Right.
Day One of my Holy Revelation Quest™.
First task?
Write the sacred scroll.
Like prophets do.
Like wise temple scribes with beards and back pain.
Like the blessed sluts of old who got visions and opened religions with nothing but eyeliner and attitude.
I'm sitting cross-legged under a scrubby acacia bush, parchment in my lap, stolen quill clutched in hand, tongue poking out as I write like destiny's horny little vessel.
This is it. My gospel.
My sacred truth.
My boobliest testament.
I dip the quill in the ink. The scroll is already smudged from earlier attempts, but that's okay. Every holy book has edits.
I write:
"In the beggining thare was me.
And I was glorius. And nakad.
And the wourld saw me and sed: woah."
The Dragon looms over my shoulder with a noise like thunder and disapproval having sex.
"Beginning has one g," he rumbles.
I scratch it out. "That's what I wrote."
"You wrote 'beggining' with two g's, three n's, and what looks like an accidental penis."
I squint. "Oh. Yeah. That's a doodle. For emphasis."
He groans.
I keep going. I am on fire now.
"And thus the Gods put boobs upon me, and behold they were most glorreous."
"You misspelled 'glorious' again."
I wave him off. "Artistic spelling."
"That's not a thing."
"Says you."
I lean over and start sketching two large breasts under the last line. They're majestic. Uplifted. Slightly uneven but spiritually balanced.
"These," I say with flourish, "are symbolic."
The Dragon snorts. "One nipple looks like a lazy eye."
"Divine asymmetry," I snap.
He leans in. "You also spelled 'gods' as 'goats.'"
I squint at the line.
"So?"
He sighs.
I keep writing. This is going great.
"And the Goats said unto me, 'Go forth, peaches, and shake what thy mother and the temple madam gave you.'
And I did."
"You're going to get struck by lightning," he says flatly.
"Then the Peaple built statues. Big ones. Of me. Of my glory. Of my devine ass."
"Divine. Not devine. And 'people' has an o. And statues don't usually have—are those testicles?"
"They're metaphorical!" I snap. "Like... for abundance!"
He rubs his temples. "Your holy scripture looks like it was illustrated by a drunk sailor in heat."
I beam at him. "I'm channelling."
He picks up a corner of the parchment and sniffs. "Is that wine?"
"I may have used it instead of ink for a bit. Spiritual wine. From my flask."
He stares. "The one labeled 'don't drink this it's cursed'?"
"Well, now it's sacred cursed."
I continue:
"And lo, she smote the tax collector, and sed: be gone you coin-thieving fiend, for mine bosom shall not be tithed!"
The Dragon lets out a long, suffering exhale. "Saya, this is not how religion works."
"Are you a prophet?"
"No."
"Well then."
He leans down. "Are you aware you wrote 'bosom' with a z, an extra m, and a little heart above the i?"
"Branding."
He facepalms. "The gods are watching."
I blow a kiss at the sky. "They better be tipping."
The wind kicks up and blows sand across the parchment. My ink bottle tips over. The scroll rolls up and smears itself into a titty-and-dick Rorschach of divine confusion.
I sigh, then grin.
"It's fine. I'll start chapter two tomorrow."
The Dragon groans, lies down, and mutters, "This is how cults happen."
I nod proudly. "Exactly."
And I am so ready to be the high priestess of Absolute Nonsense.