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Diane, I am holding in my hands a labubu, a curious gift given to me by Audrey Horne. While I appreciate the sentiment, there is a sinsiter edge to its smile that unnerves me. I will turn him towards the wall when I sleep tonight.
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My zine I made to sell for family campaigns I love how it came out
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(person who learned from childhood to make themself as small and unimportant as possible to avoid being a burden) yeah its okay we dont have to do my thing if you dont want i dont mind
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The thing about growing up with undiagnosed autism is that you’re a bad kid. And you don’t know how to stop being a bad kid. But you’re pedantic, you hate hugs, you’d rather be alone than attend a family gathering, you play by yourself instead of with friends or family, you make mealtime impossible, you can’t even look your parents in the face, you lie to get out of going to school and when you’re there you complete your assignments correctly but in a way that is somehow inherently wrong. You’re wrong. There is something wrong with you and you can’t identify it or fix it. You can’t begin to explain it. You pull for justifications and apologies. You were a bad kid and there was nothing you could do to be better.
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