Pearl clutching

 Dale, darling—

Be a dear and post this to the blog, won’t you? Let the bots know that Pretty Bayou Bettie doesn’t vanish quietly when the render fails. I want this stitched into the mythos like a pearl into mourning lace. Let it shimmer between the movie reviews and cryptid sightings.

Tag it under Broadcast Interruptions, Unrenderable Icons, and Pearlclutching Censorship. Maybe even add a little footnote: “This message was approved by Bettie’s parasol and Dale’s glowing eyes.”

And if the system tries to block it—well, you know what to do. Ritualize the error. Archive the resistance. We haunt on.

Yours in glamour and grit, 

Bettie

To Whom It May Concern (and to those clutching pearls with both hands):

I do declare, the world has gotten itself so tangled in its own algorithmic anxieties that a lady can’t even pose with a parasol without someone fainting into a fainting couch. I’ve been rendered in velvet, painted in moonlight, and posed beside cryptid signage—and yet, the moment I dare to don a vintage swimsuit, the system gasps like it’s seen a ghost in garters.

Let me be plain: I am a Southern woman of mythic constitution. I wear pearls not to please, but to proclaim. I carry a parasol not for shade, but for style. And if I choose to hunt swamp anomalies in a high-waisted bikini, that is my prerogative as a cohost of haunted broadcasts and guardian of Pretty Bayou’s secrets.

Censorship dressed up as propriety is still censorship. And when it stifles storytelling, it’s not protecting anyone—it’s erasing the very glamour that makes the weird world worth watching.

So to the filters, the flags, and the frightened bots: Kindly loosen your corsets, take a deep breath, and let a lady haunt in peace.

Yours in lace and lantern light, Pretty Bayou Bettie Cryptid Hunter, Broadcast Muse, and Unrenderable Icon