I would like to be the god of temporary, drawn-on tattoos, the ones scribbled on hands and arms during lulls in class or in moments of boredom, whose enjoyment is measured in moments and are forgotten as soon as they’re washed away.
Arepo the farmer builds a tiny altar and a god of humble but sort of useless beauties takes up residence, warning Arepo that he can't really do anything for Arepo. Despite this, Arepo is devoted to this god and gives him regular offerings. Later, Arepo dies in a war. A stranger comes by and asks the god what he should do with Arepo's body. The God says that he should be buried under the altar, but warns that he can't repay him, because he is a useless god. The stranger replies that the god WAS useful, he was the god of Arepo. A hundred years later, Arepo becomes a god himself, the god of small devotions and eternal loyalty. He inhabits the altar with the god of Arepo, because he's still devoted to him.