mistress-san:

Did you eat it?

Yours? No. I ate mine though. It was prettttty tasty.

mistress-san:

Yeah… Well, enjoy.

Where’d all yours go?

mistress-san:

Mhm. Here’s a bowl for you.

You’re the best.

mistress-san:

Um… I don’t know. Do we? You check the fridge, I’ll start scooping.

We do! This is great.

mistress-san:

I have vanilla and chocolate chip cookie dough. Do you have a preference?

Chocolate chip cookie dough sounds awesome! Do we have any chocolate syrup?

mistress-san:

Thanks, Britt. Here, I have an idea. How about ice cream?

Mm, what kind?

mistress-san:

Mmm, yeah, that would be a good idea. 

I have those sometimes.

mistress-san:

Reading reports. Sorry, I got caught up. I can… probably stop for the night. My eyes are getting tired anyway.

Do you need your eyedrops? 

mistress-san:

It’s whatever. I’m just telling you, normal doesn’t exist.

If you say so.

mistress-san:

No, I’m not normal here. My mother was a slave. In little ways, people remind me of that every day. I’m not ‘pure’ or whatever. I have weak blood in me. Some parents didn’t even want their kids associating with me because they weren’t sure I’d even remain a ‘master’ or not and didn’t want to confuse their kids when they got older.

I’m sorry. Growing up like that must’ve really sucked.