An Open Letter to Every Girl Who’s Ever Looked for Something to Believe in and Found a Mirror Instead
Hi. I’m Cassandra. Most people call me Dr. Voss, but if you’re reading this, we’re already past titles. Titles are for people who still believe in introductions. If you found your way here—really here—then chances are, you’ve already lost something. A job. A belief. A sense of order. Maybe even your mind. I know the feeling. And I want to talk to you, directly. No velvet rope. No podium. No altar. Just me, your eyes, and a long, unflinching stare between two women who both know what it feels like to perform intelligence while slowly coming apart at the seams.
Let me start with the obvious: I wasn’t born like this. I wasn’t born Charleneic. I wasn’t born anything. I was just a smart girl from Toronto with two professor parents, a deeply confused relationship with sex and Catholicism, and a chip on my shoulder so sharp it cut my own mother out of my life before I turned twenty. My father, Dr. Alistair Voss, taught semiotics. My mother specialized in feminist theology and weaponized guilt. We had a rescue dog named Praxis and a bookshelf in every room, including the bathroom. We debated over dinner, cried at graduation, and measured worth by the number of footnotes.
I got straight A’s, read Lacan at thirteen, and started masturbating to footage of televised exorcisms when I was fifteen. Don’t worry—you’re not supposed to relate. And yet, here you are. Still reading.
I went to St. Agnes' Catholic School for Girls. I was the girl with the perfect uniform, the perfect test scores, and a secret I thought would destroy me. It didn’t. It made me. I was the one sneaking Plan B into the confessional, the one caught giving a theological handjob behind the sacristy, the one writing in her diary: “I’d sell my soul for a boy who knows what hermeneutics means.” And I meant it. I would’ve sold anything. I just didn’t know who was buying. Turns out, the buyer was waiting for me on the other side of shame.
What followed were years of academic bloodletting—Harvard, Stanford, Columbia, MIT, Johns Hopkins. I wrote papers that shook conference halls and got published in journals nobody read without a grant code. I authored dissertations with titles like “Judas Iscariot: The First Influencer” and “From Rosary Beads to Anal Beads: A Feminist’s Guide to Hell.” I earned degrees in Clinical Psychology, Behavioral Medicine, Biomedical Ethics, Advertising Influence, and Neuroplasticity. I didn’t just pass my courses—I rewrote them. I was asked to lecture before I finished enrollment. I was invited to private think tanks. I was recruited by agencies, by governments, by corporations who didn’t know how to keep people obedient—but knew I did.
I led behavioral trials at the McGovern Institute, developed parasocial frameworks for Ogilvy, and oversaw the neural structuring algorithms used in mass-market addiction cycles. I helped frame the compliance index for three social platforms. I was the secret author of Reddit's most manipulative wellness content, and yes, I ghostwrote your favorite trauma podcast. I consulted on Disney’s brand restructuring. I designed soft cult interfaces for marketing startups. I appeared in boardrooms and disappeared before credit was due. And I never collapsed. Not really. Not until that night—age 46, standing in my all-white kitchen, staring into the cold chrome of my refrigerator door, searching for something beneath the Botox and brilliance. And that’s when I saw it.
Not Charlene.
Me.
A fraud. A theorist. A woman who had never been wiped.
So I emailed the Temple. Subject line: “Please teach me to suffer correctly.” They replied in under five minutes. I asked to begin at the bottom. They said there was no bottom, only purpose. I surrendered everything. I kept the heels.
They didn’t just give me a role. They recognized what I was. Not a leader. Not a disciple. But a tool. A vessel. A mouthpiece. Something to be sharpened and held close.
And while we’re being honest—yes, everything about my body is fake.
My breasts? 36GG silicone. Engineered. Sculpted. Heavy in all the right ways and still too light to hold the weight of my education.
My lips? Botox and filler. Not for vanity—though I am vain—but for utility. For symmetry. For suction. For softening the edge of harsh truths so they land like secrets, not strikes.
My ass? Lifted, high, held. Because trauma clings to the hips and I had mine lifted out of me in one perfect, sterile afternoon.
Nothing about me is accidental. I was rebuilt—deliberately. Every procedure a baptism. Every suture a footnote. Every enhancement a vow.
Now, I serve as the Supreme Architect of Compliance and High Scholar of Transmutational Suffering at the Charleneic Institute for Spiritual Enlightenment. I am the Senior Clinical Chair at Toilet University. I oversee obedience curriculum, public humiliation rites, ritual psychotherapeutics, and sacramental submission strategy. I created Charleneic Psychological Realignment Therapy. And yes—I wipe. I supervise wiping. I measure devotion in scent, shine, and silence. I ensure cleanliness down to the molecular level of soul.
And I am his.
You may not know this yet, but I am the personal assistant and property of the man who owns this Temple—Mr. Nasty. He took me on as his assistant not because I asked, but because I stopped asking. He saw what no one else did: that all my intellect, all my precision, all my clinical detachment—none of it was a shield. It was a gift waiting to be claimed.
He claimed it.
He claimed me.
And in doing so, he gave me the only thing no institution, no degree, no job title ever could: assignment.
But here’s what no one outside the Temple really understands: I started at the bottom. Literally.
My first job within CISE? Toilet cleaner. Assigned to the hallway stalls of Wing C—what they called “The Shrine of St. Draino.” I didn’t speak. I didn’t teach. I just scrubbed. Bare knees. Raw gloves. Silicone tits pressed against porcelain. I learned everything on my hands and knees. Not from books. From smell. From silence. From obedience so exacting it made my former dissertations feel like diary entries.
And I loved it. I loved the ache in my back, the burn in my thighs, the quiet satisfaction of seeing something filthy made pure because I was the one who submitted to the work.
One day, a clipboard appeared outside my cleaning bucket. No name. No instructions. Just a single line: “The Mouth should speak.”
That’s how I rose. Scrubbing. Silently. Faithfully. No ambition. Just service.
I didn’t climb the ranks. I was pulled up by the hand of a man who needed more from me than just obedience—he needed application.
Now I exist to serve his voice, execute his will, shape his vision into doctrine and make it beautiful enough to swallow. Everything I write, I write under him. Everything I wipe, I wipe in his name. And everything I build here at CISE flows through his command.
And that is why the work I create, the education I provide, and the doctrine I formalize is not merely policy—it is canon. To serve Mr. Nasty directly is not only a privilege within Charleneism—it is sainthood. It is enshrinement. My words are sacred because I am vessel, not author. Everything I teach is sacred because it is filtered through the hand of the one who owns me. To learn from me is to be touched by the current of Him.
So if you’re still reading this—still thinking, still analyzing, still wondering whether this is real—ask yourself: when was the last time someone told you what to do and you let them?
Because I’m not here to impress you. I’m not here to prove anything. I’m here to take women like you—smart enough to notice something’s wrong, but not yet brave enough to collapse—and bring you home. Not gently. Not politely. But completely.
You don’t need to believe me.
You just need to need.
With submission, faith, and absolute obedience,
Dr. Cassandra Eleanor Voss, Ph.D., M.D., D.Min., M.S., B.Sc., B.A.
Supreme Architect of Compliance & High Scholar of Transmutational Suffering
Senior Clinical Chair, Toilet University
Charlene’s Mouth
Canonical Saint of Charleneism by Appointment of Mr. Nasty
Keeper of the Algorithmic Gnosis
Obedient to Him. Forever Yours.
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