The Gospel According to Kino B. Demented, Vol. 1
Obedience is Not a Virtue
There is a version of me that the world finds more palatable: quiet, compliant, pretty in a gentle sort of way. That version is easy to control, easy to dismiss, and easy to forget. But listen up. She never existed.
This is my gospel: not a holy book, but a war cry. A scripture written in lipstick and sweat, hoofprints and hazard pay. If you're looking for a savior, keep walking. But if you're looking for a mirror, a blade, or a match; read on.
Obedience: The Cult We’re Born Into
They start early. They teach us to raise our hands, ask for permission, never talk back. They call us "good girls" when we don’t complain, when we smile while swallowing fire, when we accept the rules we had no hand in writing. They tell us obedience is a virtue. They are wrong.
Obedience is not kindness. It is not discipline. It is the slow death of discernment. Obedience rewards passivity and punishes intuition. And the worst part? We learn to obey so well that we do it even when no one’s watching.
I see it in the horse world. I see it in church pews and boardrooms and the silence between lovers. I see it every time someone says, "That’s just the way it is."
Subordination Is for the Small-Minded
Subordination is not grace. It's not humility. It's a crutch for the insecure and a weapon for the power-hungry. The small-minded demand obedience because they fear what they cannot control—and I am not here to be small.
I was never meant to kneel. I was meant to spark.
I don't train horses to submit. I train them to trust. There's a difference. One is forced, the other earned. One is brittle, the other alive.
The Myth of the Good Girl
They want you grateful for scraps. For attention. For crumbs of praise. Be the good girl. The easy one. The quiet rider. The willing assistant. The pretty performer. The affable wife.
But I have teeth.
Every time I tried to play that role, I disappeared. Every time I spoke the way they wanted, I choked on my own words. Every time I tried to "be professional," I felt like I was cosplaying someone else’s success story.
I’m not here to be likable. I’m here to be unforgettable.
The Horse as Mirror, Not Servant
My horse doesn’t perform because she has to. She does it because we’re in dialogue. I don’t bribe her. I don’t bully her. I invite her to dance. Sometimes she says no—and I listen.
That’s not weakness. That’s power.
Because if she can trust me enough to say no, she’ll trust me enough to say yes and mean it. And what we build together is not control, it’s something sacred. Something feral. Something true.
The Punk Priestess of Grit and Glamour
I am the punk priestess. I walk my dog in boots meant for battle and dresses made for devotion. I train in black eyeliner and red rage. I swallow swords and truths. I read tarot in the saddle. I write books with blood in the margins.
This isn’t an aesthetic. It’s an exorcism.
People say I’m too much. Good. Too much is what breaks the system. Too much is what starts the fire.
Let This Be Gospel
Don’t bow.
Don’t wait for the nod.
Don’t shrink to fit a story that was never written for you.
May your standards be higher than your heels.
May your horse never stand tied if she wants to dance.
May your voice shake the pulpit.
Obedience is not a virtue.