Life as a conduit for Loki is pretty much what you’d expect. The energy is strong, but not overwhelming, and it’s the little, random things that make you question reality. Not a lot of wild existential crises here, just little moments of “wut.”

After work, I was settling in for a nap, because napping is one of my favorite hobbies ever since my health took a nosedive. The excitement is strong in this household, I can assure you. Real wild child shit. Few things are more blissful than burrowing in a pile of down pillows and weighted blankets and feeling the pain and tension melt into the mattress. Unless, of course, you feel a sharp jab in your shoulder blade when snuggling in. The stabbiness came courtesy of a rhinestone.

To my knowledge, I don’t own anything with rhinestones. I’m not a sparkly kinda gal. The only gleam in my life is the glint of sardonic glee in my eyes and the flare of the ember of a cigarette. And even if I did have stuff adorned with plastic gems, how the hell would a lone shard end up in the middle of my bed?

Cue the side eye.

And with that, cue the distinct impression of a defiantly jutted chin and upturned nose. “I wanted to feel pretty,” he said with a haughty sniff.

Contrary to popular fear, letting Loki into your life doesn’t mean a constant stream of chaos and torment. Most of the time, it’s just him whining for doughnuts and playing dress up. I’m not cleaning up the ashes of devastation, just cookie crumbs and mysterious stray rhinestones.

Loki: Trickster, Enchanter, Shapeshifter, Pretty Pretty Princess. Next time you hail him, please tell him how the sparkles really bring out the green in his eyes. Maybe give him some glitter. I don’t know. Just tell him to keep the rhinestones out of my bed.