#empowered queue

Oh snap okay uh. Five things. I can do that! I think!?

My dog. Look at this precious baby!

My car. I paid it off three months early. Yeah she’s fifteen years old and hasn’t got (I feel like this is improper grammar) power-NOTHING but it’s MINE and I love my little Genevieve. 

My window unit. Sweet, sweet relief from the sweltering, slow heat-death that tries to take me every Louisiana summer. Give me autumn’s sweet 65F.  

My friends. Look y’all can think it’s cheesy IDGAF but I love my friends and they make me happy. 

Me, on my phone: Reading porn.

@ strikewhenready —≪❤≫ “ Down, kitty, down! “

Send me “Don’t chase the rabbit” and your muse will be shown a random memory from my muse’s past.

Despite his young age, the eight year old Rengar was mostly hardened muscle. Of course with all of his childhood fluff no one could tell. When one added his remaining baby fat he didn’t look at all as tough as he was. It was why Kokan, a boy that lived in the village, was now lying on the ground clutching his bloodied nose and howling as if Rengar had torn his face asunder. 

The young lion thought the boy was behaving a little ridiculously. Sure he’d clocked him good and hard in the face but he hadn’t even used his claws. It had been a solid fist that had decked the village boy to the dirt floor of the jungle. Other village children, some friends of Kokan’s and others just friendly to Rengar and everyone, had born witness to the scrap between both boys. All would say that the feline child had held back too. The insults being thrown at him and his family surely sufficed a more thorough beating as far as the children could be concerned. 

“Maybe next time you won’t talk badly about my mother and father,” Rengar said as coldly as an eight year old could. There was the added sting of other more personal insults but the cub hadn’t felt the need to retaliate until Kokan had started in on how Maata had been mounted by an animal to produce him or how Tāne had screwed some beast. 

Send me “Don’t chase the rabbit” and your muse will be shown a random memory from my muse’s past.

“Maata,” complained a small, spotted cub that seemed to be made up of more baby pudge than childhood muscle thanks to his fur, “why do I need to learn to weave baskets? I’m going to be a warrior! This is not what warriors do!”

“Your father weaves baskets and is a warrior,” was Maata’s measured, even response in her husky voice. She slid long blades of grass around and through one another quickly, creating a basic shape without any real thought thanks to long practice. “Knowing how to do this will make you self-sufficient. You won’t have to depend on anyone if you know how to do enough to take care of yourself.”

The way Rengar’s small face screwed up showed his doubt but he continued to weave the blades of grass as he’d been instructed. Maata wasn’t lying. He had seen Tāne making baskets more than once.