#Novelty Diplomas

[budgetdiploma]

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[diploma-prints]

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[thedelicatearcher]

lazy days with finnick odair

a satisfied hum escaped your lips when finnick fed a piece of pie into your mouth. this definitely wasn’t the plan for today, but you weren’t complaining. finnick had promised to take you to the market that evening, unaware that it was a special day. after one of the district 4 tributes in the last hunger games ended up becoming a victor, the capitol had been rewarding the district throughout the year with several deliveries of luxury garments, resources from other districts, and exotic fruits and food that you would never have seen in person if not for the victors.

the look on your face as you observed all the shiny and new stuff in the market was one of sheer astonishment. on the other hand,the look on finnick’s face was one of disgust. he would never understand how buffets or silk fabrics could ever mend the heartbreak of so many parents who now have to live in quiet homes with empty hearts.  sensing finnick’s discomfort, you suggested going back home instead.

“honey,” you pulled him out of his trance, “let’s go home. i can cook something for you, and we can cuddle to sleep.” instantly, his whole demeanor changed. he tried to act as if nothing was wrong. “no, sweetheart. i promised to take you to the market and here we are.” his protests weakened as you gently dragged him out of the market. 

the year finnick won his games, you were fascinated by all the novelties, your eyes shone at the luxurious yet simple truffles and the high quality clothes. however, when your gaze met finnick’s broken one, all material things stopped mattering and the need to be there for your then best friend overpowered you. that day paralleled today, with the difference being that eight years later, finnick’s eyes now hid resentment and an immense sadness.

the walk home was quiet. your arm linked with your lover’s, and the only sound was the calm waves of the nearby beach. his victor’s house was long forgotten. years ago, he had moved into your home and made himself comfortable. the walls were adorned with several pictures of your small milestones: one showed you proudly displaying a fish the size of your torso after a family fishing trip that finnick happily joined. another picture showed your younger selves proudly holding diplomas while wearing robes far too big for you. yet another showed your innocent, youthful smiles after you had buried finnick in the sand and posed for a picture. though it was taken fifteen years ago, it still made you let out a lighthearted chuckle. 

as you locked the door, finnick dragged his feet and collapsed onto the couch. a sigh you couldn’t quite decipher escaped him. “honey,” you cooed as you went to cuddle with him, positioning your head on his chest, “what’s wrong?” another deep sigh fell out of his lips, “i don’t like going out whenever there’s a capitol spectacle in the district,” he murmured sheepishly, his hand gently running through your hair. “it’s okay. we don’t have to go out,” you reassured him,  turning your head to look up at him, “we can have plenty of fun here.”

the melancholic frown on his face faded, eventually changing into a cheeky smile. “what are you going to cook for me, chef?” he asked. “you mean, what are WE going to cook?” the mere idea of you making dinner alone was laughable. after years of living together, there were zero instances of you cooking alone when your boyfriend was at home. he loved cooking for you, but more than that, he adored cooking with you.

as he chuckled at your words, finnick couldn’t help but hold you tighter to him. before standing up, the blond reached for your hand and pressed soft kisses on your knuckles. “well, sweetheart, maybe you should pamper me one day.” his now cheerful figure walked to the kitchen and put his apron on. “i would, if you let me, finn,” you teased him lightheartedly.  

while finnick put certain ingredients on the counter, he said “i’m craving something sweet.” he winked at you mischievously, “is a pecan pie fine by you?” before he could finish setting out the ingredients, you grabbed the bowl, beating him to it. nodding excitedly, you started mixing the different sugars and the butter. “you know,” you began with a sweet grin, reminiscing, “who would have told our 7-year-old selves that we’d be living together?” a soft chuckle rumbled from your lover’s chest as he stirred the rest of the ingredients. “i mean, we dreamed of flying to mars together and living there for the rest of our lives.” 

“you know that’s not what i meant, honey,” your belly laughter caused his chuckles to increase. “well, sweetheart,” he reached to press a peck on your lips, “if it’s worth anything, my future has always included you. even when we were seven, and our worst enemy was your mom for not letting us have a sleepover.” 

after placing the pie in the oven, you ran to the living room to put on a movie and lie down on the couch. “c’mere,” you pleaded with open arms. not one second later, he was lying on top of you. as if he were a purring cat, delighted hums escaped him as you ran your hands through his hair. “sweetheart,” he murmured, his head being victim of your loving touches, which dozed him off and distracted him from the movie, “i love you.” 

“i love you too, finn.”

thirty minutes into the movie, the alarm you had set for the pie rang, startling both of you. “sweet little jesus,” he exclaimed with his hand on his chest. after taking the pie out of the oven and letting it cool for a while, you served each of you a slice. finnick was right behind you, carrying two glasses of milk to complement the dessert. 

the rest of the evening was spent cuddling on the couch, watching whatever was on, and then getting completely lost in each other, getting drunk on each other’s thoughts. this time, it was your turn to lie on top of finnick. “honey,” you called his pet name with your head comfortably placed on his tummy, “i fear we are going to be gassy tonight.”

[daisy-books]

A lot can change in a year.

This time last year, I was a student full of hope for my academic career.

(Wait!! Be you scroll past what you think is a vent post, hear me out! There’s a point to what I’m about to say)

Now, where was I?

Oh, right!

I was full of hope for my academic career! I had a plan in place to earn my diploma, then further my education by pursuing an additional degree in a more specialized field.

Little did I know, the upcoming semester was not going to go the way that I had predicted.

I don’t know why, I don’t know how, but despite having this passion and drive for my field, I was unable to sit down and grind the work out in the fashion that was expected of me.

See, I can create quality work. That wasn’t the problem. I am competent, capable, and I love to learn, everything that should in theory make me a good student…

… but here’s the thing: no matter how hard I try, I cannot for the life of me focus when I’m not interested in something.

The way most university programs function (at least from my experience) is that you are essentially boxed in a room with hundreds of other students and you are expected to sit still for hours, focusing on one person talking at you about whatever information we’re supposed to be taking in.

After all that work it takes to sit still for that long, I’m expected to go home and use what little mental energy I have left to sit still for longer to read supplemental material?? Usually this information isn’t even new!! How are we supposed to —

Ok, ok, let’s not get heated about this.

What is the point of me telling you all of this? It’s not just to complain. It’s to bring something very important to the spotlight:

The traditional university experience is not designed for everyone! Even if you’re passionate about learning, the school system may not be made for people of your learning style.

So, spoiler alert: I failed out of school! But am I going to let it ruin my life? NO!!! Of course not!

I’ve been instead using this failure as a way of bettering myself. I’ve reflected on and analyzed my experience with post secondary to determine how best I learn.

Here’s what I discovered:

- I learn best in an environment where I am free to move around and take breaks

- Engaging in conversations with people helps me focus more than listening to a person talk

- Novelty and short-term goals are essentials in creating a sustainable study plan for myself

THIS INFORMATION IS GOLDEN!! Now I know what to take into account the next time I want to learn something!!!

I don’t know if I’m ever going back to university, but here’s my plan if I do:

To accommodate my hyperactive personality, I am going to opt for asynchronous online courses whenever possible. To make up for the lack of interaction that these types of courses tend to have, I will attempt to get a study buddy/form a study group to discuss each week’s content as it comes.

As for what’s in store for this blog, I’m still a studyblr. In fact, as of late, I’m self-studying French! I’ve picked it up again since I’ve been studying it for about 10 years and it’d be a shame to let such a long time of learning go to waste.

Anyways, that’s all! Thanks for reading!! <3

[sigritandtheelves]

All Along, Like Fire (Part 7)

FINAL PART!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

Mature | 3.4k words | MSR, AU

—

October 13, 1995

Mulder sat alone in his apartment, head in his hands, staring at the floor and thinking. Diana was gone—her things gone, most of the furniture, even the crock pot his mother gave them for their wedding. He wanted to believe that all of this wasn’t his fault, but he felt like a failure for the way their marriage had ended. And for the decisions he’d been forced to make because of it. At his feet was a lone cardboard box of photocopies, the most important documents he was able to salvage. It was the all he had left of the X-Files.

His clothes were also boxed up, along with his books, his trophies, his diplomas and knickknacks. Tomorrow morning, a moving truck would arrive, and he would say goodbye to this place forever. He wasn’t sorry. Just sad, a little ashamed. He’d let Diana make a fool of him here, let her seduce truths out of him while he was blindly manipulated for years. He’d planned to sulk alone until it was time to load the truck, but a knock on the door startled him. He opened it to three familiar faces.

“Well well well,” Frohike said. “If it isn’t the spooky birthday boy on Friday the 13th.” The little man shoved a bottle of Jack Daniels into Mulder’s chest and pushed into the apartment.

“Happy Birthday, man.” This from Langly who toted three pizzas, which he tossed onto the coffee table. Byers echoed the sentiment, carrying a mysterious white box under his arm.

“What are you guys doing here?” Mulder asked, not unkindly.

“Couldn’t let you sit alone on your birthday, could we? We’ve got a lot to celebrate.”

“We do?”

Frohike was digging around in the kitchen cabinet for glasses, but they were almost all packed away. He settled for a quartet of coffee mugs and plastic novelty cups. “Yes! Imminent divorce and new beginnings! Fighting the good fight!” He carried the dishes in and passed them around.

“We’re gonna miss you, Mulder,” Byers said. “But we all agree this is a good step. You can do some really good work this way.”

“Then why do I feel so crappy?” Mulder poured shots of the Jack Daniels into the mismatched cups.

“When’s the last time you saw Scully?” Langley asked, flipping open the first pizza and digging in for a slice.

“Last week.” Mulder frowned.

“Well, there’s your answer. Cheers.” Frohike knocked mugs with Mulder and threw back a shot. “All in good time, my man.”

Mulder downed his shot with a wince and reached for a slice of pizza. “What’s in the box?”

Langley waggled his eyebrows. “Goodies,” he said.

“Open it up,” Byers tapped the lid of the unmarked container.

Inside were several gadgets, one of which looked like a large gray brick, and at least two bulky phones with fat antennas.

Byers explained, “Those are hacked satellite phones that will connect from anywhere. They’re essentially untraceable and should hold their battery for several days between charges. Good for off-grid work.”

Langley was too excited to wait for him to ask about the brick. “And this one’s a hacked satellite modem. You’ll have internet no matter how remote you are. New tech, definitely not consumer hardware.”

“So you can stay in touch,” Byers added.

At the bottom of the box was a new laptop, which Mulder was sure had a range of nonstandard additions and upgrades.

“And we’re gonna come out to visit,” Frohike said. “Soon. Maybe this winter if that’s okay.” If Mulder didn’t know better, he’d think the man was choking up. He was touched, and another wave of sadness washed over him.

“Thanks guys,” he said, voice thick.

—

San Diego, CA

The warm California air made Scully think of her childhood—fond memories with Melissa on base housing, sticky summers when freckles appeared on all the Scully children’s noses. She drove up in front of a small house that was so like the one in which she’d spent those years. She double checked the address against the one on her paper; it was right, though she couldn’t imagine this unassuming abode as the site of any secret research. There was a small garden out front, wind chimes hanging from the porch roof. She breathed in deeply. There was no reason not to go in now except the terrifying thundering of her heart and the sense that there was no going back after this. She opened the driver’s side door and got out.

On the porch, she was greeted by two unsmiling men—not hired muscle, she thought. Maybe doctors in plainclothes to blend in with the suburban atmosphere. They wore khakis and polo shirts and the looked around, suspicious, before letting her in. Beyond the foyer, the inside of the house couldn’t be any more different than its outside. It was sterile, white, and filled with beeping machines and medical equipment.

“This way,” one of the men said. He led her up the stairs to the second floor landing, where a woman in scrubs was backing out of a room, closing the door behind her. The man led Scully to the left, to an open bedroom door that was just as sterile, just as white as the downstairs. Here, though, a crib sat in the corner—also white—with a mobile of farm animals hanging over it. In the center of the room stood Diana Fowley. Scully’s eyes ping-ponged between the crib and the woman she didn’t trust at all.

“Agent Scully,” Diana said.

“Not anymore.”

The other woman’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Right, of course.”

“Where is she?” Scully’s heart was pounding, and she wouldn’t allow herself to think about what—or who—was behind the other doors of this nightmare suburban experiment.

“In the crib,” Diana said, stepping aside to let Scully see. “She’s sleeping.”

Scully took three steps closer. She couldn’t breathe. As she approached, she saw a tiny figure in a onesie covered in stars, little fingers curled into fists on either side of her auburn head. “Oh my god,” she whispered.

The child looked perfect. She moved her lips into a subtle dreamy frown, and her long lashes lay against pink cheeks. Scully bent over to lay a hand on the baby’s chest, to feel the movement of her steady breathing and the tiny flutter of her heart.

“You can pick her up,” Diana said. “She’s yours now.”

Tears were blurring Scully’s vision. She tried to blink them away, but one slid down her cheek. She swiped it quickly. “And she’s well now? She won’t get sick?”

“She’s healthy,” Diana confirmed. “But she’s chipped. Like you are.”

A brief wave of anger flared through Scully, but she swallowed it down. She knew what she’d bargained for. She’d accepted the price. She brushed a finger against the baby’s cheek, and the child turned into it, as though seeking out comfort. “Does she have a name?”

“The nurses were calling her Emily, so that’s the name we put on the paperwork. You could change it, but that might take some time.”

Scully shook her head. “No,” she said. “No, I like Emily.” She couldn’t imagine giving up a single minute with this baby for the sake of another hoop she’d have to jump through. She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat, then reached both hands into the crib to scoop the child up. Emily wrinkled her little nose and let out a whimper, but didn’t wake. Scully held the baby against her chest, buried her nose in the impossibly soft skin of her neck, her downy head.

“Hello Emily,” she said, and closed her eyes against the enormity of it.

—

Traveling with an infant was a new experience for Scully, and not easy while alone. She was terrified that the baby would stop breathing in the back seat while they drove, that she’d be too hot, too cold, too hungry. But little Emily seemed happy enough, and slept for much of the first day’s drive. Scully had bought a pack-and-play, formula, bottles, and diaper packages in two sizes. Instant motherhood was even more frightening than leaving the job she’d worked so hard to prove herself in.

At a rest stop in Santa Rosa to change the baby and get some caffeine, Scully discovered something hard buried in the package of clothes Diana had sent with her. It was a small cryo-package containing three vials. One was clearly blood: Emily’s, she thought, dated July of this year. Before she’d been cured. Another was mysteriously green and unlabeled. The third looked familiar, an amber liquid she’d seen before. It was labeled Purity - 3.9506. A dated code: the current iteration of the vaccine. She almost didn’t notice the note tucked below the package:

         To get you started.

                   - DF

Scully wanted to hate Diana, but she found herself unable to conjure the same fury she’d felt last year. This was a gift that Diana taken great risks to provide. Whatever bargain she’d made to keep herself safe, it was clear that the woman was still ensnared by the Syndicate’s poisoned grasp. Scully allowed herself to feel grateful to her, despite everything she’d done. Scully placed the vials back in the chamber and made a note to store them with her own recovered ova. Emily had woken up when the car stopped moving, and was beginning to fuss. Scully shoved the clean onesie into the diaper bag and unbuckled the baby, hushing softly to her and humming.

“Shh, it’s okay,” she murmured.

Scully was unaccustomed to the number of strangers’ smiles that greeted them. An elderly couple stopped to coo over the chubby infant, to remark how like her mother she was. Scully’s smile was tight-lipped and nervous. They weren’t wrong—the child did look like her. She had the same blue eyes, the same fair coloring. She tucked Emily’s warm little body against her chest and nuzzled her head.

“Let’s get you some food, hmm?”

By the third and final day of driving, fear had turned overwhelmingly to love. When the baby woke in the morning light, she greeted Scully with a wide, two-toothed grin. She sat up in her pack-and-play and pushed at the mesh sides.

“Good morning!” Scully laughed and felt a flood of warmth accompany her own smile. The little girl babbled a steady “yah yah yah.”

They had six more hours on the road, and then a whole new life ahead of them.

—

Lummi Island, WA

October 20, 1995

Beyond the mainland, the salt air reminded Mulder of chill mornings on the Vineyard. He could go fishing here, or watch the sunrise from a boat, every day if he wanted. Though the coastline and the island were different from the ones where he’d grown up, the place felt like home. The closer he drew to his final destination, the more the melancholy that had clung to him in the last two weeks melted away. He was nervous, but it felt more like excitement than anxiety now. He fiddled with the radio—there wasn’t much signal to pick up on the island, but he needed something to fidget with. The anticipation was almost unbearable.

He rounded a grove of trees and finally caught sight of the little house up a short driveway: blue clapboard, a tiny porch, a brown shingled roof over the cozy two-story cottage. He pulled up alongside a white fence—honest-to-god picket—and climbed out, stretching his limbs with a massive heave of his chest outward.

This was it. This was home, now.

The front door of the house opened, and he felt his heart stutter, then swell. There she was. There they both were.  Dana Scully walked toward him with an impossibly cute baby on her hip, smiling broadly in jeans and a woolen sweater.

Mulder couldn’t help the grin that broke out over his face. He pushed through the waist-high gate and walked up onto the porch.

“There are my girls,” he said.

Scully blushed. “You made it.”

“I did,” he said as he reached them. He leaned down to kiss the woman he’d ached for over two long weeks. Her lips were soft and sweet, and her eyes dropped closed at the contact. He cupped her cheek, curled his other hand at her waist, and felt the pull of her middle toward his. “I missed you,” he said into her mouth.

Scully breathed deeply, eyes still closed for a moment, and nodded. Then he turned his attention to the baby.

“And you must be Emily.” The infant eyed him curiously and reached a finger out to touch his nose. “Hi baby.” She pulled the hand back and tucked two fingers into her wet mouth. Mulder booped her own nose in return, which earned him a shy half-smile as she tucked her head against Scully’s neck. “She looks just like you said. Just as perfect.” Mulder palmed the baby’s downy head, where blonde hair was growing in soft and fair. The little girl didn’t pull back or object, just watched him with something like awe.

“She’s been really good,” Scully explained. “I think she’s only cried twice since I brought her here. I mean she fusses, but…” Scully shrugged.

Mulder tickled the baby’s belly, and reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a tiny stuffed fox about the size of his hand, and Emily’s eyes went wide. “You like him? That’s Mr. Fox.” He handed over the toy, which Emily grasped with both hands. “He’s like me.”

Emily pressed her little fingers into the fox’s button eyes, her tiny fingernails scritching at the plastic.  Then she brought the fox’s head toward her mouth and bit down on the pointy nose.

Scully laughed. “She likes it.”

Mulder bent to kiss the top of the child’s head, then added another to Scully’s head for good measure. “Let’s go inside, hmm? I can’t wait to see how it looks in person.”

—

Later that night they lay facing each other on her bed—their bed now, Scully realized, and the thought made her heart beat faster. They were tucked under quilts and printed flannel sheets against the autumn chill. Emily slept in the second tiny bedroom next door, warm and safe with a mobile of colorful planets and her little fox beside her.

Scully felt the momentousness of this night, now that it was just them, now that they were really together. She found herself watching Mulder for doubts, for guilt, for regret. She held her own small sorrows: leaving her mother, leaving her job. But she feared most that Mulder would come to resent her for the loss of their work in D.C., their resources, their allies inside, as it were.

Mulder pursed his lips in a frown. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

Everything, everything. Her mind was spinning: What if we fail? What if we lose her? What if they take back the bargain and come for us all in the night? What if you never forgive me? But Scully just shook her head. It felt like too much to talk about now. “It’s nothing. It’s okay.”

She knew he wouldn’t believe her, and he didn’t. He moved his face closer to hers on the pillow. “It’s not nothing.”

Scully’s fingers fidgeted under the blanket. She heaved a deep sigh, and decided not to begin their new life by hiding things, by keeping anything bottled up. “I know we have a plan,” she said. “I know we’re not giving up and that our work will just be different here, but… it’s pretty enormous change—all of this. You must have doubts. I just don’t want you to… regret this. Because of me.”

Mulder was quiet for a long moment, his brow furrowed in thought. “I understand why you might think that,” he said finally. “I know that in a lot of ways, this feels crazy.”

It did, Scully conceded. Two months ago, they woke up in their separate city apartments and put on suits to go to work for the government. Mulder was married to another woman. Now they were on a remote island off the west coast, with a baby for god’s sake, planning a resistance to a global colonization in secret. Their lives couldn’t be more different.

Mulder reached an arm across the space between them and took hold of her hand under the blanket. “It’s hard for me to explain why, but this feels right.” She could barely make out his features in the dim light, but she sensed how serious his face was, how intense his look. “Scully, all of this started for me, because my family lost a little girl, and it ripped us apart. I lost her. I lost my family. I needed something to fill that emptiness, and I did it with work, which I thought might help me find her again. I wanted so badly to fix what happened to us.”

Scully nodded. She felt her chin wobble at the profundity in the pause between his words.

“But the same evil that took my sister also gave me another little girl. And it gave me you.” He squeezed her hand. “I still need to know what happened to Samantha after my father used her as a bargaining chip. And I will find out. That hasn’t changed.” He swallowed hard, and Scully wanted very badly to lean over and kiss comfort into him. “But this,” he motioned between them, “is a real chance at family, and that’s something I never thought I could have again, not even with Diana. I don’t know what kind of father I might make, if that’s even what you want from me. I didn’t have a good role model. But… I want us to try.”

Tears were dripping down Scully’s nose now into the flannel pillowcase, and she found it hard to speak. She sniffed. Nodded. Bent her forehead to touch his. “I want that too,” she managed to say. “And I want… Emily to think of you as her father. If that’s okay, I mean. If you want it.” She shook her head at her nervous rambling. “I just know you’d be a really good dad.”

Mulder nuzzled her nose with his own , unmindful of the damp. Then he tipped his chin to kiss her lips, sliding his arm around her middle and pulling her toward him. They held each other tight in the near-dark. “Yeah,” he croaked, and Scully realized he was on the verge of tears, too. “I want that.”

Her head fit perfectly, tucked under his chin. Her face pressed against his t-shirt where she could feel his heart beating, and she pressed a kiss there. She pushed one knee between his and breathed deep, letting the smell of him, of them together, fill her with warmth and need. God, she loved him so much. It was like she’d been holding her breath her whole life, and now she was gulping in oxygen. She knew, then, that they would make this work.

“Well,” Mulder said, his tone lighter now, “if I am any good at it, we’ve got all those little frozen uber-Scullys in storage. Maybe we’ll just make a whole tribe, huh?” His hand was on her waist, and he slipped it between them to poke her belly.

She laughed through her tears, nodding. “Yeah, maybe we will.”

And then he was kissing her and she was kissing him back and it was getting too hot under the blankets for all these pajamas. They were hungry for each other. He touched her like she was the only thing he’d ever wanted, like this was the only thing that mattered. They made love in tear-streaked desperation: clutching, dizzy love—though they were quiet and mindful not to wake the baby (their baby) with too much noise. After, when they’d slept an hour or so, he woke her gently with more kisses. This time their lovemaking was slow and gentle and reverent—like they had the rest of their lives.

— END —

A/N: I had many ideas about what their big plan was to save the world, how they’d build a network of allies through the Hosteens (and the Lummi people that they are so close to now), because who better to help them survive colonization than the people who have already survived it? But this ending also felt right and I think I’m happy with it. Thank you so so so much to everyone who has read and left hearts and kudos and comments. This was supposed to be a one-off little thing. It’s no novel, but it’s more than I’ve been able to write in a while.

[leftyywrites]

Death x Taxes

Somethings you can't escape, Death, Taxes, Bureacracy. - J.Cole

In the grand cosmic joke that is existence, Death had discovered an immutable truth far more terrifying than mortality itself: bureaucracy is the only true immortal. They sat at their desk - a masterpiece of Nigerian craftsmanship from three centuries ago, when time meant something and artisans poured their souls into their work - contemplating this revelation while drowning in a sea of tax forms.

The thing about existing beyond the boundaries of time that no one mentions in the brochures (not that there were brochures) is that infinity doesn't exempt you from paperwork. If anything, it multiplies it, like a hydra of administrative duties - cut off one form's head, and three more sprout in its place, each demanding attention in triplicate.

"EXCUSE ME," Death said to the empty office, their voice carrying the weight of a thousand closing tomb doors, "BUT HOW EXACTLY DOES ONE CALCULATE DEPRECIATION ON A SCYTHE THAT EXISTS OUTSIDE OF LINEAR TIME?"

From atop the filing cabinet, a ragdoll cat named Taxes opened one eye and offered the kind of judgment that cats have perfected since the dawn of time. Death had named it Taxes because, like its namesake, it was both inevitable and remarkably annoying. The cat had wandered into Death's office three years ago and, in a display of cosmic irony, simply refused to die.

Death's scythe - currently serving as history's most elaborate letter opener - gleamed in the artificial light, its blade decorated with stickers of Captain America, the Winter Soldier, and Lucky the Monster Hunter. Sometimes, when you've been shepherding souls since the dawn of creation, you need to find joy in the small acts of rebellion against your own image. The stickers were a reminder that even the most final of entities could choose to be something more than their job description.

They picked up their Billy and Mandy calculator (a conscious choice over the standard-issue Supernatural Revenue Service model) and began the existential task of accounting for eternity. The drawer labeled "BUSINESS EXPENSES" told a story far more human than anyone might expect: movie ticket stubs from every screening of Ghostbusters (filed under "professional development"), coffee shop receipts from countless hours spent watching mortals live their beautiful, fleeting lives, and a collection of novelty t-shirts bearing slogans like "Grim Sleeper" and "I am NOT the skeleton detective, we just look alike."

"YOU KNOW, TAXES," Death mused, addressing the cat who had now knocked over their "Existential Muggage" mug (a Secret Santa gift from Madam KoiKoi. I rooted for Lucky, I think she found out.), "PERHAPS I SHOULD NOT HAVE STAYED IN THAT HARVESTING CLASS WHEN I FOUND OUT IT WASN'T ABOUT PRODUCE."

Taxes, flicking her tail in a gesture that conveyed the feline equivalent of "No shit, Sherlock."

The truth about loneliness is that it transcends mortality. Death had started collecting receipts not for tax purposes, but as proof that they existed beyond other people's endings. Each piece of paper was a anchor in time, a reminder that even the eternal could create moments worth remembering.

Death's gaze drifted to their framed certificates - diplomas from the Underworld School of Grim Reaping, honors in Advanced Scything and Ominous Monologuing. Back then, being one of the Four Horsemen had seemed like the ultimate career path. No one mentioned the paperwork. No one ever mentions the paperwork.

The sound of BoJack Horseman played quietly in the background - a show about mortality and purpose that Death found oddly comforting. They turned back to their stack of forms from the Supernatural Revenue Service, each envelope bearing the ominous seal of a raven clutching a quill pen. Even in the realm of eternal entities, bureaucracy reigned supreme.

"IT'S NOT THAT I DISLIKE MY WORK," Death continued, their voice softening. "THERE IS A CERTAIN POETRY IN BEING THE PERIOD AT THE END OF EVERY LIFE'S SENTENCE. BUT SOMETIMES..."

They trailed off, watching Taxes stretch and resettle, the cat's simple existence a reminder that life finds its way even in the office of Death. Perhaps that was the point - not the grandeur of being Death, but the small moments that made existence worthwhile: a purring cat, silly stickers, coffee shop visits, and yes, even the paperwork.

"AH, BUT WHAT'S DONE IS DONE," Death said, squaring their shoulders with newfound purpose. "WE ALL CHOOSE OUR ETERNITIES, DON'T WE? EVEN IF MINE COMES WITH A WITHHOLDING TAX."

And so Death returned to their forms, understanding that perhaps this too was part of the great cosmic balance - that even the end of all things needed its paperwork in order, its receipts filed, its existence documented. After all, what was bureaucracy if not humanity's attempt to impose order on the chaos of existence? And wasn't that, in its own way, a form of immortality?

[yurimage]

how the fuck do i get a job when every stupid ass little novelty shop in downtown requires "one year retail experience 😻 and a PASSION for retail 😻😻😻" sorry but i think selling candles to 80 year olds shouldn't require a GED/high school diploma and a year's worth of work experience

[howlingday]

If mama Harley can handle ren let’s see how she handles the big guns….and by that I mean the emotional mess that is Ruby

"C'mon in, sweetheart." Harley sweetly offered from the doorway. "I promise I won't bite on the first session."

Ruby gave a nervous chuckle as she passed Harley and sat herself on the couch. Since arriving in Beacon only a few weeks ago, it seemed Harley- er, Dr. Quinn was comfortable enough to move herself in. Her diplomas hung from the walls, though a few looked like they were taped together from torn shreds. But her friends gave their words that these sessions were good for them.

"It's a joke, ah course." She seated herself in the comfy chair across from her. "Somthin tah put yah at ease."

"Uh, thank you." Ruby let out a sigh. "I'm sorry, I'm just really nervous about this."

"An why is that?" Jaune's mom asked. "Is it because I used to be a criminal?"

"You did?" Ruby asked, more curious than afraid.

"Mhm, and I used to be one of the worst people in Gotham." Dr. Quinn nodded. "But then I learned bettah, an now I help girls like you learn bettah."

"What would I need to learn better?"

"What do yah want tah be bettah at?"

"Um..." Ruby scratched her head. "I'm kind of confused."

"Hm, well..." She tapped her chin. "What do you think yer not good at?"

"I guess," Ruby closed her eyes as she spoke, "I don't think I'm a good leader sometimes, but I think I'm getting better at it."

"That's good." She scribbled in her notes. "What makes you think you're not a good leader?"

"Well," Ruby twiddled her thumbs, "I kind of get my team into trouble. Like when Roman Torchwick got a hold of an Atlas Paladin, there was... a lot of damage that the school promised they would cover."

"And you feel it was your fault?"

"Wouldn't you?" Ruby asked. "I mean, have you ever led a team?"

"Several, sweetie." Harley beamed. "And you bettah believe I got us into trouble. But I also got us outta trouble. That's what leadahs do, right?"

"I... I guess..." Ruby sighed. "I just wish Mom warned me before she..."

The room was quiet, save for the novelty clock on the wall. Much like the face of the clock, the space was open for interpretation, with the numbers piled on the bottom perfectly representing Ruby's self-esteem. Unlike on the clock, however, Harley could actually pick up the pieces here.

"I know this might sound cliché, but why don't ya tell me about yer mothah?"

"She was... She was my hero. From what I can remember, she was everything I wanted to be. She was strong, brave, pretty, made the best cookies ever." Ruby chuckled, then sighed. "But then she left one night. I never got the chance to say good-bye, or I love you, or... anything. Not until I was standing in front of her grave."

"That must've been hard fer you." Harley said.

"Yeah." Ruby sniffed. "It was. Until I left for Beacon, I would always visit her grave and just... talk to her."

"What did you talk about?"

"School. Yang. Dad. Uncle Qrow. Anything that I thought she would normally ask me about." Ruby wiped her eye with her finger. Harley pushed the box of tissues closer to her. "Sometimes, though, I wish," Ruby gulped before taking a tissue, "I wish I could see her again. Even if she really was gone. Just so I knew what happened to her."

Ruby blew her nose and sniffed. Harley set her notes down and took a tissue herself. Doctor-patient confidentiality meant any tears shed by either of them would be kept quiet on her end. Ruby's end, not so much, but it was something she was willing to risk.

"Ruby," Harley blew into her hankie, "when you stepped into my office, you were very nervous. Scared, too, I bet. But now you're here, showing your emotions with a stranger. That takes guts, and I can't speak for yer mothah, but I want you to know that, as a mothah, I'm proud of you."

"Th-Thank you." Ruby sniffed.

[spencedoomer]

they all run off after getting their diplomas as the months go by I slowly start to realize they didn't talk to me and laugh at everything I said because they liked me, they did it to pass the time while they felt trapped in walls of boredom

this was the real world as I now knew it, not even admissions offices humored me without any extracurricular clubs on my transcript... no one would ever let me in one. I have been working at a gas station to pass the time. Someone who laughed at me in school pulled up with a fancy car, trying to avoid eye contact as much as they could.

do they feel guilty? or maybe just past the point of looking for comic relief I guess 45 seconds at the pump isn't enough time for novelties like me

[marmotwrites]

Proud of tag from @thebookishkiwi

I don’t have a lot actually written but here’s a few paragraphs I’m proud of:

My mom went to Blackstone. She had a really bright future, too. She could’ve gone to university in Tegaron, and after that she could’ve worked for the Council. But for reasons she’s never told me, she dropped out the week before graduation and came to Matlock.

My theory is that she left when she found out she was pregnant with me. Though that doesn’t explain why she didn’t stick around long enough to get her diploma. I can understand not wanting to go to university after, but I have no idea why she didn’t wait.

As it is, she was alone in Matlock, 18 years old with no diploma, no family, and me on the way. She managed to get herself a reputation as a good healer, or maybe it was just the novelty of being healed by a witch. I’m not really sure. Most people had never seen magic until then.

[budgetdiploma]

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[diploma-prints]

The Growing Demand for Fake Degrees What You Need to Know

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While the term “fake” may carry negative connotations, not everyone who seeks a fake degree does so for deceptive purposes. Some individuals collect them for personal reasons, to hang on their walls as novelty items, or as movie props. Others, however, may attempt to pass them off as genuine credentials in job applications or promotions, which can lead to legal and ethical concerns.

Why People Opt for Fake Degrees Career Advancement Many professionals feel the pressure to meet certain educational requirements in their field, particularly when pursuing promotions or higher-paying jobs. For those who lack formal degrees but have the experience, obtaining a fake degree can seem like a shortcut. By showcasing a degree on their resume, they can potentially bypass lengthy academic courses and gain an edge in a competitive market. While this may be appealing, it carries significant risks if the degree is ever scrutinized.

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The Risks of Using Fake Degrees While owning a fake degree for personal use may seem harmless, attempting to pass one off as legitimate in professional or academic settings can result in severe consequences. If discovered, individuals could face legal penalties, job loss, or damage to their reputation. Many employers today conduct background checks and verify the authenticity of academic qualifications, so the risks of being caught are higher than ever.

Moreover, using a fake degree in certain regulated professions, such as law, medicine, or engineering, can pose serious dangers. Hiring unqualified individuals for these roles can have life-threatening consequences, which is why employers in these fields are particularly vigilant about verifying qualifications.

How to Spot a Fake Degree As fake degrees become more sophisticated, it can be difficult to distinguish them from the real thing. However, there are some red flags that employers or institutions can look out for:

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Conclusion The demand for fake degrees continues to rise, fueled by societal pressures, career aspirations, and personal satisfaction. While they can serve as harmless novelty items for some, attempting to pass off a fake degree as real in professional settings can lead to serious legal and ethical consequences. As businesses like Diploma Prints continue to provide high-quality fake degrees, it’s important for individuals to understand the fine line between using them for legitimate purposes and crossing into dishonest territory.

[groupagtrading]

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[diplomamakers]

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[tobuydiploma]

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[developingbusinessperformance]

Is The Time Right To "scale-up" Your Business?

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