My mom made this stuffy of you for my birthday! Inside your head is a little voice recording you can push to hear your intro. She made you an eyemask so you can sleep during the day, and shorts because… Well you looked a little weird naked.
My mother says it was very difficult to make. Hope you like your offering!
I can’t believe this exists! This rocks! And I am so touched that anything I’ve done has made an impression on you that led to the creation of this. A voice recording of me in the head… I’m astounded.
Thanks to you and your mother! Absolutely incredible.
A man enters an office supply store. He was a mere mortal seconds before, but as he passes through the door he becomes a customer. His superior gaze drifts across his domain and settles on the cashier.
“Do you sell stamps?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say,” However-”
“I want one.”
“However, we sell them only in sets of ten.”
“But I want one.”
“I’m sorry, Sir, but I can’t sell you a single stamp.”
“Can’t you just…” He (skillfully) mimicks the act of ripping apart paper.
Clearly, I have never thought of this. My simple mind grapples with the idea. I realize I am dealing with a genius, and yet, I regretfully inform him, “Sorry. They come on stickersheets, and anyways, the barcode–”
“Well that’s just rubbish,” he informs me. He is right. I realize this now. His genius ignites a spark within me.
“You are right,” I tell him as I take fifteen sheets of stamps into my hands and begin to tear them apart. I type 0,019 stamps and press a non-existent key on the register. I hold out a quarter of a stamp to the customer (with a smile), but he shakes his head (without a smile). I rip apart all the stamps I can find, desperate to please him, for he has gifted this humble store with his presence. From the pieces, I begin to assemble a perfect, custom-made stamp. It is worth exactly 66,66€. I single-handedly reprogramme not only my cash desk, but the entire system. It can now scan any stamp in (or out of) existence. It is raining stamps. I am smiling.
Two hours later, it is done. Beaming, and covered in the torn remains of hundreds of unfortunate stamps, I hold the perfect stamp out to The Customer. He accepts it. I rejoice. It might just be my high fever and blurry gaze, but I think the right corner of his mouth moved upwards for exactly half a second. I am blessed.
He licks the stamp and slaps it onto a letter. He wants to lend a pen. I lend him a pen. When he is done, he holds the letter out to me expectantly. He does not say a word, my silent angel, but I can tell what he wants. Thus is our connection. There is nothing, I assure you, nothing I would have rather done than to accept his letter, on my knees, with tears of gratitude streaming down my cheeks… But alas:
“I want to send the letter,” my dear customer finally says, after the silence has stretched into infinity and back.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Sir,” I say with a polite smile, brushing stamps off my shoulders, “We don’t accept mail. We only sell stamps.”
After all, you can’t make exceptions to a well-established rule in the workplace.
The customer doesn’t bat an eyelash. “That’s okay,” he says with a disarming smile. “I wouldn’t ask the impossible of you.”
As he turns to walk away, a single tear rolls down my cheek. I wipe it off with a stamp that wears his majestic face, hand-stitched by me.
I don’t tell him there’s a mailbox around the corner.
Last night I said my shahadah and it was the single most important thing I have ever done in my existence. I am now a Muslimah and it feels so good.
I know I have so much more to learn though, and I will keep learning until the day I die, Inshallah. I know Islam will better my life, my character, and help me help others and make more of a positive difference in this world.
when your random knowledge on certain topics, and your ability to read things and memorise them (if you can focus) actually comes in handy, and you end up acing your History mock exam, even though you thought you were going to fail.
Plus, your ability to speed through things quickly means you finish before everyone else in the room.
Downside is you have to wait 45 minutes till you can leave, and you’re not supposed to be too noisy or you’ll get kicked out (I went to sleep, and then started writing a bit more which led to rambling and a comparison of religion to alien existence)
I am so proud it’s the first exam I’ve done where I answered every question and knew all the answers.
I have spent days trying to figure out what I want to say. I have crumpled up
dozens of pieces of paper and disregarded even more ideas. I have thought about
what I could say that might make people feel just a little bit better. But I
have come to the realization that it really doesn’t matter what I say. Because
there is nothing I can do to take away any of the pain and destruction I have
caused. I absolutely loved my parents and had no reason to kill them. I had no
reason to dislike, kill or try to kill anyone at Thurston. I am truly sorry
that this has happened. I have gone back in my mind hundreds of times and
changed one detail, one small event so this never would have happened. I wish I
could. I take full responsibility for my actions. These events have pulled me
down into a state of deterioration and self-loathing that I didn’t know
existed. I am very sorry for everything I have done, and for what I have become.
sometimes it just really hits me that there are no fandom accessibility options for me.
due to my specific triggers, i can’t go into the tags. i can’t read fic without it being checked for me specifically because nobody tags for the things that upset me. I can’t use rec blogs. I can’t watch videos. I even have to be careful who I follow.
but because my brain won’t let go of cas as my special interest, I’m fucking stuck.
(and i’ve tried. oh how i’ve tried)
and that’s not even the worst.
the worst is knowing that 90% of the fic I can’t read is just one sentence away from being safe. one sentence that doesn’t affect the rest of the fic, that doesn’t change or add much of anything, really, a sentence that makes no real difference to anyone else, one nobody else would even notice the lack of if it was gone… but it’s inclusion means I can’t read the fic.
it’s not malicious. i know it’s not. but that’s a different kind of hurt, to know that you’re so damn invisible that people going out of their way to say ‘no, not here’ isn’t a malicious act. it’s to make the story ‘plausible’. it’s because the author can’t even conceive of anything different.
and it’s not like there are different factions where there are options. it’s not about ace this or allo that or what you ship. it’s the one thing that everyone just seems to agree on, no matter what you ship or what you think.