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.

I 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.

Me when I'm a witch investigating the dissapearance of my neighbour's cat in a small village in the alps: I poison my neighbour so I can sneak into his basement. There, I break down the brick wall. A thin, hare-like bicolour cat jumps out of the hole, revealing the rotting corpse that was entombed with it. There are no mothers here, only fathers and sons. I see one man deny a cat his own food; Come the next day, there is one less man in the village, and one more unnamed tomb. At nightfall, I gaze at the deers who stand at the edge of the wood with a strange glow in their eyes. I should be staring back at the rifles drawn and aimed beneath the heavy-curtained windows.

This is Hell. The flames lap at your skin as you attempt to escape the ever oppressing heat. You feel its force pushing down on your chest, its hand upon your mouth and nose. You have known many nights of warmth back in your glory days. But even at the heart of the disco, when the edges of your vision blurred from the alcohol and stimulants, when the sea of people seemed to stretch to the whole world, or perhaps when the whole world shrunk to that badly-lit room, you did not feel quite so hot. Now, every night robs your sleep and appetite. Hold up. Have you spent so long hiding in the darkness in pointless hope of respite from this heat, or is the sun worryingly brighter than it once was? Yes, you see it now. It is expanding, its fiery maw unhinged, scarring both earth and skies, leaving nothing but the smell of smoke and dead, burnt soil. You extend your arms outwards, whispering words of adoration as you await for it to swallow you too. A minute passes, and the promised death at the end of the sun does not come. How? Is this really only a heatwave? No! The end is near. Trust your visions.

Online diviners are so obviously fakes. The words of seers are rare, and precious. They are recluses, speaking prophecies they themselves do not fully understand, their foresight often more a curse than a blessing; Nonsensical forms perceived through altered states of consciousness makes them, to the mortal eye, madwomen with substance issues. Archivists, who keep records of endless visions and symbols on whichever medium they can, trying to discern between fate's design and their own nightmares, spurred on by repeated visions of a world beyond our grasp. Scholars, taciturn and driven, who care for little but their obsessive and endless work. Barely human creatures who have foreseen the death of distant stars and the eternal nothingness that awaits them once their own behated flesh wastes and rots. They're busy transcribing forbidden knowledge into heretic tomes, not DMing people on fucking facebook asking for 75 quids per half hour

The year is 2009. You switch off your Gameboy and turn on the television. As the last few notes of 2080's My Megadrive play, it's time for another episode of Retro & Magic, followed by Superplay Ultimate, where you learn of bespoke shmups for the first time. Then, a couple episodes of Flander's Company. To end the night, you switch the channel to catch City Hunter before the late-night broadcasting of Ikki Tousen. It's a simple life, though not a perfect one. Still, this is a nice moment

Did you know? Due to the internal structure of our current generation of mechas being replicated from Dr Mathilde Errance, regularly high rates of synchronisation leads pilots to resonate with those structures and undergo feminisation. In practice, after a year of mech pilot training, less than 5% of pilots who enrolled as males remain medically classified as such, regardless of gender identity, in part caused by spontaneous hormonal shifts. (Which in turn leads to other physical changes: An analysis of medical reports spanning two decades revealed that on average, 86% of pilots in training displayed chest growth, and 78% a shift in genital sensitivity which the training center's medical team did link to those hormonal shifts.) As a result, training centers have altered the pseudoamniotic fluid (In which pilots are submerged in their cockpit to facilitate high synchronisation rates) to include agents which facilitate hypnotic suggestions, helping pilots come to terms with being feminised more easily. Strangely, this new pseudoamniotic fluid seems to act as an aphrodisiac on pilots. Hence, training centers have recently added chastity cages to the standard uniform to prevent pilots from being too distracted during their training.

I adjust the hem of my dark cloak to cover my nose. The wide brim of my hat casts a shadow over my face as I ride aboard my cart, a black horse pulling forward at a leasurely pace. By the light of the moon, the path is lit with a deep blue hue. I get off my cart and go to salute the lavendières, hard at work in a nearby river. They hand me a funerary cloth. I thank them and head towards the badly lit streets of the nearby town. There, in one of the houses, tragedy has struck. Banshees are wailing in a somber and mournful polyphony. Must have been someone important. I carefully and respectfully wrap the deceased in fabric before carrying them back to my cart. On my way to the next town, I pull on an old pipe half-eaten by fungi. There, on the shore, horses with a tenderly braided mane, enchanting robe and cloven hooves. On the back of one of them, a poor sap, his body bloated by water, his legs halfway fused to the steed. Nothing I can do for him. When the night grows lonely, I look up at the stars and begin to recount old tales aloud. I knew these tales back when I first tasted the smoke of my pipe, conjuring fireworks and colourful flames out of thin air to amuse young and old. In the distance, church bells ring. I know I'm not welcome there anymore. In the nearby forest was a weeping willow. The local Lord has ordered to have an axe taken to its trunk. I go and mourn the lady of these woods at the now silent stump.

'Do you know why six was afraid of seven, Will?'
Silence. The light tapping of rain upon the roof of the appartment office was the only answer Hannibal received.
'Do you want me to regress to my elementary school days, doctor?' Answered the gruff detective.
'If I did, I would have put you under hypnosis, Will. This is merely a thought.' Hannibal smiled, this barely perceptible smile that was the pinnacle of visible joy for a man of such restraint, so characteristic of him.
'Because seven ate nine.' Will answered, not bothering to hide his exasperation. 'Is there a point to this?'
'Children learn in great part by mimicking what they see,' Hannibal elaborated as Will resumed his pacing in front of the tall, full shelves.
'There is seemingly very little innate in us. Yet children know of the idea of devouring their peer. They find it humourous.'
Will Graham paused as Hannibal spoke those words, turning his head towards the doctor.
'Children are not innately cannibals, dr. Lecter.'
'It is difficult discerning between learned and innate thoughts. Tell me, Will, this killer you're trying to find. Does their work strike you as childish? Could it be that they are feeding the same hunger that once drove them to cry for their mother's milk?' Silence, once more. Distant thunder rumbling and soft autumnal rain, and nothing more.
'I have once treated a patient who admitted to me having a taste for breast milk, Will,' Hannibal resumed his thought.
'He told me he was a microcelebrity, as he put it, on a website called Tumblr dot com.'
Start there. The last part was unspoken, but it was clear enough, as Will wasted no time bringing his phone up. He had his own blog already, dedicated to his My Little Pony Oc, Candy Fisher.

Me when I'm a witch investigating the dissapearance of my neighbour's cat in a small village in the alps: I poison my neighbour so I can sneak into his basement. There, I break down the brick wall. A thin, hare-like bicolour cat jumps out of the hole, revealing the rotting corpse. that was rntombed with it. There are no mothers here, only fathers and sons. I see one man deny a cat his own food; Come the next day, there is one less man in the village, and one more unnamed tomb. At nightfall, I gaze at the deers who stand at the edge of the wood. with a strange glow in their eyes. I should be staring back at the rifles drawn and aimed beneath the heavy-curtained windows.

'White male,' he speaks up as he walks into the meeting room next to his office with his usual callous swagger, 'fifty-two years old. Symptoms include emotional neediness, having a sweet ass and being a complete closet case.' The team looks at him wth dead eyes as he jots down the symptoms upon the white board. He takes a second to step back and admire the petty scenario he's created. 'House,' Thirteen goes first, clearly unimpressed, 'we're not helping you diagnose Dr. Wilson.' 'Oh, come on.' House pleads with his mocking puppy dog eyes. 'It may be contagious. We have to stop it before it spreads. Foreman,' he calls out as his attention shifts, 'quarantine Wilson into his office and provide him with a steady suppy of Playgirl magazines.'