This post is a scalpel through consensus. In Anti-Evolutionary Systems Eat Their Future, Majeye dismantles the quiet mechanics of institutional stagnation—revealing how systems designed to detect brilliance instead reward mimicry, suppress autonomy, and punish emergent traits before they can take root. With sly precision and first-hand fire, the piece exposes the failure of median evaluators, the rise of performative sameness, and the civilizational cost of mistaking conformity for competence. It ends not with lament, but with a question sharp enough to diagnose any system still pretending to be alive.

The Owl Empress’ tale of her journey with the Glass Vault Men.

This post isn’t about beauty, age, or belonging to the “right” kind of womanhood. It’s about what happens when systems abandon standards and reward conformity instead of brilliance. I care about women’s rights—all women’s rights—not just those who play safe, police others, or weaponize moral language to secure their place. True liberation should have protected the radiant, the strange, the noncompliant. Instead, it handed the crown to the median. This is my diagnosis of how that happened—and what we lost when sovereignty was traded for sisterhood scripts.

She doesn’t live in this world—and never asked to.
This latest post is a glimpse into Cat’s Little Utopia, a ritual-fairytale spun in velvet and wildfire. She lounges—crowned in flame, draped in ink-dark silk, surrounded by feathers, books, wine, and the purring loyalty of Maceo the Dogbear. Here, you’ll find no confessions and no apologies. Just the sovereign curl of a woman who has made refusal into art, and art into sanctuary. Come see why—and bring some wine.

Proof Over Pedigree is a manifesto for anyone who’s ever learned in the shadows and wondered if it counted. This post lays out a parallel system of legitimacy—one that honors mastery over membership, rigor over ritual, and brilliance wherever it arises. It’s long, yes—but it dismantles credentialism one crutch at a time. If you’ve ever questioned why degrees matter more than outcomes, this one’s for you.

My second book is finally here! Ars Architektonic Anomalia is the mouthful you’ve been waiting to savor. Jump inside this post for a quick peek. :)

This post is a whispered invitation to remember what we once knew instinctively: that brilliance doesn’t wear a name tag, and truth doesn’t beg for a podium. Salons vs. Credentialism is a meditation on the return of the unsanctioned sacred space—where wit, eros, and presence triumph over degrees and dull bureaucracy. It’s about how real minds find each other without algorithms or approval, and how salons—those candlelit crucibles of conversation—have always been the birthplace of what lasts. As degrees lose their meaning in an era of bought prestige, I make the case for something older, stranger, and infinitely more alive: the salon, reborn.

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.