writterings:

“what are you the god of, again?” the god leaning over me and pointing his weapon at my throat sneered.

i close my eyes, unwilling to answer but i find the words tumbling out of my mouth before i can stop myself.

“dumbasses and poor decisions,” i say. “staying up to ungodly hours of the night during a depressive episode, especially when you have to be up early the next morning. the first bite you take of a taquito when it burns your mouth.”

the god frowns, staring at me intently. “what-”

“every single subway restaurant in a rest area gas station,” i continue. i reach for my weapon which had been knocked out of my hand and swing it up. i knock the weapon out of the god’s hand, and stand. “and the letter Q, but only when it’s capitalized.”

the god takes a step back. he’s not afraid, but staring at me with a lot less arrogance than he was before.

“i am the god of comforters that aren’t exactly dirty, but kinda smells if you shove your face in them,” i say. “and of stuffed animal versions of wombats. of vintage teapots, of books that are bought but aren’t read until years later, of dying houseplants, of people who want to try but can’t.”

i step closer to the god, now making him back up.

“step off,” i say. “you may be the god of, like, chaos and destruction or whatever but me?“

i point my weapon at his chest.

“i’m the god of more stuff than you.”