#it's a meeting with this professor and another autistic girl so not only do i have to impress him

[immortalsins]

got an internship meeting in an hour i’m so scared 😭😭 my tutor is running a project and has sought me out to help because of my autism ... yay? but it still feels like i’m going to have to prove myself on microsoft teams

[invinciblerodent]

I know this is a hardish question bc probably depends on game factors, but as it is rn you the brain sauce

Do you think Emmerich notices right away that Tristan isn’t alive in the same sense as pm everyone else? Or is he like quicker than others to notice? I assume Tristan isn’t quick to explain the full truth of his… condition.

(Sorry if I seem obsessed, bc I kinda am. I blame my adhd for the hyperfixation. Love the whole idea! )

Oh absolutely no worries babe lol, I'm just happy that you find the big fellow interesting! ❤️❤️

Have a song I've been listening to a lot over the past few days and have kinda started associating it with him-

(this, as well as "Ghost" by the same guy, very Tristan-coded to me, only this one also has that soft, deep-voiced crooning in "Orlesian" in the middle there that's. Very A+.)

I honestly feel a bit more "free" headcanoning and rambling on about this guy and this story than about anyone else, specifically because the base idea is kind of on the sillier side? Like, I feel fairly confident ~~hazarding a guess~~ that there's not going to be a subplot in the actual game about the main character needing to hide that actually, they're kind of, sort of a zombie, lol.

So while I'm intentionally keeping my girls vague (beyond "very autistic bisexual elf rights activist", "viking pirate lesbian(?) dwarf", and "tiny dommy mommy"), I'm like, fairly sure that I was gonna need to do extensive rewrites and annotations to the game to make this one work anyway, so I'm not super concerned if I end up needing to "retcon" something I think about now.

What I was thinking so far is that Tristan, as of the beginning, could count on one hand the number of people he's told about his "condition" over the past two decades, and of those people, he's not sure if there's even one still left alive. (Maybe a fellow Warden healer, someone who's patched him up enough times to catch on that something is fishy? Maybe the longest and most serious relationship of his adult life that ended tragically one way or another? I'll have to brainstorm that one)

So as a Grey Warden, Tristan spends a lot of his life traveling alone (which suits him just fine), and quite often, the preternatural survivability and even the unusually thick blood can be reasoned away with "it's a Warden thing, don't worry about it, we're all like this". Most people will believe it, and aren't very quick to jump to conclusions that shouldn't be possible.

Except maybe those who are intimately familiar with death, spirits, and the undead. And are, yknow, actual professors of the occult.

So I think it's not exactly a closely guarded secret, but one Tristan wouldn't reveal unless absolutely necessary- and for as long as possible, none of the companions would know, but Emmrich would absolutely suss him out on his own.

Regardless of whether there's been any light flirting before then, I like to kind of imagine there being a singular moment --perhaps after a hit taken too close, maybe in defense of him, when the odd, stale, almost slightly mildewy scent of Tristan's blood hits Emmrich's nose the first time-- when their eyes meet, and there's this Moment of mutual recognition. This "oh shit, I know what you are."- "oh shit, he knows what I am.".

I of course don't know, like, the particulars of his character, but from his tone in the blurbs and the short stories, I assume that if pulled aside afterwards and asked sincerely, Emmrich would be willing to keep it a secret- and that he would immediately feel intense scholarly interest.

I mean, Tristan is an anomaly: by all means, he should not exist. The undead of Thedas are created via possession, and his body has not been possessed by any spirit, and isn't being controlled by anything. He seems whole, hale, and himself (not a darkspawn, either), he breathes, eats, sleeps, heals and bleeds pretty much as normal, and the things that aren't quite normal, are still not outside of the realm of possibility: many completely normal people breathe and blink slower than average, many people prefer their meat on the rarer side, many people have troubles falling and staying asleep. Nothing about him on its own is indicative of anything strange, and yet he is intelligent undead! Just the fact that he can speak in a way that is convincingly human is incredible!

I want to believe that Emmrich (like many of us are about our blorbos) would immediately kind of be like "I want to study you under a microscope." (paraphrased ofc) (Is he the playful kind? Would he jokingly paint studying Tristan as repayment for his silence? Who knows! It's fun either way!)

And at first, Tristan would be hesitant (it's awkward, to be under such scrutiny, and to have his whole Situation upended and dissected like that, especially by someone he probably already considers somewhat intimidating, in a handsome, charming sort of way), but even if it's not suggested, he'd consider it repayment for keeping it a secret, and agree. And if I can make it work, I'd really enjoy for there to be an opportunity for a moment between the two of them that has Emmrich kind of like... "I have been around enough bodies, both dead and alive, naked and clothed, to not be affected by anything corporeal. I know flesh well, I know what lies under it, and my interest in this particular body is purely clinical, scholarly, and in no way romantic or sexual. This dimly lit office/surgery is not in any way romantic, nor does any sight of his body arouse anything in me. .......... oh, his nipples are pierced. That's not a good thing for me."

("oh, strong muscles shifting enticingly under inked skin." "oh, the big man is large in every way." etc.)

Something something hearing an otherwise abnormally sluggish heart suddenly beat faster at a touch, something something intense examination of all bodily reactions making them both feel both flayed and more naked than it should be possible, intense eye contact, oh in this kind of light his eyes do look reddish and eerie but I can't look away, and from there on I think it can kinda progress however it's going to progress in the game.

I am havign SUCH a normal time of it, man!!!!!!!

[everyotherworm]

Heyyy! I found your blog shortly after The Arena got its big makeover and I didn’t pay too much attention to the other wizards descriptions, so do you have any info/headcanons on them? (determinedowl23)

!!!! You have no idea I have so many headcanons! First tho if u want info: scroll down to the list of arena npcs and you can click on them to get their old in game appearance, name, title, and description (the descriptions are like 1-2 sentences long.)

As for headcanons I have a bunch in the 'arena wizard blogging tag' on here already (so far I've done a headcanon post for Gina, Cameron, Bannard, Flora, Nick, Lillian, and George, but I also have a bunch of other random headcanons in the tag) but to answer your ask here's a quick long highlight reel of my favorite headcanon(s) about each wizard! Some of these are things I've shared before, but some r about people I've never talked about before :) there are 20 characters and I'm bad at being succinct, so strap in folks

Gina has bad luck, or she tends to end up as the target of every spell or piece of machinery that goes awry and she can't do anything about it because she sucks at magic too much to levitate it away lmao

Crios didn't want to be friends with Cameron, cameron just followed him around until he was worn down and just got used to having him around all the time. Now he's so used to him that despite his constant complaining about cameron, he will be even more annoyed if he doesn't have him there to be annoying and do errands for crios.

Bonus cameron one because he's my favorite: his hair is naturally curly and black, he just dyed it to look more like crios. Funnily enough, crios's hair isn't actually naturally orange either.

Mila tends to hang around young wizards more than the wizards at her level, she thinks they're more open minded (which is kind of because they don't have common sense, but she considers that helpful to 'thinking outside the box') and she has a lot of fun mentoring them.

Benjamyn is best friends with fuschia, because thanks to growing up with sisters he's always gotten along better with the girls at school than the boys. Also that leather apparel is hot as heck, but he doesn't take it off because he's just a cold lad man

Fuschia has an eye for small details and is especially good at judging whether people are kind/genuine or not. Some rumor that her pet mystyyk can sense that she has a pure heart and that that's why it chose her, but in reality it's just because she lured it I with lots of treats :3

I've said this one before but bannard is hard of hearing and has no idea what is going on half the time. He's fairly magically gifted and VERY good at scaring away monsters (it's because he never stops yelling) but he's kind of held back by not getting enough accommodations. He doesn't seem to care tho, he's just here to have a good time :)

I know the reason leena is called the metal head is because she likes rocks not metal music, but you can tear electric guitar playing leena from my cold dead hands <3

Finneas is a terrible influence on everyone he meets, he skips like half his classes lmao </3

The lunar wand was made for a werewolf, is it that farfetched to believe another type of shapeshifter might use it? Why are djinnas pets all fish based instead of ghost based if she's a spirit? Why would someone need to leave back and forth from the academy if they could get all their needs from land? DJINNAS A MERMAID PEOPLE WAKE UP-

Jess has an inferiority complex, seriously dude how's it feel to spend your whole life in the shadow of a twin who's just like you but way better and who's already finished school /lh

Flora sleeps upside down

I'm a Nick = Young Santa Claus truther but that's more of a theory than a headcanon, so other than that I think he's autistic and has a special interest in Christmas and thats why he involves it in a lot of things :) also he gives everyone gifts year round and uses Christmas decorations as fidget/stim toys

Not to do to autistic/special interest headcanons in a row buuut Lillian is also autistic and has a special interest in pets and you can fight me on that. Also Lillian lives with professor scoog (he's her uncle, don't question how that works) and they both loooove rambling about old and new pets to each other

Korathius is one of the only students who's lived on prodigy island his whole life, and him being raised by magic pets is the reason he's in the higher level ranking.

Jen has had several near death experiences.

On George's first day on the island he exploded half his hair and shirt, took apart the wheel of wonder (he tried to put it back together but it ended up falling onto gina when she leaned on it because he did a bad job), and accidentally caused a minor eruption in bonfire spire (he just wanted to see what would happen if you cast spells from underneath the lava, he thought they weren't working so he casted a LOT of light waves.)

Aurora is so mean <3 she will stab u with an icicle if you try to prank you or sneak into her house (which is a small ice castle she built on the iceberg she floated over on.)

I dont have a lot of nova headcanons, shes just a nice gal, u know? She makes really good cookies if its worth anything

Crios is a sore ass loser, he probably decided to start dueling out of spite. Also, he's the one who beat the dark tower the canon where your wizard isn't there.

So yeah! I love them, arena wizards my beloved <33 if u want more headcanons about specific characters or topics feel free to ask, although I'd guess after reading all that you'd be ready for a break LOL. Thanks for the ask!!

[pneumasthesia]

Epilogue

Epilogue

 “Hey, kid! Your time’s up. Get out so the real psychologists can use the room” says a mildly annoyed voice from outside the room.

“Yes, yes, yes, of course. Just give us a moment and we’ll be right out” responds the therapist, with more than a mild tone of annoyance.

“Come on, sleeping beauty, we’re going to have to end the show here and get out now” he says, shaking awake the middle-aged woman passed out on a reclining chair in front of him.

“Ugh, just when I had started to have an actually restful sleep. How annoying” the culprit sleepily responds.

“Oh, so you were actually sleeping this time” the therapist exclaims with further growing annoyance, “I had thought you were having another trip, but now that you’re done with that you’re just trying to fool me into letting you off any further examination, isn’t that right?”

“Obviously. I just relived the most traumatic moment in my life, of course I’d want a rest afterwards” she answers while getting off the chair to leave the examination room.

“That’s all well and good for you” says the therapist, his annoyance reaching its peak, “but some of us here have research to do and precious little time to get it done.”

“Don’t worry ‘Pet’, I’m not going anywhere” the culprit reassures, “I’ll surely be in this psychiatric ward for the rest of my life.”

The patient and doctor-to-be walk down the psych ward’s hallways, passing by patients and therapists alike on their way back to the culprit’s room.

“That’s exactly why I have to rush” the therapist says, a note of faint concern in his tone, “don’t you want to see the other pneumasthetes again?”

“Is that the name you’ve given us sufferers?” the culprit questions, “you’ve really taken to continuing the old man’s research, even using the same name for the disorder.”

“I may not have liked his methods or his reasons, but his hypotheses are still worth considering” Pet answers somewhat defensively, “besides, those theories of his are just as much mine.”

“Hmm? What do you mean? You came up with that fantastical theory?” the culprit says.

“I wouldn’t say it’s all that fantastical” the therapist explains, “given that it’s based on experience.”

The culprit suddenly halts her advance down the psych ward hallway and turns back to her therapist, mouth agape.

“You have pneumasthesia too?” she exclaims.

“Of course” Pet answers matter-of-factly, “you’ve seen through my eyes, I mean walked in my shoes, you must have noticed that.”

“I thought that those were my abilities” the culprit says with some degree of embarrassment.

“But you’ve never experienced those things before, have you?” the therapist questions, “from what I’ve gathered your particular type of pneumasthesia is based around seeing people as stock personality archetypes, whereas mine manifests as ‘seeing’ people’s current thoughts and emotions.”

The culprit starts walking again, deep in thought. Eventually she speaks up, “but that doesn’t explain what I experienced. I saw the thoughts and emotions that other people had in the past. Neither of our abilities can do that.”

“It’s not accurate to call our conditions ‘abilities’” the therapist explains, “if you talk about pneumasthesia like that, the other psychologists will discount my research as nonsensical postulating about ESP.”

“Is that not what it is?” the culprit rudely interjects.

“Hurtful, but not true this time” the therapist says with an amused chuckle, “from what little research I have been able to do, I can say with some certainty that there is a mostly logical explanation for everything we have experienced.”

“’Mostly, huh? Very well then, explain it to me, Professor” the culprit says with a wide smirk.

The therapist returns the smirk and begins “well, surely you remember the late Professor’s explanation?”

“Yes, empathy is supposedly a sixth sense all people possess and, in some people, these ‘pneumasthetes’, that sense becomes conflated with another sense” the culprit continues.

“Quite right” the therapist congratulates with the tone of a kind teacher, “in some cases, that is. For example, that young man had his personal empathic judgement of other people’s personalities conflated with his ability to perceive color.”

“Only his own judgement of personalities?” the culprit asks, “I thought empathy was some sort of secret infallible sense, not something that subjective.”

“No. Like I said, there is nothing fantastical about this condition” answers the therapist, “a less charitable psychologist may simply disregard that young man’s ‘powers’ as hallucinations since they are only based off how he subjectively views other people.”

He continues with his explanation “that is why he was unable to tell two people that he perceived as ‘Green’ apart. After you, the great blue ocean that you are, had a sudden change of heart, he perceived your ‘soul’ as that of a different person, due to his flawed judgement of your surface-level change in persona.”

“Hmm, alright, but that still doesn’t change why he couldn’t tell us apart without his color-personality hallucinations” the culprit says, “It’s not like he was blind as well.”

“Not blind, but face-blind” the therapist says.

“What?” the culprit says incredulously.

“It’s called Prosopagnosia. He generally just tells people apart by their hair, height, and clothes, but since you and the older man were similar in those regards, he had to rely on your colors to tell you apart” the therapist says, “it took a lot of testing to convince him that he had that condition. He was so adamant on insisting that he was ‘normal’.”

“Huh, so even he had a condition like that” the culprit says, contemplatively, “what about the others. What about that girl?”

“Her?” the therapist says, caught by surprise for a moment before beginning to smile at the culprit’s touching concern, “her condition is much simpler, she was highly empathic and sensed her exceedingly accurate judgements of people’s personalities as noise. It should have been a very easy condition to diagnose, but her Schizophrenic auditory hallucinations somewhat complicated my analysis.”

“Schizophrenia” the culprit muses, “I had thought her condition was more like mine, but that makes more sense.”

The therapist lets out a good-natured laugh, “well there was certainly something about you that made her open up to you more quickly than anyone else. It took me at least a dozen meetings to get her to speak. She just kept having those panic attacks whenever I was nearby.”

The culprit lets out a mocking laugh, “that’s to be expected. You try to pretend that you’re extremely empathic and all that, but deep down you’re just an awkward little kid.”

The culprit quickly transitions into another line of questioning, “speaking of awkward children, what about that strange older man?”

“Wow, that was extremely rude” the therapist notes, “it’s a good thing he’s not here so I don’t have to lie and tell you that your judgement is false. His condition is a little bit more complex. His sense of empathy is crossed with the part of his brain that recognizes quantities of objects.”

“Counting is its own sense?” asks the culprit, “I didn’t know that.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s a sense per say” the therapist explains, “that’s why I said that the Professor’s explanation was incomplete. From what I’ve seen Pneumasthesia can include the crossing of empathy with less straightforward neurological processes.”

“Is that the reason why his judgement of other people was so flawed?” the culprit asks, “he even thought that I was kind and ‘complete’ or some nonsense like that.”

“I wouldn’t say that particular judgement of his was entirely wrong” the therapist says with a smile, “the fact that he is on the autism spectrum is probably the reason for his somewhat, let’s go with ‘awkward’ empathic senses.”

“Autism?” exclaims the culprit, nearly tripping on the stairs as the two pneumasthetes walk up them to her room, “that makes sense, but I wouldn’t have expected it from the way he acted.”

“Me neither” the therapist laughs to himself, and at himself, “I feel ashamed as a psychologist to have been so closeminded as to think that someone so functional in social situations couldn’t be autistic. He was simply well adjusted to working with his condition.”

The culprit is silent for a bit, reevaluating her judgement of the older man, before speaking up, “and what about that old lady? What was her deal?”

“Her ‘deal’, as you put it so crudely, is memory loss” the therapist answers.

“And what about her type of pneumasthesia?” the culprit probes.

“She didn’t have it, at least I’d wouldn’t say so from what I gathered” the therapist says with a shrug, “the Professor misdiagnosed her. These things happen.”

“Oh” the culprit ruminates on this thought before realizing something and speaking up, “wait, but what about yours and my conditions? That’s what I was asking about at the start and you didn’t answer.”

“Yes, yes, yes, of course. I was getting to that” the therapist says with a laugh, “I was just taking my time to ease into that whole complex affair.”

The therapist takes a deep breath as the two reach the floor that the culprit’s room is on, then begins his explanation, “my condition is fairly simple to explain because it’s the basis for the initial theory that guided the Professor’s research after he examined me. My sense of empathy is crossed with the part of my brain that recognizes visual information, but because my eyes do not function due to a birth defect, that part of my brain works entirely on processing empathic information, causing me to ‘see’ people’s thoughts and emotions with great clarity.”

“That’s basically what I figured that it was” the culprit says, “but you would only be able to see people’s current thoughts, right? How does that lead to seeing people’s memories?”

“That’s where your peculiar condition comes in” the therapist says, “I theorize that your sense of empathy, that being your subjective judgement of other people’s personalities, has been crossed with your long-term memory.”

The culprit appears befuddled by this explanation, “what exactly does that mean?”

“It means that when you first see a person, you judge them as possessing a particular set of personality traits, you then associate those traits with a familiar personality archetype in your head” the therapist theorizes, “in your case people are conflated with the archetypal Arcana of the Tarot.”

“So in simple terms, it’s a crossing of memory and empathy” the culprit suggests.

“Yes, you could say that” the therapist says.

“And you said it’s based off my ‘subjective judgement’, not anything more concrete than that” the culprit says.

“Yes, it’s no different than that young man’s condition” the therapist agrees, “well there is one difference, because this condition causes you to associate people you’ve just met with familiar archetypes, it causes you to falsely assume familiarity with people, potentially leading to an inflated sense of your own accuracy in your judgement of people’s personalities.”

The culprit gives a sharp laugh in response to this statement, “well, if you put it like that, it can hardly be considered a superpower at all, it’s basically a curse!”

The therapist does not smile in response to this self-deprecation, “I wouldn’t say it’s bad exactly. It’s just a different way to see the world.”

The culprit turns her head away from her therapist, “you are nice, you know that. Saying these things to me even after what I’ve done. Calling me a man and all that.”

“You may be a murderer, but your life is still your own” the therapist states without hesitating, “you should be able to enjoy it however you are able and make your own choices about how you want to spend it, and who you want to spend it being, so of course I’ll support your transition.”

The culprit turns his head back to his therapist, a wry smile on his effeminate face, “you’re sure that you don’t want to diagnose me with some sort of self-hating delusion? Something to do with my bipolar personality disorder, or whatever they call it?”

The therapist returns his patient’s mocking smirk, “it doesn’t matter if you believe you’re a man because you’re crazy or not. If it makes you happy, and you’re not hurting anyone, it’s not my job to tell you what to do.”

The duo begins to laugh to themselves as they stand in front of the entrance to the culprit’s room. The culprit stands with his back to the closed door, clearly not wanting to retreat to his quarters alone again.

After a moment of contemplation, the culprit speaks up, “so I know what my condition is, but how did that whole ‘memory trip’ thing happen?”

The therapist turns away for a moment and speaks with less confidence than usual, “I’m not fully sure in this case. That one was a first for me too. I just had a theory that if the two of us stimulated our empathy and memories with a few pointed questions, that something potentially therapeutic might happen. I can’t be sure that what I experienced was the same as what you experienced, but I have a vague idea as to why it happened.”

The therapist continues, “my condition causes me to perceive the emotions or others as if they were my own vision, and your condition causes you to perceive the emotions of others as part of your memory, so perhaps when the two of us began to look into each other’s heads, the thoughts of others and your memories were temporarily entangled, causing us to witness the memories of other people.”

“That seems like a leap of logic” the culprit says, “something like definitely sounds like Sci-fi nonsense. It’s not like either of us ever witnessed those memories ourselves, so how could they have been in our heads?”

“I don’t think those were anyone’s memories” the therapist says, “I think they might have been our own fabrications of what we thought their memories might have been.”

The culprit stares back at his therapist incredulously, “you mean that those things we witnessed were not the truth, that we just made them all up and thought they were other people’s memories?”

“Perhaps” the therapist reluctantly says.

The culprit slumps back on the door, “you’re telling me that none of that was what really happened?”

“No” the therapist answers, “but just because it was not true, doesn’t mean it can’t be useful to believe in it.”

The culprit answers back, “how can a lie help me understand the truth of myself any better?”

The therapist takes a long pause, contemplating how to say this, and finally speaks “all observation is a lie that our brains tell us. We have no way to know if our experience of the world is true, so all people experience their own false truth. I think that we should be allowed to believe in whatever lie about reality helps us live better.”

“I refuse to live a life built on a lie” the culprit states flatly.

The therapist looks disappointed, but not surprised, “I understand, but I think that lie did do good for you.” The culprit looks away, unwilling to admit to it. The therapist continues, “please, just think about it.”

The culprit does not respond, taking a long moment to sort through his thoughts. He doesn’t seem to come to a conclusion, and simply pushes those thoughts aside before saying, “so tell me, what actually happened, in the objective reality?”

The therapist gives a sad smile and begins to recount the “true” story of events, “what actually happened was that after we discovered the body, the police were called over and all of the people present were taken under custody for questioning. I was suspected at first, but suspicion was quickly dropped after it was discovered that I was blind. The investigation took quite a while, but after some handprint analysis on bloodstains found on the gun and the determination that you had Bipolar Personality Disorder, you were charged with the crime.”

“What does me being bipolar have to do with anything?” the culprit asks.

The therapist sighs, digging up unpleasant memories, “that investigation was not pretty. The police interrogated all the guests rather forcefully. Everyone present was considered guilty until proven innocent owing to their mental illnesses. The detectives in charge thought that any one of us could have been a psychopathic murderer. When they finally determined you to possess violent mood swings, they indicted you without any further investigation.”

“Are you saying that I may not have killed the Professor” the culprit questions, a faint note of hope in his voice.

“Do you truly not remember at all what happened in that room on that night?” the therapist asks.

“No” the culprit answers, “it’s all just a blur. It frightened me, thinking what I might have done in that moment.”

“You must have had some selective memory loss” the therapist postulates, “perhaps by separating your memory of yourself from your own personal memory, you constructed an archetypal personality distinct from yourself that you could blame for your own past actions.”

The culprit looks away from his therapist, ashamed. The therapist puts his hand on his patient’s shoulder, having to reach up quite a distance to do so, “it must have been an unconscious self-defense mechanism. Something like that is very common among sufferers of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I’d know, I’ve had a lot of experience working with that condition.”

“Don’t tell me that you’re about to admit to having that condition too?” the culprit jokes.

“No, no, no” the therapist laughs, “but a previous patient of mine that you might know quite well did. One of my responsibilities as his assistant was to help him deal with his condition and calm him down when it flared up.”

The culprit is incredulous once again, “you mean to say that the Professor had PTSD? Is that why he shot at that girl in such a panic?”

“I believe so” the therapist says with a sigh, “his symptoms were very severe: hallucinations, panic attacks, violent tendencies. That wasn’t the first time that he’d struck out at some ghost of his mind’s invention, neither was it the last.”

“What do you mean?” the culprit asks.

“At the scene of the crime” the therapist hesitates, then speaks, “there were signs of a struggle.”

“What? I don’t remember any struggle.” The culprit says, realization beginning to dawn on him.

“From investigation that was done after the case was laid to rest, evidence was found that may suggest that the Professor was the one who attacked first, not you” the therapist says, looking his patient straight in the eye, at least as accurately as he can manage.

“You mean…” the culprit slides down the door he is leaning against and crumples down to the floor, “I killed him in self-defense?!”

“It is possible” the therapist says, “he was in a dangerous state of mind. Seeing you enter with a gun, he may have attacked you, and in the confusion, you may have accidentally ended his life without having truly intended to from the start. After a traumatic experience like that, you could have shut away that memory and convinced yourself that killing the Professor was not a mistake made in the heat of the moment, but a calculated plot from the beginning.”

The culprit holds his knees close to his chest and chuckles a bit to himself, “that seems like something I’d do. Even in a time like that, I couldn’t admit to myself that I could have made a mistake. That is some seriously destructive self-love.”

“Perhaps it was done out of self-hate, not self-love” the therapist suggests. The culprit stops laughing at this suggestion and looks away.

The two are silent for a long few seconds. Then, the therapist reaches his hand down to his patient to help him get up. As soon as he does this, the culprit stand up on his own, a smile having erased all other emotion that was on his face before.

“One last question” he blurts out, “I never got your name. What is it, in full?”

The therapist is taken aback, for numerous reasons, “I could have sworn that I introduced myself properly when we started the therapy session today.”

“You probably did, but I didn’t pay attention” the culprit says without any shame, “so tell me it again.”

The therapist seems mildly offended but shakes it off and says, “Peter Eric Tomas-Jacobs, that’s my full name.”

“Doesn’t that make your initials PETJ?” the culprit questions, “I thought you were the ‘PET’.”

“Well, at the time that we first met, my name was only Peter Eric Tomas” Peter answers, “the second family name is a recent addition.”

The culprit stares blankly as he ponders why this could be, before suddenly realizing. He shouts out, “y-y-you mean that you got married?”

Peter places his hand over his patient’s mouth to prevent the sound from traveling through the echoing psych ward hallway and says, “quiet down! I can’t let anyone else know that I’m married. The people here don’t even know that I have a boyfriend.”

The culprit looks more incredulous than he’s been throughout his entire pseudo-psychic mind-trip. His mouth is so agape beneath his therapists’ hand that he almost accidentally bites down on that hand. Eventually he whispers, “you swing that way?”

Peter gives a big smile, “yes, of course I’m into men, why do you think that I was flirting with you before?”

“So you were flirting with me!” the culprit shouts out and then realizes how loud he is being and shuts his own mouth.

“Of course not. I’m a happy newlywed, even if the two of us haven’t gotten the union properly officiated. Besides, if me and you were together than I’d be Mr. Tomas-Rider, which is a name I don’t like nearly as much, though when I do get my doctorate, Dr. Rider would be a pretty cool name” Peter muses to himself, “oh that reminds me, you probably don’t go by Regina anymore, so what should I call you now? Wait, let me guess … Reginald is your new name, right?”

“I go by Rex” says the culprit.

“Like, the dog name?” says Peter, now his turn to be incredulous.

“I think it’s a cool name, Rex Rider” the culprit chuckles to himself with unabashed pride, “it struck fear in the hearts of all the girls I faced in the ring when I was in prison.”

“Oh right, I do remember that in your file” Peter says, “you were the undefeated boxing champ at the woman’s prison. The resident therapist at that prison wrote about it as evidence of your ‘persistent innate violent tendencies’.”

“It’s not my fault if I’m good at being a boxer” the culprit says, pride not fading one bit, “I have the physique of a natural-born man and all the time in the world to train. I just wish I could have some opponents more my size.”

Peter smiles at that, happy that his patient has some hopes for the future, no matter how small, “if I can prove to the world that your condition is real and not just some dangerous hallucination, then you might be able to get out of this place and do some real boxing.”

The culprit smiles, joy and melancholy both mixed in his expression, before turning away, opening the door to his quarters and entering, “then I’ll be waiting for you, as long as necessary, my savior.”

Peter looks blankly down at his toes, smiling the same smile, “you might have to wait for a while yet, maybe longer than a lifetime.”

The culprit’s expression does not change, “That’s fine. I expected that, but I’m glad you’re trying, for everyone’s sake.”

The culprit suddenly turns back, startling his “savior”, and says “there’s one more thing that I want to tell you?”

Peter answers back in an apprehensive tone, “what is it?”

“I just need to get this off my chest?”

“Yes?”

“I need to tell you how I feel.”

“You feel …”

“I… I…”

“…”

“I really don’t like you.”

“I could say the same thing.”

“Then go on and say it, right to my face.”

“I absolutely despise you.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But it’s what you meant.”

“You know me so well. That’s definitely what I hate the most about you.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“I hope I never see you again.”

“I wish for the same, but it seems that we can’t be rid of each other that easily.”

“What a shame.”

“Well, see you tomorrow?”

“I will, but I don’t think that you will see me any time soon.”

“If you make that joke one more time, I will have you sent back to the prison.”

“Well, fuck you too!”

“Fuck you and I’ll see you tomorrow!”

“Fantastic, I’d love that!”

“The feeling is mutual!”

The culprit slams his door on his therapist, the widest smiles of each of the pair’s lives on their faces. It had been an eternity, it had been several years, it had been a few hours, but at long last, they could finally begin, to understand.

[likeawildthing]

in full transparency, last night i asked for you all to share the things you’re missing and grieving. I thought I could hold a place on this blog for the collective grief we are all feeling, even for one ask session. but it became too much. everyone is properly upset and I apparently don’t have capacity right now to offer words of support to all. And I don’t necessarily think that I need to.  It’s okay that this sucks. There is a moment of collective grief we’re all feeling, we are all missing different things. It’s okay not to compare your loss to someone else’s. A loss felt by you is still a loss. We’re all coping, yeah? but i did read all of your responses, and I’m putting them under the cut if anyone wants to read. I hope you do give it a read because it does affirm that we aren’t alone. 

love you all <3 <3 <3

anonymous: My bf broke up with me cause he couldn’t handle the distance due to corona... now I grieve what we could’ve been. I miss him so much.

anonymous: grieving the loss of my senior year of college, my cancelled thesis, my graduation, my job, and my application to grad school which is postponed indefinitely while I work out the requirements. Would love suggestions on how to fill the void 

anonymous: i'm grieving the loss of my racing season. i didn't think it was as devastating as it would be but losing all the work that my team put in for years to get where we are today and losing the chance to prove ourselves at nationals.... has been just that... devastating. i can say though that this quarantine has brought the team close together and i am finding myself. thank god i have the ability to but i am looking at myself as a person instead of just a student, athlete, etc. and figuring out myself in the process. whether that means hobbies, what to do with my future, or just what fulfills me, i'm learning a lot of things about myself. also the weather was gorgeous out today and i was able to get a walk with my dad in after my workout. beautiful!!! also made banana bread and have a zoom call with my teammates for sunday breakfast tomorrow. (GOOD VIBES!!!) 

anonymous: Due to quarantine I can’t see my significant other for an indeterminate amount of time since we’re long distance and I’m an at-risk person. We’re trying to fill the distance with FaceTime calls but it’s still really hard, mostly because we’re just stuck and don’t know for how long :(

anonymous: I used to volunteer at an op shop every sunday with two of my favourite people. The customers sucked, but we played disney and had a blast and would sometimes do dinner or games after it. I miss it so much. To make up for it, we send regular pictures of our pets, do video calls on sundays and play an online pictionary type game to laugh at each other's terrible drawing skills :') 

anonymous: In Germany we are allowed to see one other person at a time. I miss meeting more than one friend. As an autistic girl, communication can be hard and it's easier when you are with three people, cause you can just let them talk and no one focuses on you the entire time. You can just listen and not talk for a bit. 

anonymous: I'm a costume designer and after a few years of assisting I finally finally got hired as the lead designer for Matilda. Which of course then got cancelled, and may be pulled from the season completly if we can't reopen by June. So I have all of these fabric samples and sketches that hurt my heart to look at but that I can't bear or risk throwing out.

@empiresprincess  I’m grieving making music, running a musical, being with young weird enthusiastic youths, and my health. Also seeing my mom or a few my more beloved friends. I’m snuggling my dog, watching my fav youtuber, rewatching comforting media, trying to take care of myself and to let others know when I really need help. Oh and Im working on not judging myself too harshly.

anonymous:  i was just finishing my second quarter at ucla when everything got shut down, and like.. it kinda sucks. i busted ass to get accepted to my dream school, pulled all nighter after all nighter at community college and finally transferred to ucla. i was JUST starting to feel like i had a place there. winter quarter was when i made some really good professor friends, started to get into the swing of things, adn that was when i realized i genuinely WANTED to go to grad school in the uk and get a phd  and one day teach. then overnight im back home struggling w online classes and it just feels like im back to square one? they haven't cut our tuition costs either, and i feel like im paying so much for a whole experience, which now is just zoom university. ;~; i know its not the end of the world, but its sad and i miss my roommates. still, i guess it could be worse. i feel bad for the seniors who are ending their ucla journey with this. also my boyfriend and i have been doing long distance for  nearly a year, and our one-year anniversary is coming up in a few days. i really thought we'd at least be able to spend that together, but he's an international student and he had to go back to india bc of covid. ;~; i miss him a lot and im terrified that the increased distance/time difference will cause us to just fizzle out. its not like we don't love each other a lot, but such limited contact (he can't ft bc his dad doesn't know about us, and so we only call like 3 times a week for 10 mins) makes it hard.. i haven't seen him in almost three months now, and it's just sad, even though i know its not either of us's fault. anywho!! this got really long; sorry about that!! in the grand scheme of things this isn't that bad though, so i'm trying to grieve the losses (and the loss of being back home, oof!) while still keeping an eye out for some of the good things to come. take care linds i hope you're safe and doing better

anonymous:  On one level I am literally grieving the loss of a family member to the virus, but on another I am grieving the loss of my usual life (I had to move back in with my parents temporarily after being on my own for 4 years) and my student (our governor just announced that schools are closed for the rest of the year and I feel like I never ever got to say good bye). I've been filling the void by writing fanfic, but even that has been hard as I have no privacy anymore. I keep getting interrupted.

[adhdtoomanycommas]

ADHD, Gifted Programs, and Accidental Accommodations

So one big thing has been on my mind pretty consistently since I got diagnosed last year at the age of 30—why did it take so long to figure this out?  At no point in my K-12 education or my 4 year bachelor’s degree schooling did any teacher or counselor question or suggest I may have ADHD, despite the fact that I check nearly every single box on every diagnostic criteria (both inattentive and hyperactive!)

One obvious reason is sexism.  Pretty early in my reading on the subject, I learned that ADHD is dramatically under-diagnosed in girls and women. Partly this is because of different presentations, but a lot of it is just that the stereotype people have in their heads of what an ADHD kid looks like is always a boy.  

But the other big reason, and the one I want to talk about today, is the fact that one of the few ADHD diagnostic boxes that I didn’t check was “bad grades.”  So really, the question is, why weren’t my grades bad?

That’s not to say I was especially good at school work. My backpacks, desks, and binders were always a complete mess, and I NEVER did the homework.  I would do the big projects (at the last possible second, of course) but daily homework just straight up didn’t happen.   If there was time left at the end of class I would sometimes quickly do the homework for the next day, and occasionally jot down some approximation of it in the minute or two before class started, but when I was actually at home, I never touched it.

But here’s the thing with ADHD brains:  We can focus on things with no problem, as long as we find them interesting.  And I’ve always read quickly enough that doing the reading for class was usually interesting. And for the most part, the class content itself usually seemed interesting enough.    But probably most importantly, I consider tests interesting. There’s always been enough of a challenge racing-the-clock game-like aspect to them to me that I would stay engaged on the tests, and even if didn’t completely know the material, I was good at using logic to get a pretty good guess (like using all those tricks they teach for standardized tests—narrowing down the options on a multiple choice question, looking for answers in the other questions, etc.)

So even in the classes where turning in the daily homework counted for part of the grade (math and language classes mostly) I was usually able to scrape a B with only the occasional C thrown in,  and everything else was A’s.  

But part of my saving grace was the “gifted” classes.  I was very lucky that, despite not knowing about her own (probable) ADHD,  my mom knew enough about how she worked as a student to know that me (and my brother) really needed to be engaged and challenged in order to thrive.  Because of this, she advocated for us hard—she insisted we be allowed in my elementary school’s “gifted” program in kindergarten (based on our test scores of course)  even though the “gifted” program officially wasn’t even available until first grade.  And when we moved to a different state, she advocated for us again and got us included even though the “gifted” class was “full.”   She knew that nothing would make us fail faster than being bored in class, so she made sure that there was at least one day a week when we would be challenged and actually get to engage with material we found interesting.  

Aside,  despite how essential they were for me to thrive in school,  the entire concept of “gifted” programs and “gifted” kids is problematic as hell.  Half of the screening is basically just looking for class signifiers and seeing whose parents had enough free time to give them a head start (or whose parents have the time to advocate for their kids the way my mom did for me).  Not to mention there’s likely a massive racial bias. So in all this discussion of why I did ok despite my ADHD, it’s important to note that there’s a lot of privilege at play here determining who gets access to these types of programs.  

This is also why I keep putting “gifted” in quotes--  I don’t think there is anything inherent about academic ability. Also, academic ability, reading ability, testing aptitude, etc. are definitely not indicative of intelligence. Plus the entire concept of the measurability of intelligence is based on eugenics ideas, so clearly one should take the whole thing with a huge grain of salt.

Nowadays the term all the parenting blogs like to use for kids like me, with ADHD (or dyslexia, or autism, or whatever else) who also test well enough to be flagged as “gifted,”  is “Twice Exceptional”  which is a term that makes me immediately want to punch whoever uses it. Seriously,  it makes me gag.  Like, it doubles down on the “special” euphemism and seems entirely designed to make parents feel better about their kid without any consideration to how the kid feels.  No kid wants to be singled out, especially one who’s already probably pretty socially isolated (which I could digress about but that’ll be another essay for another day), and being Twice singled out certainly doesn’t help anything.  

But ultimately the teaching in the “gifted” class itself wound up being really good accommodations for ADHD. I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if they were better than the accommodations in the separate classes actually intended for kids with ADHD and other learning issues, though since I wasn’t diagnosed as I kid I can’t actually speak to that as I don’t have any experience there.  But in the gifted classes, firstly, we were given more specific subjects as opposed to the overviews we got in regular classes.  And it’s way easier to be engaged on specific subjects like ice age mammals, or the wreck of the Titanic, than it is to be engaged with a broad list of dates or categories.  We did logic problems that were presented as games, but that were indirectly teaching us the basics for higher level math. In 6th grade, we did research projects and got to pick our own subjects completely, so we could write about whatever we were hyperfixating on at the moment (mine was on medieval warfare as depicted in the Bayeux tapestry).   And if we happened to get excited and blurt out an interesting fact vaguely related to whatever was being discussed, that was likely encouraged instead of reprimanded like it would be in the normal classroom. This continued into high school, as honors and AP level classes tended to be a lot more discussion based rather than the top-down approach at other levels, as well as affording more opportunity to choose one’s own subjects.

The story you’ll hear from (or about) a lot of ADHD kids (especially undiagnosed) flagged as “gifted” is of hitting a wall at some point, academically speaking.  That did happen to me briefly, in middle school. We started being assigned a lot more long-term projects, and there was a bit of a learning curve while I figured out how to put things off Until the last minute and not Past the last minute.  But thanks to some patient teachers who believed in me (which I might not have had outside of honors classes), I managed to pull out of it and improve my grades (with the exception of the only report-card F of my entire academic career, from a sadistic gym teacher who seemed to think that enough berating would cure asthma).

Even more stories I’ve read and heard from people who were diagnosed with ADHD as an adult say they hit that wall academically when they started college—the first time they were really self-guided in their studies.  But again, there, I was saved by an honors program.  In this case,  it was the Honors Tutorial College,  a truly strange program at Ohio University.  I was tracked into HTC by one particular professor who very much wanted HTC to expand into the art program and decided that because I had both strong test scores and a strong art portfolio (and probably, lets be real, because I was the daughter of one of the other professors) that I was the perfect person to be the first student in the new program.

OU’s website describes HTC as “flexible curriculum and one-on-one tutorials with renowned faculty that allow your curiosity to take the lead in your education.” It’s rigorous, but comes with a lot of perks, like waiving certain gen-ed classes,  being able to take classes without first taking the required prerequisites,  and designing one’s own independent study classes individually with instructors.  And those perks are (as far as I know entirely accidentally) the perfect accommodations for an ADHD student (and probably pretty good for Autistic ones as well, based on some of my peers in the program).

A lot of the gen-ed classes I waived were ones I probably would have been bored in and thusly not done well.  Being able to skip pre-reqs meant that, for instance, for my English requirements I was able to take far more interesting classes like Shakespeare’s Comedies,  YA Lit,  and Playwriting instead of English 101, 102 etc.  If I wanted to learn about something in particular, I had help finding a professor willing to help me in an independent study/tutorial class.  Being the pilot of the program meant I was able to shape it so that I could get an art degree without ever having to choose one medium (which as far as I know is still an option for anyone pursuing an HTC Studio Art degree).  And at the end of the program, when we were required to complete a massive thesis project and paper (at basically graduate level), not only could I choose my subject to meet my hyperfixations, but I had individual help from a professor keeping me on task on the less-fun parts at every step of the way.  

HTC students are required to keep their GPAs above a high threshold. At one point one of my grades (in Latin class) was low enough to hurt my average, and I was called into HTC headquarters for a check-in meeting.  I was asked why my grade had fallen, and I explained that the class wasn’t that interesting (at that level it was mostly grammar) but that it was getting better as we were moving up into translating more actual historical material. That explanation was entirely accepted.  Imagine if “it’s not interesting enough” was considered a valid excuse for grades slipping for everyone, how much less stressful school would be for ADHD kids!

So ultimately it’s pretty much been having the luck and privilege to get myself flagged for “gifted” classes that kept my grades up throughout my school years.  Accidental accommodations have continued into my adult life as well. At my most recent office job, for instance (which I lost due to covid layoffs), I had a pretty hands-off boss who just didn’t care if I doodled, got up to stretch my legs every once in a while, and listened to audiobooks at my desk all day as long as the work got done.  

I didn’t need a diagnosis to get these accommodations, because they were given freely, which meant I was able to succeed even without knowing about my own ADHD.  If I had been diagnosed, and had had to ask for accommodations, I wonder if I would have done as well as bias against people with ADHD means people wouldn’t have expected as much from me.  

So if you’ve made it this far, I’ll ask for the same for others that I got for myself.  If you are a teacher (or a manager in an office setting),  I strongly encourage you to consider how to make your classroom, office, etc. more accessible in general, without someone having to disclose a diagnosis or be singled out for accommodations.  The biggest easiest one you can do is to allow (or even encourage) doodling in lecture settings. Even for neurotypicals,  there have been plenty of studies proving people retain information better when doodling, so everyone should know by now that someone doodling doesn’t mean they’re not listening.   If at all possible, encourage discussion and contribution.  Give everyone breaks to stretch and move around.  And give as much freedom as possible on what to learn about.  You might be surprised what people are capable of when these reasonable steps are taken to give everyone room to thrive.  

That’s all for now,  hopefully you got something out of this unwieldy ramble.   I’d be curious to hear if you’ve run into any accidental accommodations in your life and how they’ve helped.  Until next time!

[broken-clover]

ACC Day 10- Labels

TwT I thought I was doing so well...I made another long one today, which might explain why it’s late. Hope you can forgive me. This was a fun prompt! It was nice to do something a bit unusual with it. Hope you all enjoy!

Today I’m using Roy Carmine from Blazblue, along with some Roylitchi because I can’t help it. It’s also a bit more headcanon-heavy, with autistic bisexual trans man Roy because those are all the ones I have for him.

No matter what, Roy would always remember the first time he met Litchi. Partly because it was one of the biggest social blunders he had ever made, and his anxiety absolutely refused to let it go.

He had been distracted that day, worrying so much about Kokonoe’s project and finding a way to pick up the new temp that he’d wound up plowing right into her as he rounded the corner.

The combination of embarrassment from his own clumsiness and flustered awkwardness from how pretty the new trainee was made him stumble over his words without thinking. Litchi, Litchi, she had such a pretty name. How had Kokonoe not mentioned it until now?

“I-I thought so. I’m Lotte Carmine-”

A sense of dread rose up his chest, and he desperately hoped that Litchi hadn’t heard him right. Did his voice crack? Did he sound funny? This was the last thing he wanted to do upon meeting a new person. After trying so hard to make sure nobody called him that, why did he just go ahead and do it himself?

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Carmine!”

He let out a little exhale internally. Mr. Carmine. She called him Mr. Carmine.

“Oh, feel free to call me Roy.” Maybe he could pass it off as a nickname?

Litchi seemed to take it in stride. Before he knew it, they were falling into an amicable chat, only to be interrupted by Kokonoe. Even as aggravating as she could be, Roy was secretly relieved that Kokonoe wouldn’t stoop to calling him the wrong name on purpose.

He’d always thought Lotte was a dumb name, even for a girl. He didn’t know what had possessed his parents to pick it. He had started going by Roy way back when he was a teenager, when he finally had a word to describe why it felt so wrong when people called him a ‘cute young lady.’ He bemoaned his short stature and higher-pitched voice, but after finding a good binder, cutting his hair short, and finding other little tricks to help him present in a more masculine way, he felt far more comfortable in his own skin.

Even beyond that, though, Roy struggled on how he wanted to label himself. He knew his neurotic personality and social struggles weren’t related to his gender. He wasn’t even sure how to classify his preferences when it came to other people. He knew he loved Litchi, whether she liked him back or not, but he wasn’t entirely sure if he was limited to women. And if he wasn’t, was that bad?

The more he worked with Litchi, the more he realized that there were a lot of secrets she didn’t know about him. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to spill everything all at once. How would she respond? He didn’t want to scare her away.

Would Litchi still like him if he told her everything?

++++++

The first time he let something slip, she had come over to his quarters for dinner. It wasn’t anything fancy, but the experiments had been going well, and they felt like a little celebration had been in order. They’d migrated to the couch afterwards, turning on a sci-fi flick that, to his delight, Litchi enjoyed just as much as he did.

“Wow, the effects in this are excellent!” She said, watching a mechanical monster shudder to life with a roar.

“The casting isn’t too shabby, either. I never expected the main lead to be so well-cast, the guy who did this usually does lower-budget stuff.” He replied with a smile.

Litchi nodded. “He’s rather handsome, too. Something about him.”

“I agree!” Roy felt the blood leave his face as soon as he spoke. Why hadn’t he been thinking?

After a moment, he decided that there wasn’t much of a better time. “Ah...Litchi? Is it okay if I ask you something?”

“Sure, Roy, what is it?” She didn’t seem at all aware of his nervousness as she turned to look at him.

“I’m not entirely sure on this, but...I think I might be bisexual.”

Litchi’s expression didn’t waver. “Oh?”

He didn’t know how to properly respond. “Is that...okay?”

She smiled at him. “Of course it is. I certainly wouldn’t judge you for it. I’m just glad you felt like you could be open with me.”

In that split-second, Roy fell even more in love.

++++++

The second time had come a lot sooner than he would have liked. Then again, his meltdowns often did, too. Unlike the first, it had been the exact opposite of a good day. The lab studies had turned up virtually nothing new for days, the all-nighters had left him on less than four hours of sleep, and Kokonoe had been so annoyed by Relius’ visit that she’d practically thrown the coffee he had made right back in his face. Roy was exhausted, overstimulated, and miserable, which was how he had wound up in the breakroom corner, rocking back and forth while yanking at his hair.

It was embarrassing to have a meltdown in public, but it wasn’t something he could stop. His shirt was wet and gross but he couldn’t take it off, and he was pretty sure it had gotten to his binder, too. He wasn’t sure if he had another clean shirt back at home, but he couldn’t focus enough to get out of his ball on the floor and check.

“Roy?”

In most cases, hearing more voices while he was overstimulated just made things worse. He could recognize Litchi’s voice immediately, though, silky-soft and gentle.

“Roy, are you okay?” She knelt down in front of him. There was concern in her eyes.

He wished he could have responded properly. Talking was too much for him to handle at the moment. The closest he could manage was a gasp and a shudder.

Litchi extended a hand. “Is it alright if I touch you? I just want to make sure you aren’t injured.”

That was something he was pretty sure he could tolerate. Roy managed a nod, and practically melted into Litchi’s warm, careful touch. It was oddly soothing as she meticulously ran fingers over his head and down the base of his neck in search of any wounds. She was sure to calmly explain what she was doing and why she was doing it while she worked, so he knew what was happening.

By the time she was finished, Roy could feel his muscles starting to unclench. He wasn’t prepared to start chatting again, but Litchi gave him another hand and helped him to his feet, which he managed.

“Come on, let’s go back to your room. I’m sure you’d rather get into some dry clothes.”

She was remarkably patient with him, and Roy couldn’t believe how lucky he had gotten. Litchi never snapped at him or glared. She was perfectly willing to wait outside while he changed, pulling on the comfiest shirt he had and wrapping his arms around himself.

“Is everything alright in there?”

“Mmhm.” He paused. “You can come in.”

“Do you feel a bit better now?” Litchi gave him a careful glance.

“A lot. Thanks for helping me…” His faint smile fell. He supposed there wasn’t much beating around the bush. “Litchi? Is it ok if I tell you something?”

“Of course, you can always talk to me.”

“I didn’t mean to cause such a mess earlier. I’m autistic, and I’m not very good at processing a lot of stress and sensory information all at once. Whenever it gets too much for me, I have a meltdown.”

She nodded affirmatively. “I see. I was wondering if it was something like that.”

“You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be?” She quirked an eyebrow in genuine puzzlement. “I’m just sorry I wasn’t able to help you sooner. If this starts happening again, just let me know, okay? However I can make it easier for you.”

A moment later, Roy threw his arms around her in a tight hug. She let him.

++++++

Roy wasn’t sure that he would have ever been quite ready to let his last little secret out. He and Litchi had been getting close, to the point where he was almost ready to ask her out on a real, bona-fide date. It felt like there were more important things to worry about. He was just waiting for the right time.

...He was bad at lying to himself.

“According to the weather schedule, it’s going to be excellent beach weather in the next few days.” Litchi spoke up over breakfast. “That sounds fun, doesn’t it? Nice weather, swimming...it’ll be good after such a long winter.”

He could already feel a bit of stress mounting. Excuses weren’t really his strong suit. Litchi sounded so excited about the concept, but it was the last place he wanted to go.

“I’m not really sure, Litchi. I’m not much of a beach person. Maybe somewhere else?”

“Really? You’ve sounded so excited for the weather to get warmer, I thought this would be something you’d love?”

Roy gave a shrug. “I’m not much of a swimmer.”

“Oh. Do you not know how? I can teach you.”

“No, it’s…” This wasn’t getting anywhere. He tried not to groan in frustration. “I just don’t want to, that’s all.” It came out far grumpier than he’d meant to, something he realized as soon as it came out of his mouth.

“...okay, then.” Litchi tried not to sound hurt, but Roy could hear it in her voice. She politely excused herself down to the lab, leaving him alone in the breakroom.

“Damn it…” He put his head in his hands, leaving his food untouched. The sound of shoes clicking made him flinch, but it wasn’t who he had been expecting. “Professor Kokonoe?”

“Trouble in paradise? Sounds like you’re being a lovestruck teenager again, Roy. What was that about?” Kokonoe’s face was in its permanent scowl, already chewing on a lollipop despite it being breakfast.

“I-it’s nothing. Litchi just wanted to go to the beach.”

“Oh.” She sounded utterly unphased. “Haven’t told her yet, then?”

Of course Kokonoe knew. She needed to have his medical files when he started working. He was still amazed she hadn’t let anything slip.

“I can’t think of a good reason to. That’s all.”

Kokonoe seemed even less impressed. “Bullshit. Look, I know this is a really difficult thing for you, but do you really think Litchi of all people is gonna care? Trying to keep secrets is just gonna stress you out.”

Roy faltered. “I...don’t know.”

For once, the professor’s severe expression faded. She placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s Litchi. She’s practically smitten with you already. I don’t think she’s suddenly gonna hate you for something like that.”

Loathe to admit it, she was actually making some good points. He didn’t want to consider the possibility of tiptoeing around Litchi forever. Maybe it would just be easier if he was upfront.

“Roy, have you seen-” Litchi cut herself off, spotting Kokonoe as she re-entered the room. “There you are, professor. I was just looking for you.”

“Yeah? Whattaya need?” She reached up to scratch one of her ears.

“I’ve made some adjustments to my calculations, I was wondering if you could proofread them?”

“That’s all? Yeah, yeah, I can look it over later. I’m sure it’s fine, you always double-check.”

Litchi was taken aback by the sudden response, but nodded. “Alright, then. I guess I’ll head back to work, then. Anything else before I go?”

“I got nothing.” While she spoke, Roy caught a look flashed in his direction, just for a split-second.

“Okay. Let me know if-”

“Litchi?”

The woman paused, turning back around. “Did you need something, Roy?”

“Sort of.” He wrung his hands together. “We’re honest with each other, right? Like the last time. I can tell you things, can’t I?”

Based on Litchi’s expression, she knew what he was recalling. “Absolutely, Roy. I want you to trust me. Is something wrong?”

His mind was yelling at him to stop talking, bail, emergency exit. Roy continued on anyway. “Maybe I should have told you earlier, but I was afraid. I didn’t know what you’d think of me. I wanted to be friends.”

“Roy…?”

“Remember back on the first day you came to work in the lab? When we first talked?”

She nodded silently.

“I told you my name was Lotte. That’s-” he tried to think of a good way to phrase it “-my birth name. My deadname. I’m a trans man.”

Litchi was silent. Roy braced himself for shouting, for disappointed looks, for anything she could possibly throw at him. He had finally told her, now all that was left was to see what came of it.

“...You aren’t binding with bandages, are you?”

“What?” He was so taken off-guard by the question, he could hardly respond. “N-no, of course I don’t.”

“Good.” There was a steely glint in the woman’s eyes. “I figured you’d know better, but I thought I’d ask just in case. I see why you wouldn’t want to go to the beach, then. I definitely don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, is there someplace else you’d like to- Roy, are you crying?”

Was he crying? He didn’t even notice until she mentioned it. It felt like a good cry, though. All the fear and paranoia that had been stockpiling for a long time all flooded out at once.

“C’mere…” Litchi pulled him in for a hug. He buried himself in her shoulder, tears of relief running down his face.

“You’re not mad?”

“Of course I’m not.” She left a kiss on his temple. “No matter what, you’re still Roy. And you’re still my friend.”

[atricksterproblem]

“Beyond this world of women who compensate for their traits so well that they go undetected for much of their lives is another group of “girls on the edge”—those who don’t quite meet the diagnostic criteria for autism but come close. These girls may well hold the keys to helping scientists fully understand sex and gender differences in autism, says Kevin Pelphrey, the Harrison-Wood Professor of Neurology at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville.

Pelphrey directs a network of colleagues around the United States who are investigating sex and gender differences in autism. All six sites of the project, funded by a National Institutes of Health grant, maintain records of such girls. The girls tend to be socially awkward but extremely interested in social interactions; they make eye contact but have restricted interests, albeit different from those seen in boys—“like an encyclopedic knowledge of Disney characters and their insights and their relationships, and you’re kind of like, ‘That’s terribly social; what do I do with that?’” Pelphrey says. “What we’ve decided to do with them is study them.”

HI HELLO IT’S ME

I had the worst time getting a diagnosis because of this. I went undetected entirely till I was in my 40s, and then when I went looking for a diagnosis finally I was sort of an edge case if you look at the official criteria. That said, there is No Fucking Way I could really be anything else. The official criteria, as discussed in the article I linked, are missing women and girls because the research isn’t including us and we often present differently than autistic boys and men.

Women with autism are much more likely to be undiagnosed till late in life. That means we don’t get the benefit of any support when we’re kids. No early interventions. No special programs. No real recognition that we’re struggling in any way beyond just “being weird”. The article also mentions that women tend to have additional diagnoses more often too, like depression and anxiety. My theory is that this lack of recognition and support has a fair bit to do with it. My own chronic depression started when I was 11 and the bullying kicked into high gear. There was nobody willing or able to help me. I was told to “try to act like the other kids” so it wouldn’t happen so much. This was too big of an ask, even had I wanted to.

Everything I know about trying to pass as a neurotypical person, I had to teach myself. It took a very long time and I’m only marginally successful even now. It’s honestly a miracle this came out as well as it did. I remember what I was like as a kid, and it was so much worse.

[autismus-obscurus]

Once again sorry for the lack of posting. I’m feeling completely overwhelmed right now. Everything seems to be happening at once and I just want to scream. [This isn’t an AAW post or anything, just a rant, I need to tell this to SOMEONE.]

First off, last friday, my brother celebrated his 30th birthday, which is cool. I like hanging out with him, he’s a cool dude, his wife is super sweet and they have a kid now. Preparing the room and allw as really fun as well. Just... the party had nobody even near my age except for his other half-sister who brought two friends and are very NT 18 yo glam girls. I literally did not know anyone and spent my time eating and standing around for everybody to see how unfit I was for this place. Plus, sleeping at a hotel without a decent pillow and my plush friends didn’t help.

The week has been tedious, I was out from 8am till midnight on tuesday, and had a five-hour class today, tomorrow I’ll be going to a concert, which I’ve been looking forward to for ages, but seems horrifiying in my current state. (Epica once again my folks, I love them but... why this week?) Then on Sunday I’m tutoring this kid and wanted to meet a friend.

Everybody seems to want decisions from me right now. I need to reschedule the exam I literally just got the appointment for, because it interferes with another exam on the same day that I didn’t know about. It’s not a big deal, really but UGH, really? (plus, some embarrassment about saying something about it to the professor of the second exam who looked pretty pissed, I don’t wanna get anyone in trouble and they’re all gonna think what an incompetent student I am for not handling this quietly like everyone else, can someone shut up my brain please)

I also have to make another decision that’s really hard for me: Tony Attwood’s seminar in Cologne which sounds really interesting - it deals with ASD symptoms in afab people and autistics suffering from depression which, let’s be honest here, would be useful information for me. But I’m also scared because what if he turns out to be awful? (I mean, I assume the room will be filled with parents, “specialists” and other NT students, who takes some blue-haired 21yo who stumbles over his words serious, even if I managed to speak up?) Plus, the day of the seminar is the same as my tattoo appointment. I can reschedule it two times without problem, but there are MORE possibilities of things interfering with my schedule in the future, because my college is a mess. I also don’t wanna cause any inconvenience to anyone because I can’t get my shit together. And I’m looking forward to the tattoo so much, I don’t want to wait longer :/

EDIT: Oh and of course the other artist I messaged and who didn’t respond for like 4 weeks (for valid reasons I’m sure) before I knew that the one I have an appointment for rn will be a lot more expensive than expected? Yeah she turned up again and while I’m more than willing to get this tattoo as well I’m just??? Too much pressure to respond??? Also money is a thing.

Tuesday was exhausting, because I had one psych class in which I learned I will need to do a presentation this semester (UGH), three language classes and then went to the cinema. I don't regret it, but the language thing leads me to something that’s been a huge problem, namely that a day only has 24 hours. Since the third semester I haven’t written shit. I’ve also eventually stopped drawing. My SpIn has been learning languages. But I just can’t do everything, and doing one takes time away from the other. I’ve been working on a little AU this week, I wrote a few pages, but it’s left me no time for all the other stuff I should have been doing and it feels terrible (I’m actually procrastinating my Dutch homework right now, is that not great?) I haven’t studied since at least Wednesday last week, and I have’t touched my Bachelor thesis since Sunday, I even tend to forget I need to do that, I don’t want to. I always play it off, saying, “oh well I’ll just do seven semesters instead” but there’s my supervisor who will probably start asking questions if I don’t get my shit together.

Oh and I also came out to my mom and a friend and made an appointment at a transgender counceling service, in secret, and have to get there without my dad (who works at the university and literally drives me there every day) noticing ((:

Overall, I will pick up on AAW when I feel able to, but life is just so exhausting right now, I don’t know what to do, I just want to sleep for 34759 days

[ekakinomi-forgrownups]

Questioning Neverland--My Thoughts On the Michael Jackson Controversy And Idol Worship In General

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Warning!

The following post deals with a disturbing, but important social issue that I feel people should know about. If you’re not in the mood to read that, however, use that symbol as a reminder to back away from this post and read another one.

10 days ago, HBO released a documentary called “Leaving Neverland”, which out-lines the lives of two men, Wade Robson and James Safechuck, who explain they were sexually abused by pop mega-star Michael Jackson as young boys for years, in disturbing detail.

The documentary explains how Mr. Jackson used a friendly facade to “befriend” the then-super-fans Robson and Safechuck at different times, and used his super-star glamour to charm and enchant their mothers into letting their little boys stay with this man (who, in both cases, only knew him for a few hours) at his Neverland Ranch, a sort of indoor amusement park for kids…which served a much more devious purpose than just a fun getaway with their favorite pop idol.

Because Mr. Jackson’s favorite attraction at that “park” was, in fact, his bed–where he took the boys almost immediately after meeting them…so that he could start touching them inappropriately, on a regular basis, for years and years–as if these innocent children were just his play-things. And many witnesses report that there were a lot more where that came from–no girls, no men, no women–just little boys. He even went as far as to buy an engagement ring for James Safechuck! (*shudders!*) And to ensure that nobody knew about this “dirty little secret”, he lied to the boys’ parents, brain-washed the boys into thinking that this was how people “show love” to one another, and anybody who would dare tell on him would either get paid huge sums of money to be quiet or be threatened with anything from jail-time to death.

This documentary practically shook the world when it came out–America in particular. It seems everybody’s taking sides now– one side who absolutely won’t defend him after what he did to innocent children, and another side, mostly loyal followers and family members (the Jackson Estate tried to stop HBO from releasing this documentary at first) who say that these men are compulsive liars and/or just out for his money, and that Jackson was just an innocent, child-like weirdo.

And then you’ll find people like me, who don’t know the real truth, and are confused and completely conflicted as to whether it’s better to burn or hug their posters and record collections. Now, I’m not saying I’m a fan of his work myself–but I have experienced this dilemma many times over the course of my life. In a different way than most, however.

You see, it’s odd, but when an autistic person loves something (and that can be anything from a pop star to, say, a pretty color scheme on a fictional character), they feel this sense of true love for that particular thing, and like it could never do us wrong in any way. So when anything even remotely bad does happen (and that can be anything from the character changing designs and getting an ugly new color scheme to the pop star turning out to be an abusive scum-bag), it’s complete emotional turmoil, and we feel like the thing we love had just been ruined for us forever. And this happens for two reasons–1. Autistics tend to think of things only one way or the other, and it’s weird for us to think of something in a neutral way. And 2., we’re way too emotional. Neurotypical (“normal”) people tend to think that we’re not able to feel any complex emotions or empathy. The truth of it is, we actually feel too many–far more than we can express sometimes.

There was a point where I felt like everything I love has been “ruined” for me at some point. To name just a few examples: “The Amazing World Of Gumball” had its aesthetic changed to something I don’t like after its first season. “Pastel Yumi”, a magical girl anime I really liked when I watched the first episode, turned out to have loads of fan-service (meaning characters acting sexy to please the audience) of the 10-year old protagonist. The “My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic” toys only became better-built and actually accurate to the show after I stopped liking the show (I stopped watching it after Season 3). And speaking of My Little Pony, even though I think Nightmare Moon had the prettiest color scheme of any character on the show, I’d feel bad for liking her more than Princess Luna, because call me a goody-two-shoes, but I usually don’t root for evil characters. And, the same goes for the Once-Ler from “The Lorax”.

Since then I’ve changed a lot, and I’ve started finding ways to cope with most of these things and “un-ruin�� them…but that’s because they’re all small things, mostly media of different types. I feel very differently on the matter of real people–which brings me back to empathy. While I’m all for #MeToo, it also devastated me. Not because a lot of my favorite creators and directors were being put out of jobs–but because they turned out to be horrible human beings that only think of women as helpless toys that they can stalk, grab and kiss whenever they want. I’ve never been in any of these situations (*knocks on wood*), but just hearing the fact that beautiful, innocent people are getting treated this badly just boils my blood and, at the same time, makes me want to cry for years.

Yet that still doesn’t stop me from watching the kids’ sit-coms created by Dan Schneider or the Disney/Pixar movies directed by John Lasseter, and it doesn’t stop me from wanting to check out The Loud House, which was created by Chris Savino.  All the men mentioned here were very talented, but all sexual predators themselves. Which brings me back to Michael Jackson.

He was a house-hold name when I was a kid, and my first knowledge of him came from both “The Simpsons” episode “Stark Raving Dad”, which featured his uncredited voice, and the Jackson 5 song “ABC”. But I got my first real exposure to his artistry and music during my Dad’s 50th birth-day party last October, where we all sat around, ate cake and watched music videos, and we played several of his hits in a row. I fell in love with the song “Remember The Time”. I also binge-watched that corny “Jackson 5ive” cartoon from the 70’s (which featured a huge portion of their early catalogue) the following November. So to be exposed to such amazing talent and good looks only to be compelled to forget about it all a few months later because he was a horrible person certainly boggled my mind a little. (Bad or confused reactions to sudden changes in plans are another casualty of autism which can be difficult to handle at times).

Suddenly, I begun to seriously ponder my own morals. If I’m a so-called “social justice warrior”, then how can I possibly still enjoy work made by awful people? If I care about minorities so much, then why do I still get joy out of art made by people who obviously don’t care about them? If I can’t bring myself to sympathize with people with such horrible attitudes, then why is it so hard to just ignore them completely? It’s going against my character, and it’s going against my own common sense. Yet if I push these things out of my life, my life will turn up-side-down. What’s a poor puzzled panuki like me to do?

Well, if there’s one up-side to this whole Michael Jackson thing, it’s that it gave the entire world a huge lesson in the dangers of idol worship. So naturally, everybody else is writing about the same types of issues I’m having with this, and how they choose to resolve them. I looked at some of the things they wrote for answers. After looking at the opinions of several different people, I finally found the one article that rang with me the most, and it was written by Constance Grady of Vox. It’s called “What do we do when the art we love was created by a monster?”. You can read it here, but to put it more shortly, this woman basically looked to 3 different literary professors for advice and reference, and they all explained different ways of separating art from artist through different types of methods, created by classical literature theorists. Ms. Grady presented each one in her article, and how it works, to show that there are many different ways of handling a situation like this. To quote Ms. Grady: “All these tools are there, just waiting for me, just as they are waiting for you. And the moment we start to question how we should think about any work of art, we can pick them up and wield them accordingly.”

Another helpful piece of advice came, believe it or not, from Pete Davidson of “Saturday Night Live”, who gave a surprisingly insightful lecture on the “Weekend Update” segment of the show that basically said, that it’s OK if it feels right to let some artists go. But if there’s another artist whose work resonates with you on a personal level so much that they’ve become a part of your heart, you shouldn’t put them out of your life completely. But you should acknowledge that these people did bad things each time you enjoy their work. Basically, that just because someone is talented doesn’t mean that they’re just as good on the inside, and you should acknowledge that. One of the things he said was very smart: “Any time any of us listen to a song or watch a movie made by an accused serial predator, you have to donate a dollar to a charity that helps sexual assault survivors.” After reading all these articles, I found my final, set-in-stone stance on the matter, that bridges the gap between my morals and my enjoyment of a piece of art. Here’s what I think:

If you really don’t like what an artist did in real life, then directly rooting that to their art will only give the real person power over your brain, your fun, your happiness. My mommy told me that no matter what the original artist intended, a piece of art stands alone, and is open to interpretation by anybody who looks at it. Anybody. It’s what she told me to help me understand the appeal of abstract art. And on top of helping me separate art from artist, it also helps me read (some) fan-fiction without cringing, watch modern adaptations of classic books without being to critical, and on top of it all, it also mirrors the Barthes and Livingstone theory mentioned in Constance Grady’s Vox article.

Besides, acknowledging or enjoying their work doesn’t necessarily mean I support the people behind it (as far as their companies are concerned, at least). To these famous people, money is one of the most important things in the world–a lot of times, more important than other people. So unless you have some money to throw out, you’re completely anonymous as far as they’re concerned, because you’re not rewarding them for their work, even if you enjoy it.

The only time I’ll completely make an exception with any artist is if the work they make is too similar to their real life. For example, the Cartoon Network show “Clarence” is about a boy…named Clarence…who has a positive attitude, but things and does things in very weird ways. An eerie mirroring of Skyler Page, the creator, who was fired from Cartoon Network for grabbing the breasts of a crew member for “Adventure Time”, and was later revealed to be a complete mental case…by one of his best friends, who turned out to be the inspiration for one of Clarence’s own friends! (*shudders again!*)

The same thing is very real for R. Kelly, an R&B singer who I never took interest in or even listened to, but who is said to have a catalogue full of highly sexual songs, a lot of which regard age differences and mutual consent. (*shudders one last time.*)

As for Michael Jackson…I don’t really associate his songs or performances with his real self because, if you really think about it, it’s pretty obvious that his pop persona was way different from that. a lot of his popular hits never mention hanging out with little boys. He mentions girls, a lot of which actually prey on him…he also never mentions any of his child-like interests that he had in real life…in fact, I think the only connection the artist Michael has with the real Michael are a few songs that are based on the good side of him (his humanitarian values) and those that are based on his awful childhood, where he himself was abused (not sexually, but still abused) as a boy…which could actually be one of his reasons behind his own abuse crimes. Almost as if he had this secret mentality, like “if I couldn’t have a childhood, then no boy will.” Or maybe he became overly obsessed with male children because he felt like he was getting back a piece of his life that was stolen from him, but expressed his love and sentimentality for it in the most disgusting way possible. I’m not excusing it at all, I think it was still horrible and completely uncalled for. These are just a few theories I had.

Yes, these are all just my personal opinions. And of course, you shouldn’t take that, or any of my personal opinions, as the gospel truth just because you’re reading my blog–everybody has their own individual opinions. And if you haven’t really formed your own, I suggest getting opinions from everyone and everything around you–your friends, your parents, other news sources, other blogs–and see what other people have to say on the matter, and let what you find help you form your own. It’s just like building a puzzle–it takes more than one piece of information to get the full picture.

As for my big picture, the real Michael Jackson doesn’t exist, as far as I’m concerned, and doesn’t deserve to. Just his character that he plays on the stage. And just like the rest of the male characters I’m attracted to, he’s someone I’d never want to be around in real life–just pretty, talented, and charismatic. And in a world where always thinking about the little things can drive you completely insane, sometimes that’s all that really matters.

[saladforchimps-blog]

My College Campus’s LGBT Community

Recently in my multicultural education class, we had a question and answer session with our campus’s LGBT community. Most of them looked exactly what you would expect them to look like: fat and ugly. Or visually repulsive, as I like to call them. If I saw any of these gargoyles on campus, I would immediately know that they’re gay, or whatever they identify as this week.  My gaydar is spot on. Not only are they fat, but they look like disgusting monsters, and none of them could ever create a friendship outside of their abnormal club. Now, I don’t hate gay people, and I support them to live their lives however they see fit. However, the LGBT community is full of radical queers who try to control everyone else, and they live in their own delusional world.

           When they first shuffled into the classroom, they all wrote their names and pronouns on the whiteboard. All of their pronouns were feminine. The lard asses, plus the semi-sexy half-dyke, then encouraged us to always tell people our preferred pronouns when we meet them. This is absolutely autistic for a number of reasons. First of all, trannies only make up around 0.3% of the total population; that means that 99.7% of the population identifies with the gender they were born with (dailycaller.com). So, policing 99.7% of the population’s language in order to never offended 0.3% of the population is completely absurd. I will refer to someone as a “he” if they’re male, or a “she” if they’re female, and will not first ask what their pronouns are upon meeting them. I will, however, use whatever pronouns someone would prefer me to refer to them as, I just won’t ask everyone I meet what pronouns they prefer.

They’ve changed the name of their community of freaks too. I don’t know if they did this themselves specifically on campus, or if the name just got longer everywhere. Apparently now, it’s: LGBTQAAP+2s. I shit you not, they fucking added 2s into it. 2s means two spirited, and its origins come from Native Americans; hundreds of years ago, or whatever, some Natives believed that they possessed the spirit of both a man and a woman. Basically, how they explained transgenderism back then. So, the buffet addicts of today added that into their long list of letters for some reason. Although, I highly doubt anyone in their toilet community identifies as 2s, or maybe all of them do just to be trendy.

           One of the cows was asexual. I refer to her as a cow because she was literally grazing during our class. Granted, she was only eating almonds and not a greasy cheeseburger, but still eating nonetheless. That’s something I’m still shocked by: that she literally had to stuff her fat gullet during an “informative” period. I was informed, informed about how much more mentally diseased these people are than I could have ever imagined. She also had an odd haircut that made her look extremely dyke. These people try to look like outcasts, and they’re doing a wonderful job. Probably the only wonderful job they’ve ever successfully accomplished. One of the biological girls said something about how she tries to stand out from most people and look gay. I can’t remember exactly what she said, I wasn’t paying that much attention to what she was saying, nor did I give a shit. So, they marginalize themselves, then get offended for being marginalized. And who’s always at fault? The straight white man. Fascists.

           The tranny, oh my fucking god, the tranny. Absolutely horrifying. My group’s social justice project is on sexism against men, and I could tell that they were triggered by the looks on their faces when we mentioned it to them. Two of my group members asked these things about their illogical opinions on our subject, and their answers were exactly what one would expect from people who should have been diagnosed with down syndrome. My group members said something about how men’s lives are considered less valuable than women’s and children’s because it’s women and children first in survival situations. The semi-sexy half-dyke’s answer was that men just think of women and children as weaker, and unable to take care of themselves. Women and children absolutely are weaker than men. Then, they tranny said that it was because of the patriarchy. No facts were brought up about the patriarchy, or given a proper explanation of what it is, it just simply is there is oppress women. Even though women clearly have the same rights as men do, at least in Western countries.

           I didn’t enjoy sitting in a room with them at all. I had a slight headache, and the semi-sexy half-dyke was wearing some strong perfume that smelled like ass, and it made me feel even worse. I forgot to mention that the semi-sexy half-dyke isn’t fat, I’m not attracted to the obese. So, not only were these people visually unappealing, but they: sounded like shit, smelled like shit, and didn’t have properly functioning brains. They were unappealing to three of the five senses, and had a 75% obesity rate. Ok, maybe not all of them were technically obese, but they were still pig people. Still, they portrayed an accurate representation of the lesbian obesity crisis. A study conducted by the National Institutes of Health found that 75% of lesbians are overweight (washingtonpost.com). That’s 25% higher than straight women, and double the blubber rate for gay men. So, lesbians are just really fat people, generally speaking. There are some hot lesbians, who have their waistlines under control.

           Now, allow me to critique the bisexual bitch (the semi-sexy half-dyke). Immediate when she walked in, I thought that she must be, and was hoping, that she was bi. Correct again; my gaydar is never wrong. She talked about how she hates it when straight boys ask her if she likes threesomes. Then, my professional victim professor had to single me out, and then my entire table because I admitted to the class that it’s hot when two lesbians are making out. Let me be clearer, this week we were learning about homophobia, and he wanted to know if the guys in the class were attracted to lesbians. Nobody was answering this obvious question, so he called on our table because it was made up entirely of men; my response was “it depends”. If two girls are attractive and kissing, that most certainly is a sexy sight. Although, not all lesbians are created equal, some, most of them, are way too fat to be considered attractive by heterosexual men. (Again, look for the link in my sources if you need further convincing). She should take it was a compliment that so many guys ask her that. It means guys think that she’s a hot lesbian. If she wasn’t, nobody would even be talking to her in the first place, let alone ask her about her sex life. Besides, the closest thing most lesbians get toward sex is KFC. That reminds me of what the cow said, in a desperate attempt to try to be funny that failed miserably, “who needs sex when there’s cake”. Fat logic is evident with that one. She probably has sex with cake. I don’t have any evidence to back up that claim, but it’s my non-obese gut feeling.

           Another odd thing these sub humans do, as if they could get any weirder, is snapping their fingers. In an attempt to keep our classroom a “safe space”, they snap their fingers when they disagree with each other, I believe. Randomly when one of the dykes was talking, another one would snap their fingers, and nobody would say or do anything about it. It was so weird.

So, the LBGT community is full of: fat, ugly, stupid, ignorant, perpetual victims, and conspiracy theorists. Nobody should take them seriously, and they should all just fuck off.

Sources:

Hicks, Josh. "Why the federal government spent $3 million to study lesbian obesity." The Washington Post. WP Company, 02 Sept. 2014. Web. 04 Apr. 2017.

"Exactly Zero Point Three Percent Of Americans Are Transgender." The Daily Caller. N.p., n.d. Web. 04 Apr. 2017.