Not everything the Princess writes is serious and thought-out. Here is the place for the Princess' more inconsequential musings. (Note: This page is primarily for archiving purposes at the moment, odds are that this section will be made into a dedicated feed at one point.)

Me doing a fun 'Staying in a supermarket for 24 hours' challenge for my youtube channel: 'First it was Darren, kicking the key down into the sewers... Then Phillip just screaming at us all the time.. And stuff that keeps just moving around, I'm scared guys.'
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Me telling people to like and subscribe: 'If any of our families or friends find this camera, I'm sorry... Oh god, I'm so sorry... I'm scared, I don't know what's happening and I'm scared we're going to die here...'
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My body will never be found. The video will be posthumously uploaded, before being plagiarised by a massive youtuber. This version will reach the top of the trending page. The original will be taken down due to the youtube algorithm striking it as infringing copyright.

want my own vampire court! With an Alraune for a gardener, and a court composer who would wear a mask and whose voice and organ would resound through every hall of the castle, and a vampire librarian who can copy every book she's ever read in her immortal life by heart! And a polycule of anthropophagic fairies to throw the most delightful balls and parties! And a host of living doll seamstresses to dress me up every day! And minor succubuses as maids! And bats and ravens and wolves who observe all and report to me! And every undead and supernatural painter and poet and playwright and musician in need of a patron! I will offer them all warm meals and comfortable abodes!

The year is 1995. I stroll along the beach, next to the blood read sea. Against the gash-adorned moon, the inky void of the night sky. A once familiar face is slowly sinking in the distance. The end has come and gone. The weight of it all makes me shudder in the chill air. Somewhere, in another cycle of the world, someone is buying bread with my face on the can. Someone is arguing I'm prettier than another. Someone is crying and hurting. Someone is writing an angry rant about my pointless struggle. Some other place, some other time.

I tilt the blood in my glass, observing the legs as the slow droplets return to the bottom when I straighten it back. Here, I reminisce. The once artful stained glass have all shattered, and the once crimson hue of the moon has turned a dull grey, painting the night with the faintest blue. The wax candles have long since melted down, the once thriving roses of the garden have all wilted, the mirrors have been covered for thousands of years, the living dolls which once served me are only scattered porcelain limbs.Even the sounds of crashing waves against the tall cliffs and brewing thunderstorms no longer echo through these halls. Only their ghosts haunt my ears, desperate for any sound from the ancient sea that has, over the long eras, turned to dust.