Hermione and Ron burst through the door to the eighth-year common room, late to Draco’s birthday party. Pansy seemed to relax when she saw them. “Did you finish?” she whispered. Hermione didn’t answer, but she and Ron looked pleased.
Pansy had decorated the room; there were magical balloons dancing across the ceiling, charmed sparklers letting off arrays of tiny fireworks, and tables loaded with snacks and drinks. Seamus and Dean sat on a sofa chatting with Theo and Padma; Neville was dancing with Susan; Blaise and Parvati were Sonorused on a makeshift stage, performing wizard karaoke. Harry and Draco stood by the food, laughing and drinking Firewhiskey.
No one had wanted a party on May 2, but the end of the school year deserved some commemoration. At the beginning of the year, things had been tense. In the first week, Pansy and Hermione hexed each other, Neville stood up to Blaise, and Harry and Draco came to blows (with fists). But that seemed like ages ago, and now they were all a bit sad about leaving. Draco turning 19 three days before their last day of Hogwarts was a perfect excuse to celebrate and also to drown their apprehension about the future in Firewhiskey and loud music.
You laugh. Everyone else stops laughing. Someone’s hand shakes, and a wine glass shatters.
“I’m such a realistic person,” your Te assesses. Your Ni nods affirmatively, and goes back to making weird shit up.
You’ve been elected student council president. They won’t let you streamline the class period system or fire any of the teachers. You silently curse Kill la Kill for giving you unrealistic expectations.
“You’re so unfriendly and you hate parties. How are you an extrovert? You must be an INTJ,” your friend says. She’s right; ENTJs are just INTJs on meth.
Why do all of your friends think that processing means hugs and validation? You just want advice. Your therapist won’t even give you advice without “listening empathetically” first. Why are your parents paying $80 an hour for this?
You’ve been elected student council president again. “Do I have to do this?” you mutter. You don’t remember running this year. “You’re an ENTJ; you want to, right?” the principal says. You don’t want to; you won’t able to make any real changes in policy. You’re just a symbol. The principal tells you it will look good on your college application and offers you a cookie.
You decide not to major in poly-sci.
You are officially an adult. You have been ready for this moment since preschool. Your friends say they still don’t feel like adults, which sounds terrifying and is probably the reason they are still dependent upon your friendship.
“Time management! Attention! Priorities!” you snarl for the fourth time this morning. Your coworkers spend the next hour brainstorming ways to get you fired.
“You’re an ENTJ? Can you help me make a five-year plan?” they ask. “Of course,” you reply. You give them control of your crumbing ponzi scheme, and they spend the next five years in jail.
Everything is closed on Sunday. Don’t they realize you have things to do before the week starts? You drive and drive and drive, looking for a city that never sleeps. The sky darkens; your car melts into the pavement. You are the city. You never sleep.
Someone thinks you’d be a power bottom. At least you aren’t a needy top like all five of your ENFJ friends. You delete three of them from your contacts while you’re thinking of it.
Your job involves expensive suits, firing people, creepy motivational posters on the walls of your office, and a formal title that your friends and family don’t understand. They ask what you do at work. “Extroverted thinking,” you tell them, and they nod politely and ask, “But what does your company make?” “Money,” you say. “But how do you earn the money?” “Introverted intuition,” you tell them. They nod again. It’s a very ambiguous function.
Your ISTJ coworker pipes in. “We trade stocks.” This is technically insider trading because Ni is psychic, but no one says anything.
You care about someone; this is not part of the plan. You race around doing errands in your black Camaro, swearing profusely at people who drive the speed limit.
It’s time to make some major life changes. Everything is boring and the days are starting to blur together. You engage your Se.
We don’t talk about what happens next.
The scientists have discovered a way to see inside your brain. They find out it’s just a game of Tetris. “Perhaps we can program the perfect leader somehow,” one of them says. You slide an I-block into place and exhale, contented. The brain scans turn blue.
You move to the coast, work in a little coffee shop and play your saxophone in a pub band by night. You date ISFPs who read you their poetry. No one is afraid of you anymore. You are peaceful and connected. Your therapist said this would make you happy.
that feel when your incorporeal Dark Lord cbf coming up with a Cool Villain Name for his least fav follower X)
based on this post, and because I can’t get over learning that Asmodean literally means “Musician” in the official Wheel of Time companion book, I’m still flipping out poor Asmo, this is why I love you
Do you know that George Washington died in 1799 which is 25 years before the first dinosaur was classified, which means that George Washington never knew about the dinos. That fact alone devastates me.