#I seen this with other 8s and done it myself

[subconsciousmysteries]

4s needn’t ever worry about being unloveable because I can assure you there are hordes of 8s who are desperate for you and your craziness and will marry you on the spot just for being you

[asarlaiochtsystem]

Branches of a Wreath (A Day In the Life of a System)

The body lays in the bed, sprawled out in the mangled manner it was accustomed to as a child. It’s always hotter in the body’s room than everywhere else in the domicile, always too dry and the body doesn’t intake enough water. The body awakes and now it is a girl, 18, normative.

Sara shook her head and grabbed her phone, flipping through the messages from her friends, letting them know that she was the one in front today. How did she know it was her? For Sara, the question was one that elicited anxiety and unease for she didn’t know the answer. She just sort of knew, something about it being her and her memories in this body. It was her likes, she had her own wants and problems compared to the others who shared the body. It was her beliefs, different from the others and realistically it was improbable that someone would fake seven different personalities with their own backgrounds, desires, likes, relationships and even involuntary reactions to stimuli. It was her, for better or worse. 

Sara pulled up the document with all of the notes:

8 desires white hair dye

Ark Server needs updating: Talk to Jackie

Homework done, please edit writing

Azrael needs more feathers to fix wings

Elaine needs more glue for the latex ears

SWP Table at 2:00p

SWP table? Wait, when did we… oh gods damnit Ginevra! Sara pulled her hair back and stretched, “Just what I wanted today. If she wants to help the socialists so badly she can do so on her time.” She knew that was a ridiculous proposition: they shared the time. Morning rituals and purifications were complete, it was time for breakfast.

“Morning Mike.”

“Morning mom.”

That wasn’t her name. It wasn’t even the name of the body. The body hadn’t used that name since middle school. The body’s name was Vanessa and her name was Sara. It wasn’t her mother, Sara’s mom was probably long dead by this point. Old age and drugs do that to someone. This woman was the body’s mother. You’d think a mother would know the name of their child, alas the sins of modern suburbia are endless and constant. This body would always be a “baby boy”, “Son”, “brother”, the stain of a false masculinity (or perhaps a denied femininity).

Sara liked driving to school, it was 30 minutes of alone time where it was just her, the road and the radio. They all had their own playlists: Death Metal for Azrael, Dark Synth for 8s, Punk music for herself, etc. We don’t have many friends… or any. I’d settle with being seen as an effeminate gay man at this rate. I get it, I’ll never look like the punk-y queer I imagine myself to be, but at the very least I want people to just know I’m not straight. Sara sighed, her hands sliding down the side of the wheel, “Your tells are so obvious, shoulders too broad for a girl.” Laura Grace spoke to her in these songs, there were few pieces of media that appealed to her dysphoria in a way that provided a sort of comfort. It didn’t make her feel better, it didn’t make her sadder, it was just comfortable.

**********

Azrael was in the car at the church when she woke up. She didn’t remember driving, must’ve been someone else. First things first, throw on the jacket, wipe off that shitty white girl makeup, grab your cigarettes in the glove box. What class did they have today? She grabbed their phone and flips through their schedule: “Workshop #2” in big letters. Oh for fuck’s sake. It wasn’t that Azrael was against interacting or writing, it was just uncomfortable for her. It felt like a knight without armor or a snake without scales: she didn’t feel safe. Have you ever had that feeling where you wish you had a weapon, not because you were going to use it, but because you wanted to just have it on you? She was feeling it right now. 

She kicked open the car door… well okay she didn’t kick it open, she pushed it open after opening it. The parking space dips over a bit, it’s hard to get up when you’re already 45 degrees inverted. When Azrael had finally made it to the front gates she heard someone come up behind her.

“Azrael, I know you didn’t pack your filth with you.”

She didn’t need to turn, she knew who it was, “Sara… bash our head into any walls again? Or were you weeping about how our daddy beat us as a child?” Azrael didn’t see her, but she felt the gritting of teeth, the redding in her face, the irish curse on her lips, “Relax, I’m just playing. Yeah I got my medicines, I’m not a fan of being in front for this sort of stuff”

“One, go hifreann leat. Two, SWP table today remember? Gotta get Gin out for that. Three, if you’re so nervous just don’t go,” Sara twirled her hair, some stupid thing she does to feel less dysphoric, “Besides, it’s just reading stories and responding, just following the patterns. Use our autism to our advantage.”

“You know,” Azrael began, “you don’t have to be so hard on yourself. Being a punk is overrated and just because mom and dad are shitty doesn’t mean you need to take it out on others. You’re not defined by their bigotry.”

Sara started to fade away, “Just,” she did that thing where she tries to say something, but wants to say it in such a way it doesn’t seem hypocritical, even though it is, “don’t worry about it.”

Azrael decided to not go to class, she spent the time instead smoking while she waited for… something. Loneliness, that’s the feeling that drives her up the wall. They didn’t have friends, not really. They walked to and fro, spent their time talking to themselves about nonsense, about what it meant to be a schizo like them. 

“That’s rich coming from you. You spent all that time criticizing me about not defining myself by the bigotry of others, and here you are calling yourself a schizo,” Sara sat on the wall above Azrael, at least that’s how she imagined it. 

“Why are you pestering me today? Don’t you have some racist ML to fuck or something?” Azrael took a drag, “Why can’t I deal with 8’s or Gin something?”

Footsteps, like actually real footsteps, not the ones she imagined when her sisters spoke, “Hey Vanessa!”

“Hey”, oh right, they didn’t tell anyone yet. What was this woman’s name again? Carol? Siobhan? Some Irish or Scottish name, the ones mothers give their children to make them seem mystical and mundane at the same time. 

“You weren’t at class today,” the girl looked at the cigarette in Azrael’s hand, “I didn’t know you smoked.”

Right, people don’t really see her, “Only once in a blue moon, when my anxiety acts up bad,” Azrael could see she was upset, “It’s… herbal. Not like I’m chain smoking Marlboro reds.”

“Are those bad?”

“Reds? Yeah they’re like what soldiers and rockers smoke. They taste nasty.”

“And what about Herbals? Do they have nicotine in them?”

“Of course, but it’s not tobacco. It’s usually rose petals.” There was a pause after Azrael spoke.

“Can I ask you something?” 

When people ask that, it’s always the kind of question that tends to offend people,“Sure?”

“Why do you always seem so far away from everyone?”

Azrael looked at her, Grace, that was the name, snuffed the cigarette on the wall and crushed it, “Elaborate.”

Grace was a bit more timid now, “Well… you don’t interact with people, not really. Most of the time you sit on benches, you’re alone, you only walk from your car to class and back. You don’t really seem to do anything.”

She’s got our number… “Well, truth be told I don’t really do anything. I’m kind of scared to do anything honestly.”

“Too scared?” 

Ah fuck that was the wrong answer, “Yeah. I’m kind of agoraphobic and get bad social anxiety. Ask anyone who’s ever had a class with me. I’m kind of scared of showing myself to people.” Well shit, all in now, “If I’m being honest, I feel like the less of me I show to people, the better their opinion of me will be. Not even the people I am organizing with really know what I’m like; I don’t even think the people I hang out with online know what I’m like.”

“Oh…”, Grace grabbed her arm, “Doesn’t that get lonely?”

Yes “No, not really. I just prefer my solitude is all,” Azrael shrugged, “Any other questions?”

Grace shook her head, “Alright well, take care Ness…”

When Grace had finally gone out of sight, Azrael smashed the back of her head on the wall, “Fuck me, why couldn’t I tell the truth?”

**********

Elaine rubbed the back of her head, “Yep, that was Azrael.” Elaine smirked, pulled her hair back and folded the jacket and cigarettes up. She clicked her heels and started to walk towards the University Greens. Elaine always liked to lilt while she walked, today it was Nancy Mulligan, tomorrow it would be Star of the Co. Down. Everything was brighter to Elaine than it was for Azrael or Sara, physically and emotionally. Elaine was the ‘flower girl’ of the system, she always picked up flowers while walking and stuck them into her hair, dancing and skipping all the way to class. Elaine knelt down under a tree and started to pick the dogwood flowers on the branches, placing them one by one into her hair until she had a line of them in her braids. She sat down at the greens, looking around for the table she was to sit at, yet no tell-tale signs of socialists, least of all those she recognized. Hmm… oh the oak tree!

“You and your fucking oak trees,” Azrael was glaring down at Elaine.

“Oak trees are important,” Elaine retorted, “Oak, Ash and Thorn are the sacred woods. You of all people should know that.”

“I gave up on that nonsense about the same time Van gave up on leftism.” Azrael was being venomous, when she gets like this she lashes out at everyone. She usually only becomes this curt when someone else is upset.

“Who’s upset?”

“What?”

“Who. Is. Upset? You don’t get this way unless someone’s upset.” Elaine looked up towards Azrael, her dark hair and bright red eyes trying to hide the truth from Elaine.

“No one…”

Elaine sighed, “Don’t lie to me. I know you… well we both know each other better than anyone.” Elaine started to shape the branches around her into a crown, little pieces turned into something rugged, poorly made, and yet beautiful all the same.

Azrael sat next to Elaine sighing, “Sara’s still upset about that girl on twitter I guess.”

Elaine’s ears twitched, dropping the half-made crown, “Gehenna? We don’t even know her.” She knew that didn’t mean anything, when any trans woman dies they all feel it deeply. Least of all in cases as publicized as this.

“It’s not just that… it’s what it represents.” Azrael fell to the grass, looking up at Elaine, “Van’s mom still calls us Mike. Van’s mom still sees us as a boy. Van’s mom doesn’t even know about us, or even her own daughter. The killings only heighten the subtle kinds of transphobia. The deadnaming, the misgendering, etc. Those are, usually, borne of ignorance rather than cruelty, and ye-”

“And yet, they cut all the same. Death by a thousand plus one cuts,” Elaine placed the crown upon Azrael’s head: a little crown of thorns for the protector.

“Yeah. It all adds up right? What’s that Haywood quote? ‘I’ve got the marks of capital all over my body’? In our case, we have the marks of… a lot of different things on our body. If we were to take our internalized pain and wear it on our flesh we’d look something more akin to St. Bartholomew’s corpse rather than a person.”

Sara sat down next to them now, her hair was covering her eyes, makeup running down her cheek, “It’s just so tiring. I’m tired of martyrs, of eulogies, of the anemoia, of the slaughters and purges. Is this how Sun Yat Sen, Marx, Lenin, Goldman and others felt? Is our lot to suffer? To always desire change in a world that fundamentally hates us for what we are?”

Elaine sighed, “Martyrs die. That’s what makes them Martyrs; a personal sacrifice of some kind. There’s a difference between martyrdom and murder though. A martyr has to willingly give themselves up. It’s this submission to belief that martyrs them. People murdered in oppressive systems are victims. They didn’t ask for it, they didn’t deserve it.” Elaine closed her eyes and let the sound of peers laughing, birds chirping and the feeling of the sun fill her, “Anger is just a type of sadness. You feel powerless, you want to fix it, make it hurt less. It’s like a gaping wound with blood pouring out, nothing works to fix it and so you panic.”

**********

I wake up on the grass. I have flowers in my hair, my head is banging and I am alone with my siblings.

[funkymbtifiction]

I've seen that idea about 9s and intuitives being an impossible combination spread on PDB so much lately. It's mostly because the most popular users in there have adapted the ideas of Naranjo too religiously. And i think it shouldn't be taken like that. Sure his work is one of the best when it comes to the enneagram, i understand that you even have his descriptions on your blog, but he certainly has many flaws and his words shouldn't be taken as a fact. Most popular PDB users are self proclaimed Te doms, and i think it makes sense because they treat typology as if it was neuroscience and only the approved authors TM were valid and you must have a consensus of logic and anyone who questions the "facts" is deemed as illogical.

They are outing themselves as 6w5s. ;) "We have our Authority (TM) and he shall not be questioned." Also, none of them are ETJs. ETJs don't waste time and energy focus arguing about fictional characters' types online. :P If people are wrong/lacking the facts, ETJs think they are idiots and dismiss anything they say; they don't write a thousand word argument to try and convince some random stranger to accept their logic. It is just is what it is, take it or leave it. An ETJ would be figuring out how to make money teaching the Enneagram, or by using it to figure out a business model.

You know what's crazier? They're now saying that SX 7s can only be intuitives because high Se users are too grounded, realistic and pragmatic and Naranjo said that SX 7s are the most dreamy and prone to fantasy.

Sx7s are the most obsessed with finding sexual partners through hooking them with their creativity or craziness. Instead of saying "this combo can't happen," they should be thinking, "How would Se-dom and sx7 interact with each other and what would that look like?"

Ugh. I really need to write that combo book, but it would be a major pain in the ass and involve like 350 separate descriptions and the entire idea just makes me want to die. SO MUCH WORK.

They're also saying that... you're not going to believe this one... Te doms can't be 8s especially ENTJs, because Naranjo associated 8s with Se doms and their practicality and ability to live in the moment and prefer to amplify physical sensations and that's apparently something a high Ni user can't do.

So they don't read history then, which is replete with dictator 8 ETJs during the most volatile times in human history? (Stalin? Julius Caesar? Etc?) 8 is the most likely Enneagram type for ETJs behind 3 and 1. 8s go hard after what they want, which fits Te/Se perfectly.

They also have said 6s can only be thinkers because according to Naranjo they're the most logical people even more than 5s, so apparently if you're a high Fi/Fe user and a 6 you're mistyped.

I am super flattered to know that I am the most logical ENFP who has ever existed (I would agree with that, myself ;). That certainly sounds a lot different from most average takes on 6, which include "neurotic nutjob." ;) Again, instead of assuming this, they should assume, "Being a 6 would separate a feeler from their emotions; they would deliberately choose to push aside an emotional response, to find a more logical explanation or action to take." (I can remember the exact moment at twelve years old where I decided, "Being emotional is stupid and a way to get hurt; I won't be emotional. I will make rational and careful decisions." And I have/did. Thanks to this, I am somewhat emotionally repressed, but also brutally logical sometimes, torn between my feelings and doing what I know needs done, regardless of how I feel about it. I do not recommend it.)

They also take instincts and enneagram combos too seriously. That's how you get crazy combos and talks about countertypes for characters with an easier explanation.

Yeah, those are my favorite arguments to read. "I know that 4s are supposed to be emo and elitist and etc, but this character is really just THE SUNNY 4. Here, read this about the SUNNY 4. You know, the 4 who is HAPPY and REPRESSES THEIR NEGATIVITY to keep others happy! (I am also a SUNNY 4, so I know what I am talking about!! *heart emojis and smilies*"

Recently i was discussing about the vampire diaries characters and apparently Katherine an obvious 8, is now a sx 2 core because although her whole arch revolves around her need for self control and being a survivor, she always seduces people and manipulates them and is too obsessed with Stefan so being loved is her end life goal, and apparently her pride is her main trait.

That's cute, but she's an obvious sp/sx 8w7. Like, a character can be an 8 and still be seductive, you know. And the reason she's obsessed with Stefan is she can't stand someone else having him -- that's pure sexual 8 territory: he is MINE and you can't take him. She only wants him because she knows he's in love with somebody else, and it's a power trip to steal him back. Scarlett O'Hara could certainly relate!

Also Stefan is a social 6, because social 6s are as rigid as 1s when it comes to morals and rules but he's too accepting of Damon being immoral and forgiving to be a "my way or no way" 1 core... 

IFPs don't impose their morals on other people, that's why he lets Damon mostly do his own thing. I also don't see him being a head type. He's obviously a "react from the gut" type of character. I like him a lot, but he's more 1 rigid "stick up my butt" than 6 "paranoid."

The worst thing is that not only a few people but posts with hundreds of likes. It's too much, i swear some people on PDB are starting to lose it 🤣

They never had it to begin with?

There are a few knowledgeable people over there, but by in large, it attracts those who know almost nothing about either theory, and who automatically insist that any actor, artist, writer, musician, or character that they like is (like them) an INFJ 4w5 sx.

[you-will-return]

For once, I'm actually doing what I said I'd do in a timely manner.

So this will be jacket post part two: electric boogaloo, bc I didn't want the other one to get too long.

Anyway so yesterday I finished all the sewing (you'll see what I mean) and on Wednesday I finished the painting at Maxi's place (who btw came over and helped me finish my uni stuff so everybody go thank Maxi bc otherwise I'd still be sitting here crying over my shitty printer.... anyways)

Let's get to it

Here we have the front of the jacket (I'll show the collar area in more detail in a sec). On the right pocket I added my LOTSAD pin (yes, I still think the abbreviation is funny), originally I wanted to put the Blind Channel one there but then I realized 'sewing inside of a pocket sucks ass, as does sewing through two layers of jean fabric at once', so here we are. The sewing doesn't look very clean but fuck it (it's just rock'n'roll, okay I'll shut up). Maxi told me 'It would've looked better if you had cross stitched it' to which i replied 'Honey, I'm just glad that it's on there'. Anywho underneath the ghost, between the buttons I added the word(s) 'care fully' (which can be read as one or two words and I kinda like that. It's a Mitski reference but also I just love playing with language).

Here we have the LOTSAD pin (and shitty sewing job) in more detail and as you can see I finally added the GIANTS pin above the Get Up coward.

The Joonas smiley got some company. Tbh sewing the beads on like this was so much easier than trying to sew on the pins.

More beads!!! I decided to make the rays two-colored bc why not? And I know the bead placement is a bit on the nose, but eh who cares? Also I added the birds last minute bc freedom and the sea and all that (in my heart they're evil lil seagulls).

(This is nothing new but I just wanted to show it to y'all colored in)

From bottom to top: The knife (!!) is finally colored in and I couldn't be happier. Imagine walking by someone and then boom KNIFE!! (I hope you can tell how much I love this stupid bloody knife). Above this I added one of my favourite songs off of the new album. But yeah it has a star in the middle, bc they're burning (again lost an arm and a leg on the creativity). And you might notice that these beads are different, and that's bc I did this arrangement at home, where I had a greater variety available :)

My favourite part of the jacket, still. It's so simple and yet it just works. Again, I know that you've seen this before but I just wanted to show it outlined and coloured in :)

Now for the back:

Top to bottom: since my collar is usually down, I put the Watching Over Me mainly here for myself, but it's for good reason. This lyric really means a lot to me on a personal level and it's from the first MCR song I ever listened to (so it's double special), so no one but me (and you guys now haha) has to see it or know it's there, but I still wanted it to be included. Secondly: the Bad Idea back piece is done!!! Yaay!! And the roses don't look like colored in 8s anymore (double yay!!). I'll admit it looks pretty edgy (what about this jacket doesn't) but I really enjoyed painting it. I think I might have also done it out of spite for my 9th grade English teacher, who, after I had done a presentation abt MCR, told me:"Nice presentation. But Anna, all that blood and gore? Is that really necessary?" Yes, yes it is ma'am.

Lastly: the rest of the back. Yeah I kinda just went ham with the beads and pins, but it was fun (for the most part). Bottom to top: The 747 is finally colored in, bc of its position it's kinda reminiscent of an incomplete license plate but if you knew my history with this number, you'd agree that it makes this just that much more fitting.

Above it the Blind Channel beads, kind of as a summary of everything above them.

Then we have Balboa (why is there a heart bead? Bc Maxi had some lying around and I thought it looked pretty). I really like this song and I would give a lot for that skeleton Breakdowns for Breakfast t-shirt.

Above Balboa we have a part of glory for the greedy. No deeper reason for why it's here just 'mwah'. This was the first bead arrangement I sewed on btw and lemme tell you it was a struggle.

Talking about struggle we have the Don't Fix Me pin arrangement that made me want to throw myself into a river. I struggled so much with this but I ended up really liking it. Pink + edgy??? Fuck yeah, that's what I live for. I know the song itself is not everyone's favourite, but I've been listening to it on repeat ever since it came out so lol

Lastly we have the Left To Die beads (yes alive or only burning, again, that song has been living in my head rent free ever since I first listened to the album and not just bc of the jupiter line haha). When I first heard the chorus I was like 'huh' and then i thought about it some more and I was like 'hUH?!?', anywho needless to say this lyric hits me every single time (:

Soooo.... that's the jacket. Edgy, wonky and with a certain.... diy-charm.

Hope you enjoyed this journey and its outcome as much as I did.

Bonus: The diy saftey pin necklace (by me) and saftey pin earrings (by Maxi), that I'll probs wear at the concert. Alongside a Revenge bracelet that I wanted to sew onto the jacket but sadly didn't know where to put.

[castiel-barnes]

Saving you.

Pairing: Poe Dameron x reader.

Summary: Poe saves you after being severely tortured by the first order.

Warnings: Angst. Blood. Medical inaccuracies probably. Leia being a surrogate mother. Wedge being surrogate father. Fluff.

Wordcount: 1.7k

A/N: I know I wrote a poe for just the other day but I needed to try do angst with flyboy.

Tag: @phoenixhalliwell

Poe had always been that level headed, ace pilot that everyone knew him to be. But this was a side no one else had ever seen. Not even General Organa. He was running off of no sleep and caffeine and that was it. Bags had formed under his eyes, his usually somewhat neat curls were all over the place.

You had been captured and tortured by the First Order. After your X-Wing had crashed troopers had dragged you away, and took you on board of Kylo Rens Star destroyer. It had gotten to the point during being tortured that you started to dissociate from the reality that was happening around you.

"What are they doing?" Hux asked a lieutenant that was in your cell with him,

"It seems they are distancing themselves from reality sir, to cope with the pain." The lieutenant responded as they look down at you, and your weakened state as you stared into the distance.

Back on the resistance base, Leia physically forced Poe to go to bed. Making sure that either Rey or Finn were there to make sure he actually slept. He had to be honest, he did feel better physically after getting some well needed rest. After getting some sleep, he woke up and freshend himself up. That was until Finn came running in the room.

"POE! LEIA NEEDS US!!" Finn stated heaving the words out. Poe, BB-8 and Finn running or in BB-8s case rolling at full force down corridors leading towards the control room. There Leia stood over a table of information. Sensing the 2 boys and the droid enter the room, she turned and looked Poe dead in they eye.

"Poe... we found them." She simply stated. A little bit of pressure had lifted off of Poe's shoulders for a moment, knowing that he would be able to get to you. Everything around base started getting busy, Poe, Finn, Rey and BB-8 got the falcon ready and we're on their way to the ship.

You were still in your cell on the floor. The extent of your injuries worse than anyone on base has had for a long while. You were certain that your leg was broken from the crash, only to be made worse by Hux and his men. They hadn't given you anything to eat or drink, so your hydration levels were extremely low. Cuts and bruises had formed all over your body. You were finding it difficult to move anything, and the extent of some of your injuries would probably require some PT and a slow recovery.

Inside the Millenium Falcon, Poe sat there nervously his leg bouncing up and down. Rey walked over to him and kneeled in front of him.

"We're gonna find them Poe." Rey stated quietly,

"I know. It's just.... what state they'll be in." He replied even quieter. She left him to simmer with his thoughts until it was time to board the destroyer. The destroyer came into view after dropping out of hyperspace, and Rey could sense your presence but it was very weak. After spending a few minutes, the three of them along with BB-8 were aboard the ship and Rey used the force on some troopers to find you.

Coming to a stop outside your cell, BB-8 got the door open for the others. Poe was first in, and the sight shattered his heart into a million little pieces.

"Y/N? Honey, it's Poe. We're taking you home." Poe stated quietly. He could see your shallow breathes, but there was no recognition of the fact that he was there and not to mention you were almost cold to the touch. Picking you up as gently as he could, he heard you groan and your eyebrows pinch a little.

"Poe?" Your voice cracked as you felt your body being lifted,

"Yeah baby, I'm here I'm saving you baby. We're going home." Poe responded. The five of you moved through the ship, Finn and BB-8 in front, Poe with you in and out of consciousness in the middle and Rey at the back. It wasn't long until you were all in the hanger, blaster fire all over the place. But you all managed to get away on the Falcon.

Poe laid you gently on the bed, and sat next you holding your hand. Rey and Finn left the two of you alone, knowing that Poe would just want to be with you and not talk. As he sat next to you, he felt your hand squeeze his ever so slightly but no words came out. You were too tired.

"I know baby, we're two minutes away from base." He said quietly to you, his free hand stroking your hair back gently. Surely enough two minutes later, the falcon dropped out of hyperspace right above the current planet the base was on.

Medics rushed onto the falcon, helping transfer you onto a floating medical bed. Poe ran behind them on the way to medical, but soon stopped him when they went to get ready to be treated. Poe started sobbing, as he slid down the wall not realising that Leia had just arrived. She got Poe to stand up and then drew him in for a hug and let him cry. Leia knew that you two were in love, and it made her heart break to know that Poe almost lost you in the way he lost his mother, but also then having to hear you have been tortured by the First Order.

Eventually, Poe and Leia were allowed to see you. You looked better, the miracle of bacta doing its job. And when Poe touched your hand it was far warmer than it had been previously. It took you a long while to wake up, the bacta working as best it could. The medics checked on you frequently, and Poe stayed next to you for almost the entire time.

You opened your eyes, the bright light of medical causing then to shut again. Slowly your eyes adjusted to the light and you were able to see what was going on around you. Looking to the left of you, you saw Poe dozing at an odd angle in the chair next to you.

"Poe..." you croaked barely anything coming out, "Poe." You managed to say a bit louder. He sat up with a start, almost falling off of the chair. His eyes were wide but tired, as he looked at you tears welled in his but a smile was across his face.

"Hi honey, how are you feeling?" Poe asked quietly stroking your hair back,

"Like absolute shit. You look tired." You replied bringing one hand up to his face.

"It's cause I am baby, you gave me a scare." Poe stated leaning into your hand and locking eyes,

"Your gonna need physical therapy for that leg you know." He continued kissing the palm of your hand.

"I'm sorry I scared you flyboy. And I know, I gathered that when I was.... when I was. Yeah I gathered." You stuttered out, everything suddenly coming back to you at once. You looked at Poe, tears now falling down your face.

"K-kriff I'm.... im so sorry Poe. I almost left you and... and I was so scared, all I could think about was you." You continued breathing starting to get more panicky.

"No, no baby. Hey listen Y/N it's fine, there is nothing to be sorry about. Baby just breathe, please just breathe for me." Poe stated instantly taking your hand in his and calming you down. Eventually you started breathing properly again and squeezed your eyes shut for a moment.

"I'm sorry Poe." You whispered,

"It's okay baby, I understand. You've had a bad few weeks. But I'm not going anywhere and neither are you, because you're safe." Poe responded kissing you gently.

***********************************

It had just been over a month now that Poe had rescued you. Medical had cleared you to go to your own quarters, but you had to go back either every day or every other day for physical therapy. Some days were better than others.

If Poe was away though, you'd spin his mother's ring around your finger. Which he had given to you as a sign of unity, not long after you were discharged.

Today though, you had a rest from therapy and you decided you'd go sit outside and watch Black Squadron practice flight maneuvers. Sensing a presence next to you, you turned and saw that it was Wedge. Wedge Antilles was like a father to you, he was one of the first faces you saw when you joined the Resistance, and he was the one that taught you everything that you knew.

Standing up, you smiled and hugged him. He sat down next to you and looked at the X-Wings flying past.

"Hey Wedge." You said smiling at the older gentleman,

"Hey kid, how's the leg?" He asked smiling back at you.

"It has its moments. It gets bad some days and then others it's like I didn't injure it. But therapy is helping, I just wanna get back out there." You replied looking up as Poe soared past,

"Yeah I know the feeling. I didn't tell you about the time I basically had the same accident as you did I?" He stated tracking your eyes to your fiancé.

"No sir." You shook your head, now focusing on Wedge,

"Not long after the fall of the Empire and the destruction of the second Death star, I went out of my way to find if there was any remnants of the Empire left behind. One day, my ship got shot by a Tie and I crashed into one of the few remaining star destroyers. Injured myself of course, spent a little while moving around the ship before being caught and tortured for answers. This was above the planet Akiva, and they took me to the imperial Palace which was a magnificent building. After that I don't really remember much, but that's where I met Snap and his mum. I done therapy for a injury similar to yours." He explained, his eyes looking into the distance as he remembered.

"I didn't know that you met Snap that long ago." You replied,

"Yeah, he had a droid modified from the clone wars called MR BONES. But the thing is, therapy will get better Y/N." He stated smiling a sense of understanding there.

"Thank you Wedge." You smiled back giving him a hug again. The two of you sat there for a while, until you both agreed that getting food from the mess sounded good. You used your cane to help you around, sometimes placing most of your weight on it.

The good thing was that you had someone who understood how you felt, someone who loved you dearly and someone that could bring you or your fiancé comfort anytime.

[doomedeternal]

The “Counterphobic 6″ vs. 8 Conundrum

So this was the thing I wrote after a typing session that finally cleared my accurate Enneagram type. Basically this details the key distinctions between Type 8 and a more “counterphobic” variety of Type 6.

Let’s get all the introductions out of the way: I’m an SP/SO 6w5 with 683 fixes, which puts me in the same caliber as dickheads, douchebags, and dictators.

I also happened to mistype as an 8 (which wing depends on the time of day) for a while until I swapped that card over for a new, shiny 6w5 card.

With this humble piece, I hope to share my story of mistyping, clarity, and in the end, shed some light on the differences between 6 and 8 from the point of view of someone who has fallen into that very same mistyping trap.

MY MISTYPING HELL

I got into the Enneagram through a friend and after a few attempts of testing and conversations with a couple of friends to gauge some observations, I typed myself as an 8, and off I went (I swung between both wings but I didn’t understand why at this point).

As I went deeper into studying the Enneagram, I came across the concept of “phobic” and “counterphobic” when it comes to Type 6. At some point in my deep dive, a lot of the “counterphobic” descriptions hit a nerve a little too close for comfort, and started having doubts about my core type.

That’s where I hit Google and attempted to seek answers to my little conundrum. Unfortunately, instead of finding answers, I found mostly the following:

Half-baked descriptions of both 6 and 8 that never got to the core of either type

Circlejerk threads of 6s (mostly men) posturing themselves as Eights and digging their heels when questioned about the possibility of mistyping

The branding of 6 (especially those who lean towards counterphobia) as “Wannabe 8s”, which has some anecdotal origins, but it loses the essence Sixes have that’s unique to the type.

And many others…

Yet despite all that, I held on to my 8 typing for dear life, while still open to the possibility of mistyping. It’s a walking contradiction of sorts, but such is the life of a Six.

FINDING CLARITY

During my time studying the Enneagram, I came across this site called Enneagrammer, and along with it the Big Hormone Enneagram podcasts. As I pursued all this information, I’ve gained even more clarity about the various types and their relationships with each other in a way I’ve never understood it before.

Despite all that, the question remained: Am I a 6 or an 8?

In a last-ditch attempt to find answers, I caved in and purchased a typing video reading. Unfortunately, I submitted mine during a time where a lot of people did and ended up swapping it with an hour-long typing session with Emeka, one of the ad.

I’m glad I did.

Fast-forward to the 30th of October 2020. I had a difficult time sleeping the night before due to a mix of excitement and anxiety. Thankfully it was first thing in the morning so once I got up and freshened myself up, we started the typing session.

Not even 15 minutes in, the distinction was clear as day.

Emeka explaining how 6 operates, and how my wing, fixes, and stacking interacted to form the full picture of my type felt like someone read my deepest, darkest secrets. It’s like when you’re on stage and your pants fell off in front of an entire audience, but at the same time, it’s in a way validating in an “I feel seen” type of way.

My full type from my 5 wing, assertive fixes, and self-preservation stacking makes for a more “grounded”, earthy flavor of the 6 (as opposed to many type 6 descriptions which appear to have 6w7 in mind). Unless people know what to look for, I can look like a gut type at first glance.

Despite what appearances and first impressions show, the “counterphobic” 6 (who are probably likely to be 8-fixed 6s) have some significant key differences that distinguish them from true 8s.

AGGRESSION AND REACTIVITY

Both 6 (especially 8-fixed 6) and 8 can be aggressive and territorial. As both types reside on the Reactive triad, they’re both intense types who aren’t afraid to let other people know about how they feel about something.

The key difference between both is the motivation behind the aggression.

For starters, the 8 brand of aggression focuses on creating their reality through action and expansion. This makes for a calmer, more deliberate, more shameless type of expressing themselves due to the lack of superego influence.

6’s aggression, on the other hand, happens as a response to the swinging pendulum in their head (or “splitting”) and is usually a cover for deep-seated anxiety. The thing with 6 most of the time is that we don’t even know that we’re anxious – the underlying anxiety is the baseline.

As a 5-wing, my way to seek certainty is to hoard information and devise structures to give me that map. Sometimes it gets to a point where I haven't taken certain factors into consideration (especially because...people are people, and can be unpredictable). When surprises happen, my first instinct is to push on as a reaction to those surprises (because reactive type), which is where the aggression comes from.

It takes a lot of self-reflection and insight to get out of this trap, but with some work and self-reflection, it can be done.

HEAD VS. GUT

All Head types attempt to find a way to orient themselves, frame reality as they know it, and concoct a narrative that makes sense to them, as distorted as the result would be. For the 6, this comes in the form of “what ifs” and worst-case-scenarios.

The 6 is most especially in tune with the nuts and bolts of the systems that matter to them the most. They would be the first people to spot if something is off, which makes them excellent troubleshooters, problem solvers, and project managers.

6’s signature ambivalence leads them to find rational ways to prove a point. For one that’s mistyping as an 8, this can look like trying to create scenarios and reasons to convince others that they’re an 8, which is even more proof of the mistyping at hand.

8s, on the other hand, are the system. They would just chuck everything out, push their way into things, and rewrite reality as it suits them regardless of health level.

INSTINCTUAL STACKING MYTHS

There’s also a pervasive myth in online typology circles that “counterphobic” 6 can only be sexual types. As a self-preservation 6, I can tell you off the bat that this couldn’t be way more off-base and is one of the primary reasons I mistyped as an 8 for so long.

“Counterphobic” 6s can be of any instinctual stacking. The notion that they can only be sexual types can only operate under the assumption that 6 can only be phobic or counterphobic, which is counter to the signature duality of the type.

6 phobia and counterphobia lie on a spectrum. How an individual 6 reacts depends on the person and situation. What the stacking tells you is what instinct this duality is most especially apparent.

For me as a self-preservation 6, this happens when self-preservation issues of health, finances, and lifestyle are at stake. This especially makes me extremely controlling and territorial of my space and any “intrusion” will send the alarm bells.

The main distinction with the 8-fixed 6 brand of boundary defense compared to that of the 8 (which is a more offensive-centric type) is that we tend to be much more vigilant of the boundary and pre-emptively strike before you even cross the line.

ATTACHMENT VS. REJECTION

The final key difference between 6 and 8 lies in one being an attachment type (6) and the other a rejection type (8).

6 (even with assertive and rejection fixes), for all their bluffing and blustering, are at the core attachment types. Whether we’re aware of it or not, as attachment types we have the need to be connected to “The Grid” (whether it’s people, systems, or anything that connects us to the world at large).

This gives us 6s a “testy” quality. We test and probe the people we interact with and change course depending on their reaction. Kind of like how our image-focused 3 siblings do except the reason why we do this is to help us orient the compass rather than craft the best image for the job (that is get the most value).

Meanwhile, 8s, their forceful action is a form of separation and dissociation from “The Grid". As rejection types, they assume right off the bat that they’re going to be rejected and thus offer their strength and willpower as they reject their vulnerability.

THE POWER OF WINGS AND FIXES

Like all attachment types, a 6 core is a “blank canvas” that gains its color and shape based on the wing, fixes, and instinctual stacking.If the core type, wing, and stacking are the main colors, the gut fix are the shadows, and the heart fix are the highlights.

6w5, specifically (due to the influence of the withdrawn, competency-focused 5) tend to be more private, cynical, and “grounded” than the 6w7 and can look like an 8 at first glance. This could all be just me projecting my experiences on to you, but that’s for you to decide.

A 6w7, on the other hand, tends to have more scattered energy due to the 7 mix. This makes for a more optimistic, emotional brand of the type that tends to mistype as 2, 4, or 9.

The narratives of “fighting for the underdog” and “toughening themselves up” usually attributed to 8s are more appropriate to the type 6 (I mean, 6w5 specifically is named The Defender, for God’s sake). More so because we have the hardest time accessing our courage.

Because how do we do the thing when we don’t know what the thing looks like?

What gut fix the 6 has adds striking color to the type: 9-fixed and 1-fixed 6s deal with underlying anxiety by mostly withdrawing from the source (9-fix) or contorting themselves to a standard in the attempt to quell the fear (1-fix).

8-fixed 6s? We just huff, puff, and take action to get it over with.

An 8 fix gives the 6 the license to “be” a 6 and wear the "ping-pong" game on their sleeve. The 6 “Inner Committee” (as Riso brands it) has a meeting every single time we make a decision, and for those of up with 8 fixes, it’s like telling them to shut the fuck up and stomping out in a huff to do the damn thing.

Because of this, an 8-fixed 6 will look more like the 8 stereotypes than an actual 8. 8-cores tend to be much better at picking their battles and knowing when to drop it when something is not worth it to them.’

The heart fix adds yet another dimension to the 6. Adding a 4 heart fix will make the 6-8 even more reactive and “raw”, whereas a 3 heart fix gives the 6-8 stem more tact and an emphasis on “reacting to get a certain reaction”. A 2 heart fix makes for a more people-focused, overbearing parent-figure type of quality.

The 6 can be many things, but “mediocre” and “same-y” is definitely not one of them.

WHY THE CONFUSION AND WHY ADDRESS IT?

Now that we have the differences out of the way, it’s good to ask, “If the differences are clear, why are people confusing the two types anyway?”

The distinction between 6s and 8s has been a subject of online debate since time immemorial. Based on my observations and experience, this is due to several things:

Confusing descriptions that end up adding more questions than answers. We’ve seen this happen with type 4 vs. 9 (another common mistyping), and unfortunately, some discussions blur the distinction for 6 vs. 8 even further.

A society that reveres certain types of strength more than others. This is how many (mostly male, based on observation) 6s posture themselves to the idealized, “powerful” version of the 8 without taking into consideration the dark side of the type.

The bad rep attachment types in general get. For all the pitfalls of 6, they also have their own strengths other types can learn from like loyalty, insight, and anti-elitism.

Defining the distinction between types helps people genuinely see themselves for what they are, warts and all, and helps lay the foundation for fruitful, meaningful inner work that gets us out the trappings of type and connect in a truly authentic way, no matter what type you are.

It gives the space to respond instead of reaching for the first instinct without a care for how it affects the big picture, and for the 6, it serves as the orienting needed to set the course and open up to other possibilities.

[downlikefolksongs]

After spending almost a year trying to figure out my Enneagram I realized that I'm a Type 8 a couple months ago. I had written it off early because I didn't see myself as aggressive - I tend to get upset rather than angry, or I remove myself from situations that aren't worth loosing my shit on. I'm diplomatic too, and polite when I am getting everything that I want and having it done my way. I think there's a huge gendered problem when it comes to how type 8s are described, and I wonder if any other women/femfolks (not TERFs, byeee) have experienced this?

I read recently that type 8's don't "defend" they only "counter-attack" and I started laughing so hard that I collapsed because I have never felt so seen in my life.

[determination-and-familiars]

When You Befriend A Soulless Flower

It's been so long since I've added to this there have actually been some headcanon changes, such as what year it takes place. I hadn't actually gotten bored with this AU, just so many things happening IRL and then some of my actually diagnosed ADD making me keep jumping ahead and either write or draw scenes from later on in this AU. I finally actually forced myself to focus on adding more to the AU's set-up. There is still one more part.

This is more of a montage of scenes of how fun it is living with Flowey while he's still soulless

The other parts of this AU setup are under the tag “AU Story”

It’s under a read more for being other 5k words

Vines snaked under the bed covers and wrapped tightly around Frisk’s ankles. Careful to not wake the sleeping girl, the vines pulled her out from under her blankets, lifting her up even higher. And then released her. She landed with a thud and pained yelp. Groaning and rubbing her head, the human rolled over to shoot a glare in the direction of the fertilizer tub.

“Oh, good! You’re up!” chirped the flower, vines slinking back into the soil. “Oh golly, are you ok? That sure looked like it hurt.”

“This isn’t going to become a morning thing, Petals.” Frisk pushed herself up from the ground, and felt around for her glasses on her bedside table. She then looked at her alarm clock. “5:30 again.” Yawning, the human covered her mouth and sat down on her bed. There was a shuffling sound and soon she spotted vines climbing up the side of the bed. Reaching over the side, Frisk lifted the flower up and set him down next to her. She yawned again. “What’s up, Flowey? Why’re you such an early bird lately?”

Flowey shrugged his vines. He then climbed down onto the floor, and scuttled towards the door. “C’mon! All those annoying people won’t be up yet!”

Frisk stood up just as Flowey managed to wrench the bedroom door open and began skittering downstairs. Throwing off her night-dress and pulling on a shirt and shorts, the brunette joined the blossom downstairs. Stepping into her shoes, the human quietly tapped out the code to unlock the door. She turned down to the flower, who glared up at her impatiently. “We won’t stay out too long. Mom will freak if she wakes up and we’re gone.” She bent down to offer an arm for the plant to climb on. He refused it. As soon as the door was opened, Flowey scuttled outside. Frisk followed then turned and touched the keypad to relock the door.

It was mid-summer, but this early, there was a cool morning breeze.

Flowey actually waited for Frisk before scuttling down the sidewalk, little petaled head turning this way and that, taking in everything. Frisk was mindful to not accidentally step on the flower’s vines trailing behind him as she kept pace.

This was turning out to be the best exploration yet for the small flower: he was already beginning to feel the warm sun as it rose, he was getting to explore the surface, and there weren’t crowds of humans around. There was only one he could mildly tolerate at best.

Frisk stayed quiet, only occasionally glancing down at the curious blossom while he explored. She yawned every so often, but her tiny friend almost seemed happy as he darted about; something she’d never seen from the plant unless he was faking it to lure someone into a trap.

As their surroundings changed from a light blue to bathed in the warm yellow of morning, people left their homes to head off to work. Some eased into their autocars, and snapped opened a paper as it drove off. Others zipped silently by on e-scooters.

A certain group of people caught Frisk’s attention.

“Hey, Flowey, let’s go this way.” She gestured down a random road in town. She kept watch on the group.

Flowey followed her gaze before looking back up at her. He opened his mouth but Frisk bent down, scooping him up, and turned down the road. “What? Are you being bullied or something?”

Frisk gave a forced chuckle. “No. Uh, let’s just say some people aren’t so happy that monsters are here now. And equally not very happy with the human who brought them up. I’d just like to avoid any scenes.”

“Well what if I wanna cause a scene?” the flower challenged.

“Flowey. No. Not this time. They’ve almost killed monsters before.” Frisk’s face was stern, her mouth in an almost straight line.

Flowey raised an eyebrow, but otherwise looked unimpressed.  “I’ve actually killed monsters before and you have no problems cuddling me. Just do your stupid mercy on them and make them your friends.” The flower began squirming to get out of the human’s hold. “Lemme go, and let’s go mess ’em up!”

“Flowey, I said no.” While the human talked, she’d begun walking home. She made sure to keep a firm hold on the flower. If he wiggled free, she just knew he’d burrow over to that group. “I’ve been ok with you doing a lot of things: I don’t care about when you’re rude, or wake me up by dropping me on the floor. I don’t care when you throw food on the ground if you don’t like it. But I’m not letting you do this.”

Flowey grumbled and lowered his petals.

“… How about this: you leave them alone and I’ll get you a full plate of bacon.”

The flower’s petals perked up instantly. “Bribe accepted!”

…

Flowey climbed out of the flowerpot he had insisted Frisk leave downstairs. Frisk’s mother was at work, and Frisk was at an ambassador meeting. The perfect opportunity for the flower to properly explore his new home without either human in the way. There was a small square of paper next to his pot; Frisk had left a note. In it, she wrote there was food in the kitchen within easy reach if he got hungry, as well as her number, but to please only call if there was an emergency since she would be in meetings all day.

Crawling over the note, and wrapping his vines around the table-leg, the small flower slowly slid down to the floor. Uncoiling from the table, Flowey began scuttling across the floor, using his vines like spider legs. He was in the living room, the largest room in the house. He’d only ever passed through this room into the kitchen and hadn’t actually spent much time in it.  There was a large bookcase against the far wall facing the staircase that held mostly books, a small collection of DVDs, and a few boxes marked as ‘Games.’

Flowey crawled closer and wrapped a vine around a game, pulling it out for a closer look: ‘Battleship’, whatever that was. While the main picture on the box showed what Flowey assumed was the game, on the sides there were pictures of what he could only guess were ‘battleships’ blowing up. He couldn’t help but snicker at the thought of such a pacifist like Frisk owning a game like this.

Dropping the box, Flowey continued his exploration of his new home.

Scuttling across the room, Flowey checked out the couch and smaller coffee table. The couch was soft and Flowey liked the medium blue of it. Maybe next time he’d have Frisk leave his flowerpot on there instead.

Moving past the couch, Flowey scuttled out, ignoring the kitchen, and into a little room just to the right. This was the mysterious room Luna walked out of on his first night on the surface. It was an office of sorts: there was a desk with screens above it, and several narrow bookcases and file cabinets. The screens interested him, and the desk surface had rows of letters and numbers. A computer, Frisk called it. Different to the one in Alphys’ lab. After a moment he decided he didn’t want to use the energy to climb the desk just to find he couldn’t make the screens do anything. Flowey backed out of the room.

Skittering back through the livingroom, Flowey approached another door, and gave a quick peek in: just a small, boring bathroom. Flowey made his way to the stairs. Using his vines, he slowly climbed them: he placed two vines on the step above, and pulled himself up. He repeated this until he finally reached the second floor.

Glancing into his and Frisk’s room near the top of the stairs, Flowey continued down the hall and peeked into the first room he came to. A bathroom, larger than the one downstairs but not very interesting. Ducking out, he scuttled further down the hall before trying the next door. This one was locked.

Frowning, the flower thought about shooting it with his pellets until it broke, but ultimately decided against it. That wouldn’t exactly help Frisk’s mother warm up to him.

The next door opened. This was a bedroom but other than a bed and nightstand the room was completely empty.

Closing the door, Flowey maneuvered his way downstairs to see what food Frisk left for him. There was still the basement, but Flowey… didn’t feel like exploring that. He could do that later when Frisk was back.

… Frisk groaned as she glared down at the paperwork covering almost the entire surface of her desk.

“Just write that everyone’s fine and they should butt out of everyone’s business already!”

The human turned around towards the flower sitting on the desk. A flowerpot was next to him. He wasn’t in it but he was idly drawing figure 8s in the soil with a vine. He was resting his petaled head on another vine.

“I can’t say that. It needs to be professionally worded.” Frisk sighed.

Flowey huffed loudly. “I’m bored!”

“I know! I’m sorry! I am too, but I gotta finish this first.” Frisk ran a hand through her hair. “Once this is finished, I promise, I’ll find something fun to do – as long as it’s legal.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, Flowey grabbed the paper with his vines to look it over. He then gave it back. “Ok. I’ll help you finish this – and then I wanna go outside and play. Find something fun that can only be done up here.”

Frisk nodded in thanks.

The human had to write quickly while the flower talked about the other monsters. Some things she knew from talking to the others herself: like how Toriel and Asgore adopted a human who fell, without hesitating, or how Papyrus always tries to inspire others. Some things she didn’t. Like how Nabstablook would sit and talk to someone for hours if they were truly upset. Or how the bunny who ran the inn, if someone desperately needed a warm place to stay the night but had no money, would let them stay anyway.

Or how the skeleton brothers had once taken in a homeless child.

Soon the spaces provided on the paperwork were all filled.

“Thanks so much, Flowey!” Frisk said, stacking the paperwork in a neat pile. Thinking for a moment, she then asked, “Have you ever been on a bike before?” At the confused look she added, “Two wheels, you ride it around?”

“Chara used to talk about those. You actually have one?”

Frisk nodded. “Yeah! Though I’m going to insist you go in the pot. I don’t want you being blown off during the ride.”

Once the flower nestled back into the soil, Frisk picked up the pot and went out to the garage. Grabbing a basket and some straps, Frisk clipped the basket to the front of her bike, set the flowerpot in it, and used the straps the secure it. She then popped a helmet on and walked the bike outside.

Flowey stayed quiet, mostly just enjoying the sun while Frisk pedalled along the road. However as soon as Frisk rode down a hill and the wind rustled through his petals, Flowey actually started to enjoy it. He closed his eyes and stretched himself taller in his little pot.

Frisk circled around the neighborhood in order to go down the small hill again and again, and only stopped when her legs needed a rest.

After the break, the two rode around town for a few hours, Flowey at one point directing the way. Rolling through town on the bike allowed him to explore quickly.

…

“Ok, I’ll be right back and then we’ll head out.” Frisk stood up from her desk and ran upstairs.

Flowey for a change had actually already been in one of his little flowerpots. He turned to look out the window while waiting for Frisk.

Footsteps caught his attention. That was fast. Turning around expecting Frisk, instead he found Luna. She was holding a watering can.

“Um. … Hi?” she tried. When Flowey didn’t respond, the woman spoke again, stepping closer to the desk. “We got off on the wrong foot. If you really did help Frisk escape, I do thank you for that.”

“Uh, yeah…” Flowey looked towards the stairs, hoping Frisk would hurry up.

“You’re name’s Flowey, right?”  

The flower nodded, but said nothing. There was another awkward silence. “Do you want some water?” she added.

Instead of answering, Flowey turned away.

Luna hesitated, then stepped forward and raised the watering can. Water poured onto the soil surrounding Flowey.

“Hey!” Flowey whipped around and actually bit the woman on the hand. He didn’t draw blood but it startled her, and it hurt.

Luna flinched away, inspecting her hand. She slammed the watering can down and stomped upstairs. She passed Frisk who was finally heading down. “Frisk, do be careful that that weed doesn’t bite you too.”

Frisk could only blink, mouth open slightly as she quickly darted the rest of the way downstairs. She flew over to Flowey, who now had his thorns out. “You bit her?”

“She watered me when I wasn’t thirsty!” Though glaring, he retracted his thorns as Frisk lifted his flowerpot.

“Did you tell her you didn’t want to be watered?”

“…No. But I turned away when she offered!”

Frisk sighed. “Flowey… You need to use your words. Heck I might have taken that as a yes, with you turning away so the water wouldn’t splash on your face!”

Flowey huffed as Frisk carried his pot outside.

“We’re going to work on your manners.”

…

Undyne shot a glare at the small flower, who responded by sticking out his tongue and blowing a raspberry, before she grinned at Frisk. “Alright! Like usual, we’re gunna start with a few warm up stretches and maybe work you up to lifting fifteen pounds this time!”

Flowey called from across the room, by one of the training dummies. “When’re you gunna kick her butt?”

Undyne fixed the plant with another glare. “I’m not gunna kick her butt, it’s not that kind of training!”

Flowey giggled. “I meant Frisk kicking your butt!”

Groaning, the blue fish monster turned back to Frisk. By now the human had finished her warm up stretches. “Ready?”

Frisk nodded.

Neither Undyne nor Flowey knew why Frisk brought him along for these sessions, but the flower watched intently. He was kinda curious what sort of ‘training’ Undyne actually gave the human. There was no need for the girl to fight, so what was the point?

By the looks of it, it was mostly self-defense: Rather than throwing punches and kicks, Frisk was dodging and twisting away from various holds.  

After a while, Undyne brought out the weights. “What do you want to start with?”

Before Frisk could answer, Flowey piped up. “Go for the heaviest!”

“Will you butt out?!” Undyne yelled. “I’d like to see you do better!”

This only made the flower laugh more. “I’m literally a flower. There’s no way I could! I dunno why Frisk even brought me along.”

Frisk grinned. Apparently she was waiting for him to say exactly that. “But Flowey! When I went down to get you, you caught me just fine when I fell and even lifted me back up to that tree root when we left! And I’m about twice your size!”

Flowey sank in the dirt while Undyne turned from Frisk back to him, motioning with a finger for him to come over. Unhappy where this was heading, Flowey reluctantly burrowed closer.

“How much can you lift?” Undyne asked once he was close enough.

Flowey made the mistake of raising two vines out of the ground in a shrug. He realized his error at the way the grin spread across Undyne’s face. Before he could lower the vines back underground, Undyne set the entire box of weights on them. For a moment he almost dropped them, but then he tightened his vines around the box and held it in place.

“Not bad.” Taking a weight from the box and handing it to Frisk, she then added, “While still holding those, pick up Frisk as well.”

The human laughed lightly as vines snaked around her before lifting her up.

At the flower’s almost smug grin, Undyne said. “Alright. Now come out of the dirt and lift something.”

Flowey’s grin fell.

“C’mon, Flowey! It’ll be fun!” Frisk added.

Gulping, the small flower set Frisk and the box of weights down before his roots disappeared underground and he carefully uprooted himself, climbing out of the dirt. He glanced around nervously, feeling very uneasy at being out of the ground and exposed like this around the fish monster. Without soil, his vines could not grow and protect him. If she wanted to, she could easily spear him before he could slip back into the soil.

Flowey swallowed. But instead of attacking, Undyne reached into the box and pulled out a dull metal weight with a ‘2’ in large numbers etched into either end. The two pounder was the lightest one in the box. Undyne held it out to the flower.

His vines looked shrunken compared to before, without soil to give him strength. Reaching up with a much smaller vine, Flowey wrapped it around the middle of the weight. And was promptly pulled to the ground with a clunk. Coiling a second vine around the narrow middle of the weight, Flowey tugged at it, leaning back and grimacing. The weight did not shift.

“Looks like I’ll be toughening up both of you,” Undyne smirked.

  Later, Frisk headed for home with an exhausted flower laying limply across her head.

“Are you ok?” Frisk asked, glancing up.

After a moment Flowey sighed and then responded. “Yeah. It was actually kinda fun. I’m,” he stretched out a vine, “tired. But in a good way.”

The human beamed, her eyes still rolled upward, trying to glimpse the tired flower. “Wanna come again the next time?”

Now the flower hesitated. “Uhhh… Maybe. If you can convince her there’s no way I’ll work up to lifting 20 freaking pounds in one single freaking day.”

Frisk giggled and nodded, reaching up to softly pat the flower on the head. This time he didn’t shove her hand away. “Deal!”

The sun was setting, and in the falling dusk, Flowey didn’t see a small happy smile turn up the corners of Frisk’s mouth. This was great! He liked it. Her plan just might work:  Flowey was still a little ball of aggression. This could be an outlet for him to work some of that out without harming anyone.

…

“Where are we going now?” the flower grumbled from his perch on Frisk’s shoulder. Over her other shoulder was the strap from a backpack which held one of Flowey’s flowerpots.

“To see my dad!” the human chirped. “You haven’t met him yet!”

Flowey shut his eyes and unwrapped a vine in order to shrug with it. “I just assumed you didn’t have one and you were created in some lab. Some experiment on how to make something freakishly happy all the time.”

Frisk raised an eyebrow. “Flowey,” she said, adding a slight whine to her tone. “I’m not freakishly happy all the time!”

“Sure.” After a moment, Flowey added, “Why aren’t they together? Is it like Mo- … Toriel and Asgore?”

Frisk glanced away with a slight wince. After a moment the human finally responded. “It’s … complicated. They technically aren’t divorced but they’re struggling to stay together.”

Flowey raised an eyebrow. “That’s dumb.”

Letting out a sigh, Frisk shook her head. “It’s just a … it’s complicated. I don’t want to see them fight anymore, but I also hope they can work things out and maybe get back together someday.”

Flowey rolled his eyes and fell silent again.

As the two waited for the bus, the pair couldn’t help but notice how many people gave them odd looks and the occasional glare. As one solar bus sighed past, silent except for the wheels crunching on the road, Flowey stuck his tongue out at passengers frowning through the windows.

Frisk sighed again. “It’s better to just ignore them, Flow-Flow.”

With his tongue still out, the flower pivoted his glare to the girl before pulling his tongue back in. “Yeah. That’s a nickname that’s not staying.”

Finally their bus came. As the door slid open, the bus lowered almost to the ground, and an elderly woman crept slowly off. Getting on, Frisk walked to the back. Flowey climbed over to the shoulder closest to the window, looking out. The bus pulled away from the side of the road and joined the cars, bikes and motorcycles flowing down the street.  

As the view outside passed by, the small flower reminded Frisk of an excited puppy on a car ride, the way they bounce up to a window and fall back down, then finally place paws on the door to see out. Flowey also was trying to take in everything. He kept moving from her shoulder, then down onto the seat, then climbing back up on her shoulder. At one point he was stretched so far forward on his roots, when the bus stopped Frisk had to quickly catch him from falling.

Finally Frisk pushed a button on a grab-pole in the aisle. The word STOPPING lit up on a screen near the front, where the driver was located. The bus slowed, then pulled to the side of the road and stopped. Frisk gathered up Flowey and headed to the door. The pair were greeted by an average height Hispanic man in his forties.

“Hi, Dad!” Frisk exclaimed, running up and hugging the man.

“Ah mi hija, I hope the bus ride was alright?” He returned the hug. When he pulled back, he asked, “And who’s this?” while offering a friendly smile to the flower perched on the girl’s shoulder.

Well, Flowey was beginning to see where Frisk gets her annoying smile from.  “…Flowey.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Flowey. My name’s Dante.”

Unlike Frisk’s mother, this guy didn’t make even one comment about the fact Flowey was, well, a flower. He was simply greeted the way another monster might greet him. Very weird coming from a human, but a nice surprise.

However, as good as it was, Flowey was curious about how calm this Dante was about everything.  The human’s other parent seemed to still have such a huge problem with him. “Um, how are you so ok with a talking flower?”

Dante let out a soft chuckle. “Why shouldn’t I be? You have every right to exist as I do.”

Flowey wasn’t able to respond, rendered silent in the way only Frisk and Papyrus had managed until now. Never before had a human said something like that. He still didn’t even fully like his own existence. After technically what could be years and years of being bored with nothing new, he wasn’t sure how to react to so many new and surprising things happening all the time. The flower remained quiet. One group of humans were so dangerous Frisk walked a different route. Others glared, or stared, or frowned. To Frisk’s own mother, he was a weed! But to Dante? He had a ‘right to exist.’

Maybe Frisk and Dante shared more than just the tendency to grin like idiots.

…

Five a.m. rolled around once again. Flowey blinked awake and yawned as he unfurled his petals. Sunlight was just beginning to peek through the bedroom window. The human lay quietly in the bed. It wasn’t fair she was sleeping with the sun starting to rise.

A toothy grin spread across the flower’s face as his vines stretched forward out of his fertilizer bed to snake under the blankets. The vines had only just barely wrapped around Frisk’s ankles when she sudden spoke.

“Don’t you even dare.” Her voice sounded half asleep though.

“Whaaaaat?” Flowey feigned innocence. “I wasn’t going to do anything!”

A tired groan escaped the human as she pushed herself up on one arm, turning her head to peer down at the flower. She caught Flowey quickly withdrawing his vines back into his dirt tub. “So you weren’t about to throw me out of bed again.” It wasn’t a question. She knew.

“Why would I do something so mean to my bestest friend ever?”

“You’ve done this every morning for the past week and a half!”

Flowey dropped his innocent act.  “I’m bored, ok?! I stupidly synced up with the stupid sun and so I’m forced awake at stupid-early o’ clock and have to wait for your stupid butt to wake up! So I get you up so it’s less awful for me!” The small flower raised three of his vines and crossed two of them, imitating folded arms while pointing the third accusingly at Frisk. “You never warned me that coming to the surface included these side effects!”

The human sighed, though not in annoyance. Pushing herself the rest of the way up, she stood and crossed the room to the dirt tub. She knelt down to be eye-level with Flowey. “I didn’t realize. You’re the only sentient plant I know – well, other than the Vegetoids – but they didn’t seem to sync.”

Flowey only glared. “Fix it or find something for me to do and maybe I won’t throw you on the floor every morning.”

Frisk exhaled through her nose and ran a hand through her hair. She hated being dragged out of deep sleep every dawn. Still, she couldn’t really be upset with him for being pissed about being dragged to the surface just to spend hours alone every morning. After a moment an idea came to her.

“Maybe I can set up a little ladder next to Mom’s computer. Teach you how to use it. Then you can watch videos or something while waiting for everyone to wake up,” Frisk suggested.

The little flower snickered. “Ok Google: How to kill all humans?”

Frisk cringed. “Maybe I’ll think of something else for you to do…”

Flowey’s little face twisted into one of disappointment, tiny mouth ajar. “No, no! I won’t! The only computers I’ve seen were Papyrus’ and Alphys’! And they weren’t hooked up the actual internet!” He even shifted his face to resemble his old Asriel self: large red eyes, shining and watery, little fang-y snout turned down in a pout. Complete with a little quiver. “Please? I’ll be good!”

He’d even altered his voice! He’s dropped the normal distortion and crackiness, but kept the childish tone. It brought Frisk back to the night the barrier broke.

How was she expected to say ‘no’ to that?

Frisk sighed in defeat. “Ok, ok. You win. But if it was illegal to do down there – don’t look it up online up here, ok?”

The flower’s distress fled far too quickly. He shifted back to his flatter flower-face. “Deal!” he exclaimed, in his normal scratchy voice.

Frisk held out her arm for the little blossom to climb onto. “Well I’m up now. C’mon.”

After easing out his roots one at a time, Flowey coiled them around Frisk’s wrist.

Yawning, the human stood up, heading downstairs.

  The next morning Flowey glared at the window, as the blackness began greying and then lightening up to a medium blue. He was tempted to fling the human out of bed again. So tempted. But he ultimately decided against it. While still in the soil, he used magic to extend one of his vines to the doorknob, twisted it, and swung the door open.

Climbing out of his dirt-box, Flowey scuttled out of the room. Reaching the top of the stairs, Flowey peered down into the gloom. He grimaced in annoyance. There were a lot. Careful to not trip over his own vines, the flower started climbing down each tread. Using his roots, he lowered his bulb first before crawling to the next step and repeating the action.

Flowey huffed in exhaustion when he finally reached the ground floor. Why did humans have to have stupid stairs?

Pushing himself back up on his roots, the little flower tapped across the livingroom until he reached the room just right of the kitchen. Luna’s home office. Slithering inside and next to the computer desk, the small blossom began pulling out drawers so he could climb up.

The little plant hoisted himself onto the desk. Looking down at the holographic keyboard, he tapped a key to wake the computer up. Where was the mouse? Other computers Flowey had seen had an oval device one could slide around to move from one section of a screen to another, or to click a button icon. Aha! A small grey rubbery section was embedded in the desk. Flowey stroked it, and an arrow moved across one of the screens.

He perched by the keyboard and slid a vine across the mousepad. A report with many words was open on one screen.  Flowey didn’t close it off but minimized it instead. He then opened Firefox and pulled up Google. Flowey paused to think about what he actually wanted to look up.

After a moment the little plant tapped his three other vines across the keyboard and a search for movies came up on one of the computer screens. Using the mousepad, Flowey scrolled the page for a moment before going back to the search bar and adding the word ‘horror’.

Scrolling this page for a while, and clicking the star to bookmark the ones that caught his interest, Flowey finally stumbled across one from roughly 340 years ago. A very old film from 1974 called “The Texas Chain Saw Massacre”.

Flowey clicked on that and skimmed the description, glad Chara taught him how to read human words. Liking what he saw, Flowey started the film.

~*~

It was the screaming that woke up Frisk and her mother; the high pitched shrieks of a woman in terror. Practically falling out of their beds, the pair rushed downstairs, following the cries to Luna’s home-office. This is where they found Flowey, perched on the desk and grinning with sharp little fangs while watching the movie. Volume turned up to the max.

Frisk darted in and paused the film.

“HEY! I was – You said –”

“That’s way too loud! And that one’s way out of your age demographic!” Flowey actually growled, glaring daggers up at the human girl. “We’ll make a list of ones you’ll like that’re more … appropriate.” Frisk held an arm out for him to climb onto.

Flowey, still glaring, instead chose to climb down the desk and onto the floor and then sulk out of the room.

Luna crossed the room and after closing off the browser, checked the documents she’d left open the night before. She sighed in relief when she found they’d only been minimized. Turning to her daughter she asked, “I’m guessing you said he could browse if he woke up before you?”

Frisk nodded. “Yeah, sorry mom. I told him not to close anything off and taught him how to use Google.”  And told him not to look up violent things, she added silently, deciding against telling her mother about Flowey’s interests. Luna would lose it. She was still getting used to monsters in her town, and in her house.

“Next time teach him about volume control too.” Luna ran a hand through her un-made, messy blonde hair and checked her wrist, blinking upon realizing she didn’t have her watch. It was a rather rude awakening. Yawning, Luna went back to her room.

Frisk sighed as she left the room, off to hunt for a pouting flower.

…

Sprinting upstairs and throwing the door open, Frisk beamed from ear to ear as she looked around the room for Flowey. “Hey, where are you? I’ve got some great news!”

Flowey crawled out from under the bed.

Frisk gave him an odd look. “What were you doing under there?” At Flowey’s lack of a response, the human sighed and continued. “Anyway, the people at the embassy were really impressed with the paperwork you helped me fill in before. They invited you to come along to the next meeting!”

Flowey raised an eyebrow. “Why would I want to do that? Sitting in a room of grumpy old humans being grumpy and old? Sounds boring.”

Crouching down, closer to the plant’s level, the girl tried again. “Flowey, this is great progress! In just a month they’re going to start listening to what monsters have to say!”

“What if I don’t want to? What if I wanna stay home and watch TV instead?” The flower paused, but before Frisk could speak again, he added with a wink: “Buuuut, if maybe you offered me a reward for spending my time with boring humans…”

“You’re serious. I gotta actually bribe you into helping monsterkind get equal rights.” She ran a tired hand through her hair. “Alright, what do you want?”

Flowey tapped a vine on the ground. “Hmmm. A full plate of bacon and there’s a movie series – Saw I think – I wanna watch that!”

“Fueling your addiction to bacon and gory horror movies.”

The flower crossed two of his vines. “Hey – hey! I don’t have a bacon addiction!”

Frisk snickered. “Of course you don’t.”

“So, deal?” Flowey asked, uncrossing his vines.

“I’ll need to think about it – I’m not sure how healthy all that human-food bacon is for you.” She paused, then added, “And I’m not sure how good seeing all that gore would be either.”

If he had feet, he would have stomped. “I’m not a baby! With all my resets I’m probably older than you!”

“I just said I would need to think about it. And how about proving that maturity and settling for a compromise?”

The little flower grumbled. “I’ll think about it.”

[0ompa-loompa]

Assignments, final projects, try-outs, mock weeks, finals, college applications, these are what senior year is made of. Naturally, it’s the period of time when you most feel the urge to jump off a cliff. From the first week of school, I could already see the differences senior year brought to my school mates. People were starting to realize that they had to receive great marks, they had to get accepted into good colleges, they had to do this and that as ways to an accomplished future.

Over the years of being a high school student, every time there was a free period, or just any studying-free moment at school, we would watch movies, gossip, or simply be on our phones for hours. Now in every free periods, my classmates would take out these heavy-ass books that can be used comfortably as pillows and actually study. Or re-write their notes. Or revise a subject for next week’s quiz. Anything to keep them working (just curious, do these symptoms apply to all senior year students around the world?).

Since junior year were pretty traumatizing for me (thanks to student government), I had been planning all holiday to give my 110% for senior year. Long story short, I hit it off since day 1 and came out alive six months later. Although it resulted in me spending 3 days sleeping in after end-of-term exams were over, I’m really happy for having been very productive this entire term. I know there’s still 6 months left and the worst parts are yet to come, so I decided to share a few tips exclusively coming from someone *glares at myself* who did remarkably awful the previous year and somehow found a way to crawl back from death

1.       Know Where You’re Going

Getting to the very last year of high school, this is the MOST important part of surviving. Without having your long-term goal, it would be like taking down hundreds of obstacles without having a destination in mind. You don’t know where you’re going, but more monsters keep showing up on your path. Trust me, you’ll eventually get tired and stop trying midway. Losing motivation when you’re in the most vital part of your study can’t be a good thing.

Do research on the degrees you’re interested in taking, from their passing grades to job prospects. Make sure you actually enjoy the subjects needed for those degrees. For example, if you can’t stand Biology, better if you don’t consider attending medical school, and the same goes to other subjects as well.

2.       Maintain Productivity

The amount of school work you’re getting can be overwhelming, that is why you have to do them as soon as possible to prevent them from piling up. You don’t have to finish them all in one day, it’s impossible and careless. At least try to do them bits by bits until the night before due when you can go over what you’ve done and fix a few imperfections or cross-check your answers. Try doing this to multiple assignments instead of focusing on one or two assignments the entire week.

I usually bring unfinished assignments to school so I can get to work when I have free time, usually before after-school extras, or while waiting for an extra course. This way instead of going on Tumblr for hours, I’ll be figuring out math problems and (hopefully) have the homework done by ½ when the course starts.

3.       Gather Motivation

Take a look at that magnificent building, I will build tens of those once I become an architect. Have you seen the latest VSxBalmain collection? I’ll someday be working alongside Olivier Rousting .

It’s very important to keep being productive and use every free time wisely. While you’re at it, make sure to keep your motivate-o-meter at high level. Motivation and inspiration can come from anyone, anywhere and it doesn’t even have to come from anything relevant to your life goals. I usually get a boost of motivation after watching a couple videos of my favorite Youtubers (which has no correlation whatsoever to being an engineer), and I recently  got a huge inspo from reading Crazy Rich Asians. It seriously motivated me to work my ass off and be rich.

4.       Don’t Stop ‘til You’re Proud

Catch up on things you don’t fully understand. If you had a problem with certain subjects or materials, find the answers right away, don’t wait until the day before quizzes or mock tests when you will desperately need answers. Ask teachers, your friends, or our most trusty friend the internet. You can also download several applications to help you study, like Khan Academy and other similar apps. Once you put one problem out of sight, it will become easier for you to put more aside . This is what happened to me last year, I had problems understanding Chem but I refused to actually figure them out, thinking I would learn the materials later. 10 laters later, I got a 7 for end-of-semester test while my classmates received 9s and 8s.

So you have studied for this particular test and still got a bad mark. Shit happens honey, tough it up. Even while I’m writing this, I fully understand that the theory of ‘picking-yourself-up’ is much easier said than done. Give yourself some time to breathe, and start with “okay, where did I go wrong?”. Figure out the errors to make sure you’re not doing them the second time. Consider it this way: the subject has betrayed you and you’re getting a revenge. I planted this idea the very first day of senior year, the thought has driven me to never quit trying. It’s almost like Elle Woods to Warner, but instead it’s me and Physics.

5.       Get A Rest.

Senior year doesn’t mean you lose all hope of going on shopping sprees, watching the latest movies, or taking care of your Tumblr blog. If anything, I’ve watched more movies with my friends this year than I did previous years, simply because we have little time to relax so we made the most of one when we had the chance to. As long as you keep track on your to-do-list, stay discipline on your schedule, a little catch up on KUWTK won’t hurt.

Don’t push yourself to the point of falling down. Read books, paint, dance, even play games (Mobile Legend is the hype these days it’s getting annoying), anything to keep you sane and motivated. Never let the pressure of GPAs and prestigious colleges take positivity away from you.

6.       Don’t Over-Rest.

Yes, hun, I was just telling you to enjoy your senior year and now I’m telling you to not over-relax your way. Maintain a schedule, make agreements with yourself and stick to it. “At 8pm I will start on Math homework, and the rest is for tomorrow”. “I will work my butts off from 8 to 10 am then I can go on Tumblr”. “I will start on my History papers and take a rest after 2 pages”.

I’m not telling you to work 24/7 because that’s not healthy, I’m ALSO not telling you to spend all your weekend in bed and procrastinate because it would defeat the whole purpose of learning to be productive. Once you let yourself procrastinate, It’ll be easier for you to do it for the second, third, and fourth time.  Sometimes you just need to gather your will, get up and face those text books.

Well, there you go. These are all the things I have been doing to not only survive, but to do well in high school. I have been doing all these tips religiously for the past 6 months, it’s almost impossible not to feel tired or even want to just cut it off. But studying routinely makes me feel in control of what’s happening currently, what’s going to happen next, what I want to be doing in the future. So get up and let’s kick asses together.

[alyss-not-cis]

We Were Born This Way

If you’ve ever been confronted by a religious person about your gender identity, you may have heard this argument.

“You’re trans? That’s blasphemy! You’re saying God was wrong because He put you in the wrong body!”

But in reality, God wasn’t wrong. Let me explain why that is and what the Bible says about it.

1. The Science Behind Being Trans

Being bigender, I’ve often questioned how I came to be both a male and a female. Could it all be in my head? Could I just be confused? After much research in the science behind transgender identities, I realized there isn’t much science to intersex or genderqueer people, but one thing is for certain; science supports trans identities.

There have been many different theories to the becoming of trans individuals, and this sparks much taunting and dismissive behaviors from transphobes. But there was a time when we didn’t know that the planets revolved around the sun, and people taunted the now widely known and respected scientists that led us to the conclusion that the planets do in fact revolve around the sun and not the Earth. What does that have to do with anything? Well, that just means we’re just now learning about the science of trans identities, just like we, at one point and time, were first learning that the planets revolved around the sun.

If you’re interested in doing your own research about the scientific theories and studies done in the trans community, here are some great resources;

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BwanSrXOOH0&t=8s

https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/pdf/10.1177/0956797620971654

https://sitn.hms.harvard.edu/flash/2016/gender-lines-science-transgender-identity/

2. The Consequences of Sin

In Genesis Chapter 3, we see Adam and Eve eat the forbidden fruit and sin is brought into the world. Here we see the death of animals, the development of thorns, the pains of childbirth, and other consequences of sin mentioned. All of this transpired because of the fall of man, and this brings me to my next point.

If a child is born blind, does that mean God was wrong? Does that mean God made the child wrong, or that He was supposed to give them sight? Could He really be so cruel?

Actually, this unfortunate happening is seen as a consequence of sin. Because humanity sinned against God and brought the tragedies of death and sickness, sometimes things like this happen. It isn’t brought by the child’s sin, or the parents’, but the world’s as a whole.

But God uses these mishaps to grow people into who He meant them to be. The child who was born without sight could grow up to develop a better form of communication or reading for the blind like Louis Braille, educate and promote equal rights for the blind community like Helen Keller, or even become an amazing musician like Joaquin Rodrigo.

The same goes for the trans community. Even though God made me both a man and a woman in a woman’s body, it wasn’t because He was wrong or wanted to punish me. It’s because He knew it was going to help me grow, because He had plans for me to help others, speak up against the discrimination, and help myself by accepting who I am.

3. Lady Gaga Was Right, We Were Born This Way

“I’m beautiful in my way, ‘cus God makes no mistakes. I’m on the right track, baby, cus I was born this way.” - Lady Gaga

We aren’t mistakes. We aren’t confused. We aren’t wrong. God made us exactly how He planned on making us; and it wasn’t to be cruel.

Look at the other trans people who have accomplished amazing things. 

Jenny Bailey is a famous English politician who served as the mayor of Cambridge in 2007-2008. Leslie Feinberg is an author, speaker and activist who’s helped countless other trans people accept who they are. James Barry was a great British surgeon, and Lynda Cash is an English Naval officer and the first Trans person to serve in the Royal Navy.

God doesn’t make mistakes, and He made you. Therefore, you aren’t a mistake, and neither is your gender.

Thank you for reading, and remember to stay safe!

- Alyss

[kellexplainsitall]

This week of running... wasn't great. My current issues are my left hip flexor and right shin and Achilles, but that varies by the day. Last week, it was my lower back and the week before that? I can't even remember. I just felt kinda crappy on most of these runs.

Monday - 8 miles in the afternoon, ran sub-8s pretty comfortably

Tuesday - 8 easy with the guys

Wednesday - 8. Oof. I was hoping to run some quicker miles but I was killing myself to run a 7:58 pace. I didn't understand how that pace felt relaxed on Monday and like I was sprinting Wednesday.

Thursday - 60 mins spinning (Tabata + Backstreet Boys class)

Friday - 8 easy with Rebuck. We both felt like trash on this run, it was really tough.

Saturday - 20 @ 7:57 pace. I was really worried about this run, but it went very smoothly. I did 6 solo, picked up the group for 8 and then Bob did the last 7 with me. We did have a few breaks (10ish minutes, more than I'd like, but it's worth the company), but overall, I felt pretty good

Sunday- 10 easy. Another run where I didn't feel great. I was worried about my hip flexor, as it had started to feel sore at the end of Saturday's run and then my shin/Achilles started bothering me! I feel NO pain anywhere, just 'feel' it. Sigh. The first five miles were so slow and I felt so blah, but the last five felt better. I should also mention that I was out the door by 6 a.m. to get this done, and it just feels cruel to constantly be up so early.

I went to a new dentist, and um, I am super embarrassed. I have been going to a not-so-great dentist for the past decade, but I finally switched to my friend's practice, and I need to go back twice more to get work done on my gums! I am glad that I am getting it taken care of, because I am very self-conscious about my teeth, but I am so mortified.

We are working on transitioning this guy from 3 naps a day to 2! He will be seven months old next week, which is just bananas. He is generally such a good baby, I feel really lucky to be his mama.

We had a pretty uneventful weekend. Besides running, I took Keegan and Miles on lots of walks and tried to enjoy the fresh fall weather as much as I could. I even took a 20-minute nap on Sunday, which was really nice.

Our friends Jim and Sarah are getting married in a family-only ceremony Friday, so we are headed to a very small outdoor distanced get-together at their house Saturday, which should be fun. My MIL will be here, so it's Mom and Dad's night out! (Well, it starts at 4:30)

I haven't been reading much, I tried to read Rodham but I kept finding myself playing with my phone or doing other stuff instead of reading, and that's generally a sign that it's time to give up.

Keegan went to bed early Saturday, so I started watching Scream, which was one of my favorite movies. I made it about 45 minutes before Tim wanted to watch football, but I hope I can finish it. I haven't seen it in years.

That's it. Just feeling tired and terribly anxious about everything. The usuals

[itsworn]

1931 Ford Roadster Packs ARDUN V-8 Power

You could say that Bobby Hilton has reinvented the Model A Ford. His angry-looking A/V-8 coupes are seriously chopped and dropped, and they’re running vintage OHV V-8s (but not Chevys) with open headers. Hoods and fenders? Radials? Forget ’em. Big ’n’ little bias-plies, honey-finished interior wood, minimal chrome, and exceptional paint finish them off. Hilton’s hot rods ooze attitude. You can’t miss them—and they beg to be driven. Bobby and his clients think nothing of boogying from his shop in The Plains, Virginia, all the way to Austin for the Lonestar Round Up.

First time they did that, it rained like crazy, but all four of Hilton’s hoodless, fenderless coupes just hammered along. Nothing broke, and in Bobby’s words, “We flat had a ball, man.” An ex-drag racer whose wife Diane’s parents are famous drag racers Jim and Allison Lee, Bobby is down-home southern, through and through. His syrupy Virginia accent is sprinkled with jazz slang. He does most of the work on his cars himself, in a tiny shop that’s tucked away in a posh equestrian park. Don’t look for a fancy garage with matching tools. That’s not happening. Bobby has an artist’s keen eye for aesthetics, a drag racer’s can-do attitude, and the hands-on skills of a crew chief who knows how to do things right.

Bobby achieved national recognition when he built a chopped Model A coupe for Tony Lombardi of Ross Racing Engines, in Niles, Ohio. It was a Hilton-style car, for sure, but done with a bigger budget that permitted little more chrome and a lot better paint. Perched on Deuce ’rails, hoodless, and packing a 400-cid stroker Olds V-8 with a polished 4-71 blower, Lombardi’s Model A was selected as the Goodguys 2014 Hot Rod of the Year in Indianapolis.

“That whole Goodguys thing was the best,” Bobby grins. “And I had never even been to a Goodguys event before.”

Ask Bobby Hilton how he defines one of his cars and the answer is immediate. “It’s got to look pissed off.” His cars don’t have hoods. They don’t have fenders. The big V-8 motors are souped to the gills, and very nicely detailed. They’ve got that 4-1/4-inch chop and that sneaky little sunvisor. They are Model As with an attitude.

“Maybe I painted myself into that corner with these Model As,” Bobby admits, “but right now, I think it’s a good corner. I like them slammed in the front, man. They have flat front crossmembers. Put them down on the ground in the back, make the wheels follow the wheel. Put 7.50s, 4.50s on old steel wheels, get a nice rake going. They’ve got to have a vintage motor, and I like to keep real Ford parts on them. I try not to use a lot of aftermarket stuff in the suspension.”

Bobby’s a good mechanic because he had to be one from the outset. “I was raised at a time in drag racing where you were damn lucky if you had a professionally built chassis. Later on, Woody Gilmore built some cars for us. But I was working on race cars when I was 13. We did it all, man, from A to Z.” And he still does.

“We’ve been building those cowl steering boxes ourselves, in-house. That’s a big part of the look. They are F-100 truck boxes. We’re modifying the sectors on ’em and creating a center steer box, similar to a Schroeder setup, but more true to hot rods instead of being a racing box. Every one of my cars has one. I put a center steering setup in my son Tyler’s car 10 years ago. It’s not brain science. It’s got a lot of racing background in it. Plus, it makes it damn simple to get the steering around these vintage motors. Typically, they have the starter on that left side; they’ve got some big filter or something else going on. You wouldn’t be able to get a steering column in them if you wanted to.”

For a guy who’s admittedly not an engineer, Bobby is an intuitive technician with some ingenious solutions that don’t break the bank and work really well.

More builds and even more exposure followed the success at Goodguys. Bobby has a suite of 1932 Ford chassis modifications he likes. He uses original Ford parts wherever possible. Hilton’s “Angry A’s” are immediately recognizable with their fully exposed, 4-71 blown, OHV V-8 motors from Oldsmobile, Buick, Cadillac, and Chrysler, flowing outside headers using reworked 1936 Ford driveshafts, flattened X-members, kicked-up 1932 Ford frames, Buick finned brake drums, 5-inch handmade dropped axles, and TREMEC five-speeds. Hilton Hot Rods’ Model As sit right and run like crazy.

But they’ve all been coupes.

A couple of years ago, Bobby told me, “If I had my grand plan of the world, I’d want to put a roadster of mine in the AMBR. I don’t have to win. I just want to get in line. I’ve wanted to build an East Coast, channeled-style roadster, with Tony’s motor and Travis’ paint. We could build such a cool car, man. Maybe do like an old-style 303 0lds with a LaSalle transmission and a chrome banjo … something to really make it pop. That AMBR thing is due for an East Coast–style car anyhow.”

So here we are … with just a few things changed.

Bobby Hilton’s AMBR contender, owned by Ray Enos, Sacramento, California, is a 1930-1931 Model A roadster with a Brookville steel body on a seriously Z’d 1932 Ford frame. It started with elegant renderings by Eric Black (eBDCo) in Portland. But take a closer look. This car will fool you. The body has been treated to what Bobby calls an “anti-section,” meaning a 1-1/2-inch strip of steel has been discretely added all around the lower perimeter. So the body now has more depth, like a 1932 Ford, but it still retains that classic upright Model A tight shape and early style stance. The 18-inch wheels perfectly follow the rear wheelwell’s radius. Bobby calls it “a wannabe Deuce,” adding, “when you put a Model A body on 1932 ’rails, it looks squatty. We released it, kinda raised it up for a little more girth.” You know something’s been changed here, and you like the proportions, but just what’s different is not immediately apparent.

About that engine … it’s not an Olds Rocket as Bobby once imagined, it’s a Ross Racing Engines–built 294-cid  (3.315×4.25 inches) ARDUN V-8. The block and ARDUN heads are from Don Ferguson, famous for his modern reinterpretation of the classic Zora ARkus-DUNtov overhead valve cylinder heads. Tony Lombardi finished the block externally and performed all the internal machine work. There are custom billet pistons and a custom flat-tappet camshaft. That super trick finned Scintilla magneto is from an airplane engine that’s been converted to HEI. “We left the fan off,” Bobby says, “so you can see it, but it doesn’t overheat anyway.”

There are no mufflers, not even tailpipes, and the sleek four-into-one headers exit just before the doors. “It’s a hot rod, man,” Bobby says, “you don’t need mufflers.” The ARDUN makes a deep throaty racket, and it sounds like a Bonneville racer.

The fuel injection system, with its eight individual housings and tall chromed stacks, was adapted from a 331-cid Chrysler Hemi mechanical setup, and meticulously converted to EFI with high-pressure injectors, to run electronically. There are no visible fuel rails or anything modern. All the ports are matched. Tony Lombardi says it dyno’d at 322 bhp and 340 lb-ft of torque. That’s impressive from a naturally aspirated “flathead.” The polished powerplant features a Centerforce clutch and it’s backed by a T5 TREMEC five-speed gearbox. An open driveline leads to a polished Winters quick-change rear with 1940 Ford axle bells. “That’s all Classic hot rod stuff,” Bobby adds. The front wires are 17-inch 1933-1934 Ford steel spoke wheels. The rears are 18-inch 1932 Ford wires, widened in the back, with 5.25s and 7.00s for a decent rubber rake.

Other mechanical niceties include a 5-inch handbuilt dropped axle, Model A crossmembers, a 1933-1934 Ford-like center X-member, 1935-1936 Ford trailing arms, a custom V’d spreader bar, Bobby’s own design cross steering, Schroeder-style, with a custom draglink, tubular shocks (“those old-style lever shocks are terrible for long drives,” Hilton says, and he knows from experience), and buggy springs with reversed eyes, front and rear. The framerails are kicked up in the rear and notched to clear the front spring. The hydraulic drum brakes are early Lincoln style by Brian Bass (Bass Kustom) in Dallas.

Rare old Arrow accessory headlights with a discrete fin are mounted on vintage stands. The rectangular taillights are 1948 Kaiser, just to stay period but be a little different. The aluminum instrument panel, by Hartman Machines and polished by Jeff Smith, is old style with eight custom gauges from Classic Instruments. The steering wheel is a thin, four-spoke item from a 1948 Ford COE truck. I’d never seen one of these wheels before but it fits this car’s theme to a T.

The classy interior, by Mike Lippincott, aka Mikey Seats, is handcrafted of dark contrasting leather and there’s a subtle divider that makes quasi-buckets out of the bench.  Bobby fabricated the aluminum transmission cover. The bare floor has polished wood panels. The door panels sport old-style door pulls and polished inserts (again by Jeff Smith), all tastefully done to a very high level.

Acclaimed painter and pinstriper, Travis “Tuki” Hess (Kolor by Tuki) from Bucky’s Ltd., in Martinsburg, West Virginia, was responsible for that Hershey chocolate finish. It was painstakingly rubbed out over the Christmas holiday. I visited Tuki, he’s a consummate perfectionist, when the freshly painted body was in his spray booth and he was seriously pressed for time. “I was supposed to get this in September,” he muses, “but we’ll get ’er done,” and he did. Tuki and John Shank were responsible for the bodywork; everything is as smooth as a baby’s bottom. The finish is flawless and the gleaming milk chocolate hue, Porsche Cockney Brown, contrasted with ebony black wheels and painted running gear, and very little plating is beautifully understated, like the subtle pinstriping and outlining by Jennifer Thomas. “It’s a simplistic car,” Hilton says, “and we built it to stay within the budget.”

Like many AMBR projects, work continued at a frenetic pace, right to the end. The Model A body and 1932 chassis, wired and plumbed, was trailered to Ross Racing Engines, in Niles, Ohio, near Youngstown, where they were mated with the freshly dyno’d and tuned ARDUN. Last-minute details were all accomplished over four sleepless nights and days, and they loaded up in a snowstorm for the Banzai Run West. Driving straight to Pomona through a blizzard, alternating drivers, so each one got a little sleep, they made it to the judges’ preview, in the nick of time.

An exhausted but exhilarated Bobby Hilton says, “Our goal was to get there. I’ve never been to this show before and I’m excited to be here.” The owner, Ray Enos, saw the car for the first time at the show, he likes classy cars and this was everything he wanted. “He trusted us completely to build it … and he loves it.”

The 2019 AMBR competition was very tough, but the Hilton Model A was definitely a contender. Approving spectators flocked around the roadster all weekend, many of them recognizing that something was very different about the shape of this car, but they were unable to articulate just what that was. … Says Bobby, “This car’s a Model A that wants to be a 1932 roadster.”

On Sunday, the AMBR winner was George Poteet’s spectacular 1936 Ford roadster, built by Eric Peratt and his talented crew at Pinkee’s Rod Shop, in Windsor, Colorado. That didn’t phase the Hilton gang one bit.

“We wanted to learn the ropes,” Bobby said, and we’ll be back next year.” “This is a simplistic car and it speaks for itself. The first time I’d put the clutch in was when we drove up to the judges’ stand. I thought I was out of my mind to just drop everything and do this, but it was worth it. We met a lot of great people and we proved we can compete at this level.”

It’s worth the trip.   SRM

The post 1931 Ford Roadster Packs ARDUN V-8 Power appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

from Hot Rod Network https://www.hotrod.com/articles/1931-ford-roadster-packs-ardun-v-8-power/ via IFTTT

[funkymbtifiction]

What’s been your experience of knowing a person of each Enneagram type?

It’s nothing if not interesting. 😉

1s: can be principled, dutiful, and reliable. Their pet peeve is for people to be rude, irresponsible, inconsiderate, or late. I’ve known an sp 1 and a soc 1. The sp 1 does indeed resemble a 6 due to content fretting, low self esteem, terror of getting it wrong, and general anxiety, but shows 1 behaviors of obsessive cleaning, a desperate need to control everything, and rigidity in setting up “house rules.” In so doing, she has denied herself anything that is not “useful,” which I find terribly sad. She has no room for pleasure in her life. The soc 1 is far more inclined to be assertive, to correct others, to point out what they are doing wrong, and to show her anger. Much less self doubt.

2s: ah, 2s. I’ve known a few marginally and one “sort of” well, since I spent ten days with her on a visit to another state. She truly reminded me of Molly Weasley in her bustling about, her attending to everyone’s numerous needs (and ability to keep us all in line), her pride in doing things for everyone, and her sensitivities. At one point, her daughter told her, “MOM, STOP MOLLY WEASLEY-ING CHARITY! SHE’S FINE. SHE DOESN’T NEED WATER. THANKS.” Ha, ha. I liked her a great deal, but it amused me how defensively she drove – under stress, I saw her 8 come out, though I didn’t know that’s what it was at the time. We all snapped to attention whenever that happened.

3s: I admire their work ethic but… the one I know offline has to find some way to impress people, no matter what. If that is in showing you his muscles and making sure you know how far he biked today, so be it. It used to be because he was proud of his professional life. Since retirement, I have seen him struggle enormously with having a sense of purpose and trying to find one that doesn’t hinge on his non-existent work. That is what worries me about 3s – getting old, and no longer having society regard them as “useful and essential” is HELL on them. Please, make sure, if you are a 3, to do the internal work on figuring out who you are, and recognizing your own worth as separate from what you do, before you reach that age.

4s: I have known a lot of 4s, some healthy and some not. I have two delightful healthy ones in my life right now – an sp/sx 4 and an soc/sp 4, and they are indeed different. The sp 4 is more internal and less aware of or inclined to change herself for others; the soc 4 looks outward, and is highly attentive to other people. Sp 4 can take on others’ pain and burdens in a sense and feel overwhelmed by it – and with both of these beautiful girls, I’ve seen it turn them toward compassion. But they do tend to run high on “drama.” It’s not a song, it’s an opera. I knew an unhealthy 4 once who was hell-bound to remain miserable and a victim wallowing in her pain and thwarted (almost sadistically gleefully) anyone’s attempts to help her rise above her bad situation. She wanted to stay there. And she drove everyone who knew her insane. Eventually, she lost all her friends due to her being the wet mop all the time -- which of course, fed into her sadistic happiness at being miserable, abandoned, and unloved.

5s: can be callous at times, just because they are so lacking in emotional self-awareness and so fixated on logical solutions, but they will give it to you straight if you ask for it. They tend toward severe social awkwardness—think Mr. Darcy at the Netherfield Ball. Most inclined to disappear five minutes after you meet them and remain unseen until you leave. I knew a five once, the father of a friend, who would call out hello to me as he walked right past me, straight down into the basement, where he hid for hours among his books. Given he had a house full of giggling, silly girls, I don’t blame him. He was truly Mr. Bennet.

6s: can be either the warmest, funniest, most loyal people you will ever meet – or the biggest pains in the butt, and I say that as a 6. I know one other sp 6 and he reminds me of myself, just older and male – we both are hilarious, we both tease people to establish a rapport with them, we both crave feedback and support from trusted others, and we both swing between concern and optimism. But unhealthy, paranoid 6s are out in force right now freaking everyone out about the COVID-19 and the world doesn’t need that. It needs HOPE. So for heaven’s sake, put down the freak-outs, the paranoid accusations, the wild conspiracy theories, and accept that your worst-case scenario projections are just that -- the product of your own scared mind. It may or may not happen, and trust me, 6s, I know damn well that your worst fears usually don’t happen anywhere except in your head.

7s: are enormous fun to go on vacation with, but can be flakes. Lovable ones, but still flakes. They promise more than they can deliver and then avoid you rather than face up to the music when they realize they don’t want to do what they promised. They are hilarious, witty, optimistic, and their enthusiasm is infectious, but sometimes they fail to realize that not everyone wants to be endlessly teased, mocked, or come home to a mountain of stuff followed by a maxed-out credit card bill. Life is not always a joke, sometimes it is serious. And they are inclined not to finish a serious conversation if it in any way makes them uncomfortable or feel like they’re about to confront part of themselves.

8s: I have only known one and… there are things I like about her. Her courage. Her ballsy attitude. This woman made a place for herself in a man’s world, in a time when that was not done. She bulldozed her way to the top. Unfortunately, she never shut off the bulldozer. She has burned bridges behind her, made countless enemies, and gets into foolish personal and legal fights because she refuses to back down from anyone, and will turn anything into an argument. She lost my mother as a friend, because she thought bullying her was a good idea. My mother set up polite boundaries and the 8 trampled them, something my mother does not forgive. Something 8s need to remember – what is fun for you (you consider fighting “bonding”) is not always fun for someone else who is not an 8. Being an 8 is an asset, but only if you learn to tell the difference between a threat and a non-threat.

9s: are some of the most precious people on earth, but also the must frustrating for me, because I see them being mercilessly treated by the rest of the world, which tends to walk all over them. I wind up counseling 9 friends who are frustrated at ‘not being heard’ but cannot find it within themselves to assert themselves in any way, or think they deserve to be heard, or know how to recognize what is NOT okay. Being a 9, a peacemaker, someone able to understand everyone’s point of view, is a valuable gift, but you cannot use it for good if you are incapable of believing you deserve good things, too.

Each Enneagram type has a health level. You can find them at the Enneagram Institute. Figure out which level is ‘you’ and start working toward the next one up, through conscious choices. You don’t have to stay this way. Your life is yours to command.1s, you don’t have to be perfect. 2s, you don’t have to please others. 3s, you don’t have to win every time. 4s, you don’t have to stay in a place of self-loathing. 5s, you don’t have to fear trying things. 6s, you don’t have to be afraid all the time. 7s, you don’t have to run away from everything. 8s, you don’t have to turn every discussion into a fight. 9s, you don’t have to give everyone whatever they want. It’s time to take back your life.

- ENFP Mod

PS: Most of these examples come from my extended family, none of whom follow this blog, so if you’re one of my friends (unless you are the 4) -- I’m not talking about you. ;)

[careergrowthblog]

GCSE Exams: Keeping a proportionate positive perspective.

Despite the fact that we’ve been running Y11 exams in one form or another for decades, there is always a fairly strong undercurrent in the discourse around the annual exam season characterised by a sense of injustice and unreasonableness.  In relation to GCSEs, the following arguments are rehearsed fairly often:

Exams don’t measure everything that matters in a subject.

Exams don’t teach anyone anything – they’ll forget most of it.

There are too many exams condensed into a short time.

Or, conversely, the exam window is too long – too drawn out.

Exam pressure causes unjustifiable mental health issues -and this is rising.

Exams are too hard – which isn’t fair for some students.

GCSEs are shallow and don’t prepare students for higher levels of learning.

GCSEs don’t encourage a lifelong love of learning.

Exams are all about targets and league tables and we’re supposed to be educating rounded individuals.

And the usual dose of survivor bias – happy successful people who failed their exams always keen to celebrate this fact.

The annual confusion and ignorance about grade boundaries shifting (they have to and always will) and imagined conspiracies between examiners, Ofqual, the DFE and the Secretary of State to make us all miserable on purpose.

This recent article by Simon Jenkins is a classic example of this kind of anti-exam hysteria.  It’s so way over the top, it’s hard to take any of the arguments seriously.

Let me restore some balance.

I think it’s very powerful to have a rigorous test to aim at when teaching a course – and learning one.  It’s all too easy to graze over the surface of a subject, getting a general feel for it but not quite going in deep enough to really commit to learning, understanding and acquiring fluency at the level that is possible.  The very fact of having an end-point assessment that really matters drives behaviours all along; it makes it all count; it makes you commit.  Good teachers balance low-stakes formative learning with the process of getting ready for the high-stakes performance and step things up at the right moment.  The intensity required to excel at GCSE pushes us all to secure deeper learning.  If anyone suggested that, without exams, we’d reach deeper learning – I’d say they were wrong.  We just wouldn’t.

As I report in this blog, GCSE Revision is Poetry: Intensity, hard work – and so much deep learning    I’ve seen my son enjoy the business of getting to grips with learning, brimming with ideas and knowledge, thriving on the challenge of aiming high in lots of subjects.

We need to be realistic about what a system can be like if we want 16 year olds to gain valued qualifications in a range of subjects.  (Arguably we could do away with GCSEs and just teach stuff or condense it all into one general qualification with subject elements, examined more tightly over a few days but that would require a much wider debate.)  Meanwhile, qualifications require standards to be set; standards require thresholds; thresholds reference a bell-curve.  (See here if you don’t understand this – I do really get tired of people who argue against norm referencing as if it’s a conspiracy. Every time someone says this, it just means they don’t know how assessment works. )

Exams can only ever measure parts of what makes up a subject.  Of course.  Obviously. Lots of things can be tested by exams but that doesn’t mean this is all that we value.  It’s up to us to give value to a wider curriculum beyond the assessed curriculum.  Yes, there is time pressure – but it’s still a choice we make in how and what we teach.   Let’s have a nuanced debate about the scope of a curriculum, the content and structure of exams – but exams themselves need to be rigorous and tightly managed if they are to lead to credible qualifications.  Grade inflation and dubious equivalences between subjects do nobody any good – because people don’t trust the whole system.  Ed Balls never understood this. (The same man who ‘talked tough’ on standards and  introduced the technical insanity of floor targets in a bell-curved system and should not be forgiven lightly for that…)

In my view there is a healthy pressure and work ethic that endpoint assessments generate.  As a parent I’ve been quite happy to see my kids work really hard – super hard – for several months, motivated by the desire to succeed; to be ready to do their best.  I totally reject the idea that this is intrinsically unfair or unhealthy or that the kind of exam revision required to get top GCSE grades is superficial and temporary.  Would our kids know more in five years’ time if they hadn’t sat their exams – no! They’d know much less.  They have much greater chance of remembering knowledge having had to revise extensively.   This is particularly true, for both of my children and countless students I’ve taught, because the exam revision process had yielded multiple lightbulb moments.  The intensity of study suddenly brings things together that were only half understood before. I had the same experience myself – I can still remember when A level chemistry suddenly all fell into place: not at school but in my room, at my desk, sweating it out ahead of my exams.

Passing on pressure to students  or failing to keep them in perspective within a broader ‘love of the subject’ is an issue for schools, teachers and parents.  And, of course, sometimes this can go wrong.  The reported rise in mental health issues always cites a combination of factors – including social media and school work.  It’s a complex message to give:  to encourage/push students to excel, to risk failure, to aim high, to put themselves on the line… whilst also saying it’s ok if it goes wrong, that life goes on: that it matters a lot – but not *that* much.  However, even if we accept the data, I don’t think it is possible to separate exam pressure from wider teenage mental health issues to the point that we might conclude that students shouldn’t do exams or that we should change their nature.  It’s more that we need to give more value to other things as well.  I don’t think it helps to argue that, because some young people do not cope well with exam pressure – or are not adequately supported to cope well – , that we should change this system for everyone.

The answer is not to soften the challenge – it is to do a better job of preparing students for it: academically and emotionally.

To keep the new GCSE reforms in perspective, let’s remember that there isn’t anything new to having a 4-6 week period in May and June packed with exams.  I cringe every time someone blames Michael Gove for the existence of hard exams.  Even if we might want to go back to coursework, Mode 3 assessments and fewer papers in Maths and History – it’s not as if the exam window is really significantly different to what it was.  It has evolved but the basic format is largely the same, even with more terminal exams.  I would say that getting rid of lots of coursework has been a blessing, freeing up time in the curriculum, removing really poor assessments and learning experiences like science ISAs and the annual parrot-fest of English speaking and listening assessments. (Your school might not have done this way –  hundreds did.). Some things are better off being left out of exams.

What issues remain?

It’s not all perfect of course. But it’s often hard to raise concerns in a manner that doesn’t fuel the hysteria. Here are a few things we need to deal with:

Ideally exams would form just one part of a wider Baccalaureate system. Half the issues with the exam system stem from there being no nationally recognised framework to formally give value to everything else. Perhaps, if a proper English Bacc was the main thing, we could have less emphasis on qualifications at 16  – even we still set exams; they wouldn’t be quite so high-stakes.

Grades 1-3 need to be rescued from the dustbin of failure. It’s totally unnecessary; it’s wrong; ignorate even – to have a pass/fail in a system were thousands of children must fail.  I’ll never forgive Nicky Morgan for her wilful ignorance in this area – when she destroyed the revolution 1-9 grades could have been.

For sure, the accountability pressure schools and teachers experience is misguided and over the top.   We still have a ‘shock horror, half of children in bottom 50%’ level of understanding of what is possible within a cohort – in the media, in government, in governing body meetings, during inspections.  Every governing body and Lead Inspector expects results to go up even when, de facto, this can’t happen for everyone.

I’m doubtful that we need three separate papers for any subject instead of two. A small reduction in total exam time would probably make little difference to grading  but would ease the revision burden and reduce the total exam window time in a proportionate manner.

Post-16 we need a different qualification to aim at other than resitting English and Maths GCSE – repeated failure and disillusionment is hard-wired in the current system.

Progress 8 needs to be put in its place as the shaky-baseline  noisy zero-sum average that it is – with dubious real value to any student and multiple negatives in terms of some short-term school curriculum choices.

We need to be cautious with 9s – taking care not to diminish 7s and 8s. 8s are the dominant A* standard and 9s will be noisy in relation to representing ‘true’ superiority in students’ relative capabilities in any subject.  As a parent of someone ‘aiming at 9s’ in most subjects, I worry about how 8s will be valued in his eyes and the eyes of others. We’re all working hard to manage our hopes and expectations and keep it all in perspective.

For further assessment material, I’ve gathered lots of assessment-related blogs here:

Understanding Assessment: A blog guide

  GCSE Exams: Keeping a proportionate positive perspective. published first on https://medium.com/@KDUUniversityCollege

[cchsctv]

Day 2: Crazy 8s

Today was an adventure to say the least. The prompt was "we got the beat" and you would think finding an entertainment segment would be easy... but it was far from that. Half the places we called didn't open till 9 or 10 and the other half didn't answer. After countless phone calls we finally decided to drive into town and just show up to places (thanks to my cousin Heather). After rejection from the recording studio we originally wanted to shoot at, someone in the STN chat recommended a restaurant called Legends Only. 

We got downtown at 9:30 am and the restaurant did not open till 10. We were running out of options so we decided just to wait. As soon as the clock struck 10, we asked the owner if we could film and were on our way. We were able to get a decent variety of shots and an amazing interview. When we got back we began editing and everything seemed to go well until it was 1:30 and deadline was quickly approaching. The audio was iffy from the start and the clock was ticking on our time to fix it. Before we knew it, it was 2:30 and we were only halfway done. 

Finally, we finished around 2:50 and were ready to export. Just our luck, the export time says 40 minutes. That was when I broke down. I tried to pick myself up as quickly as I could and went to try and help Becca fix the problem. Minutes that seemed like hours passed and we were finally able to export. I had not seen the final product and until we watched the final show I was terrified to see how it turned out. Turns out the segment was pretty good and I was worried for nothing. The problems that seemed so major while editing turned out to be so small. Overall, we had a pretty great segment and a great show overall. I am really proud of everyone and happy to be apart of the CTV family. Now to individuals. Mudhouse part 3. G night! Please no one let me drink more than one coffee tomorrow.

- Kaylala (vine queen)

P.S. the quote that Schwam is going to put in his blog was my idea

[freeingames-blog]

Is This Day Over?

☔️ I have been on the ward for far too much of the day today. This may seem alarming to state given I will soon be on lockdown on the EDU ward but the nature of this general psych has me walking around either cowering or running to the solace of my bedroom most of the time! We have had a day of tears here at No-Hope-Central with the majority of patients approaching me at random to tell me about how their CPNs have ‘landed them in it’, Doctor M has a masterplan to keep them locked up, the ‘drones will be coming for them soon’ yadayadayada. At one point I thought the new Russian lady (long way to come, isn’t it?) was kindly giving me a chocolate muffin only to find out, on unfortunate closer inspection, it was a small pile of something much 💩worse!

It is beyond stressful here. One particular highlight of the day was the appearance of a nurse at my door asking whether I 'remember eating anything today’ - Reply: 'yes, I remember everything I have eaten today… do you want me to…’ She’d already gone. Apparently that was enough for her little ticklist. I read an article the other day about an experiment done in the last half of the 20th century in which a group of 'sane’ people were given the task of being put into an acute ward - all were labelled 'insane’ and given anti-psychotic 💊medicine. They were unable to escape until they admitted their 'insanity’ and followed the lead of the psychiatrists. Scary! A lot of the test-group were emotionally and mentally scarred long after said experiment was over. Dear God, please give me the ability to repress this period of my life once I too have escaped. I am glad that all I have left to do today is traipse my way to the 🌡meds office at 9pm for the obligatory Vitamin B, inhaler (still not understanding this 'asthma’ diagnosis), blood pressure check, and of course, the very boring routine of the nurses trying to push sleeping medication into me ('no really… I am fine without it’ ’*nurse gives puzzled and disappointed look as though I just turned down a golden handshake* but… EVERYONE takes them? just one or two?’)

Ho-hum. Dad rescued me for a couple of hours and we enjoyed a nice drink and snack at the hospital restaurant. The library was a lovely bit of respite too - I like to pretend I am a medical student once through the double-doors and nestle down in one of the old-school desks at the back with a stack of books. I am grateful for my love of books and do hope to continue exploring literature after all of this is 'over’. I have bounced around ideas of what to continue studying for so long - psychology, art etc. When push comes to shove, I am obviously just avoiding picking up my original literature studies. There are many reasons for this. A return to my life at university? No thank you - too many bad memories there. Hard-core reading reminds me of that time and I hope to get over this. I know once I push myself to pick up Plaith or Notley again I will soon get into the swing of things. I rather fancy revisiting Drama texts. I really enjoyed researching post-modern theatre and ethics. Verbatim theatre as a focal point. Reading also reminds me of teaching - I continually tried to sneak my own ideas for class-books into the department (Dalloway for Year 8s? A bit of The Bell Jar for my Year 11s?) without much success. This further depressed and de-motivated me. I guess until the little rascals get to university, all they really want to do is watch the TV adaptations of Jane Eyre or that Romeo and Juliet with the guns in order to write a mediocre essay full of unoriginal ideas. Which is pretty much what I did until I reached university second year when I could actually write about texts that interested me.

Tommorrow is D-Day. I shall be on the phone come 9am. Meds - you will have to wait I am afraid. I also have my ward round at midday which I am hoping my CPN will turn up to. I have not seen the woman in 3 weeks. I am starting to wonder if I made her up.