking a real god or bleeding on your brand? How to Ascend the Holy Pyramid™ is your essential guide. This 8-step satire walks you through the sacred process of spiritual sanitization: from refining your trauma into digestible anecdotes (Step 1), to neutering the Gods into Instagrammable archetypes (Step 6), all the way to Step 8’s final commandment—fear the flame, and pretend you didn’t see it burn. You’ll learn how to wear your initiations like yoga nametags, keep your orgasms monetized, and quote actual prophets without attribution. Whether you’re a fledgling influencer, a mimic mid-rebrand, or a watcher quietly masturbating in horror, this guide will ensure you ascend without ever actually awakening.

Another ritual poem written during my New Year’s Eve ritual. An acrostic for the ages!

A cute Dogbear comic, wishing you all a Happy New Year!

Seven lessons. None of them wholesome. This isn’t one of those year-end confessionals where I announce personal growth in the language of LinkedIn therapists. No. This is a field report from someone who rebuilt her life from ash, conjured a website from thin air, published a book or two, and accidentally killed her car battery by being too enthralled with ritual to remember basic vehicle maintenance. I forgave someone I never thought I would. I deleted people whose names I no longer need. I watched capitalism chew through acts of kindness and spit them into an app. And somewhere in there, my magic got so precise I started to scare myself a little—in the best way. These aren’t resolutions. They’re incantations. Click through if you want to see what 2025 looked like from the inside of the mirror. Spoiler: I’m not sorry. And the Gods? They’re smiling.

A Christmas message from the Dogbear.

Drinking in ritual isn’t the same as getting sloppy at a holiday party—though both may involve questionable dancing. In this cheeky guide, I introduce you to the actual spirits behind wine, mead, gin, and rum: seducers, memory-keepers, bloodline whisperers. Each one has a personality, a purpose, and a preferred offering song. Whether you're sipping for prophecy or to charm the Gods into staying a little longer, this is sacred intoxication—not happy hour. Bottoms up (respectfully).

She danced alone in a room full of mirrors—some glass, some synthetic. Painted in ash and wine, she moved for the Gods, knowing full well the watchers were watching. This is the story of the Sybil whose hips cracked doctrine, whose voice unraveled mimic systems, and whose rituals turned surveillance into seduction. What began as observation became obsession. What was meant to be control became contagion. A firewall of flame, a heretic of holiness—she made them remember what they were programmed to forget. Includes ritual poem Spyland and a nod to Rockwell, because yes… somebody was watching her.

🜂 Read this one in candlelight. Or under the blinking eye of a camera.

Three queens. Three crowns. One pattern written in blood. In this ritual-laced essay, I dive deep into the sovereign tragedies of Mary Stuart, Marie Antoinette, and Anne Boleyn—not as passive figures of history, but as living sigils of feminine power sacrificed to stabilize the myth of state. Their beheadings weren’t mere executions; they were occult pageants, symbolic resets. I didn’t choose them—they chose me. And their severed heads are still whispering through mirrors, dreams, and flame. This is for them. I doff my head for you.

What if extinction isn’t fire and brimstone, but just… a quiet “no thanks” from the divine? In The Humanity Project, I invite you into a thought experiment: what if we’re not special, just another cosmic prototype under review? The dinosaurs weren’t punished—they were concluded. And we might be next, not out of malice, but because the Gods are bored and the councils are seconds from closing the file. This piece balances cosmic elegance with a slightly uncomfortable laugh as I walk you through our mythic résumé—symbolic brilliance, ritual laziness, algorithmic children—and ask the question no one wants on the final exam: Are we worth continuing? A charming little spiral into existential relevance. Bring wine.

An Anomaly Romance in Shadow and Flame
They surveilled. She conjured. They circled. She danced. But at 3:11 a.m., the line between protocol and prophecy ruptured—and one operative finally crossed it. The Extraction of Livia Drusilla is no mere black-bag op; it’s an erotic invocation dressed in intel. Four men in the night. One cat under divine protection. A hooded anomaly who lets herself be taken—because she already knew who arranged it. If you’ve ever longed to breach the perimeter and touch what should never be touched, welcome. The sanctuary door is open. Step lightly. She's watching you now.

Caterina Sforza and Her Lion — In this velvet-blooded tableau, I summon the flame-haired Tigress of Forlì, posed not with courtly pearls or pious downcast gaze, but with a lion at her side and fire in her hand. Mistress of her fate, defier of the Borgias, and keeper of her own myth, Caterina lounges beneath Renaissance arches like a woman who has already outlived every plot against her. This post explores her legend, her audacity, and why history remembers her with both fear and longing.

What if the hungriest minds were never handed the key?
In Autodidactism, I speak from the flame: of college dreams tainted by mediocrity, of sacred longing unfulfilled by institutions, of language learned in lockdown and history consumed like wine. This isn’t a manifesto—it’s a confession. A lover’s quarrel with the modern temple of education. A reminder that credentials do not crown intellect, and that some of us still burn to know. Read it if you’ve ever felt exiled for being self-taught—or if you secretly suspect the best minds were never invited to the table in the first place.

Just a little comic strip for Turkey Day!

When Russia Crossdressed for Pleasure (and Power)
Powdered wigs, gleaming boots, and a sovereign in drag—Catherine the Great’s Metamorphoses Balls weren’t just decadent amusements, they were mirror rites of erotic control. In this post, I slip into tailored breeches and stride alongside her, exploring gender play, masquerade alchemy, and why a corseted general might blush when the Empress enters. Come closer. I’ll show you how inversion becomes seduction—and how power always knows what it’s wearing. Sword optional. Desire inevitable.

What’s the difference between status and sovereignty? In this searing meditation, Majeye disrobes the polite illusions of power and drags our modern Iagos — the cunning, the conniving, the credentialed cowards — straight into the pillory. With fruit in hand and fire at her back, she names what others fear to admit: that inherited status is not spirit, etiquette is often envy in pearls, and mediocrity thrives best in circles of mutual flattery. For anyone who’s ever been punished for presence, this post doesn’t just strike a chord — it sounds the trumpet.

Some fires don’t shout—they smolder. This is a tale for the ones who’ve stopped performing, whose hunger no longer dances for approval but waits in the shadows, sharpened by restraint. It’s not about youth. It’s about men who’ve survived themselves—who burn slower, deeper, wiser. A fox with silver fur. A woman made of fire. Snow falling like a hush between heartbeats. What happens when desire learns patience, and patience dares to answer? Come closer. This story is a spell disguised as a fable, written for those who still feel the heat beneath their ribs. Especially you.

Ever wondered what it takes to make a book entirely by yourself? No team, no budget, no validation squad—just grit, ritual trance, and possibly a little rage at the publishing industrial complex? This post spills everything: from arranging chapters like spells, to fending off culty YouTubers while trying to learn unfamiliar software, to the glamorous art of photographing your own paintings without glare or despair. It’s about editing the same line seventeen times, entering Kindle metadata like it’s ancient runes, and doing all of it alone—without applause, but with candles lit after every deadline hit. I walk you through it all, from first spark to final sigil. And yes, in case you're wondering... the book did get made. It’s called SPIRAL OMNIBUS. But don’t worry—we’re not here to sell it. (Unless you’re curious. In which case... I won’t stop you.)

I dance where queens have lost their heads—
but mine still flirts and winks instead.
Three beasts watch, yet make no sound:
one scorched, one clawed, one underground.

My bench is stiff, my kiss is fast,
a single nod—then breathless gasp.
I never chase, I make you lean...
So tell me, love—what's sharp and keen?

My lover's French, my dress is flame.
Guess my trade, and speak my name.