#Programming Coursework Help

[writehw]

Balancing work, social life while being a uni student?

let me work on those assignments

#university #college #gradschool #mastersstudent #phdstudent #perth #melbourne #adelaide #sydney #darwinaustralia #canberra #brisbane #australia #australiatiktok #thesimpsons #bartsimpson #worklifebalance #homeworkhelp #homeworkdue #assignmenthelp #assignmentdue #essay #writeessay #researchpaper #dissertation #casestudy #midterms #math #statistics #onlineclass #msexcel #microsoftexcel #cis #programming #code #coding

[chronicbitchsyndrome]

so: masking: good, unequivocally. please mask and please educate others on why they should mask to make the world safer for immune compromised people to participate in.

however: masking is not my policy focus and it shouldn't be yours, either. masking is a very good mitigation against droplet-born illnesses and a slightly less effective (but still very good) mitigation against airborne illnesses, but its place in the pyramid of mitigation demands is pretty low, for several reasons:

it's an individual mitigation, not a systemic one. the best mitigations to make public life more accessible affect everyone without distributing the majority of the effort among individuals (who may not be able to comply, may not have access to education on how to comply, or may be actively malicious).

it's a post-hoc mitigation, or to put it another way, it's a band-aid over the underlying problem. even if it was possible to enforce, universal masking still wouldn't address the underlying problem that it is dangerous for sick people and immune compromised people to be in the same public locations to begin with. this is a solvable problem! we have created the societal conditions for this problem!

here are my policy focuses:

upgraded air filtration and ventilation systems for all public buildings. appropriate ventilation should be just as bog-standard as appropriately clean running water. an indoor venue without a ventilation system capable of performing 5 complete air changes per hour should be like encountering a public restroom without any sinks or hand sanitizer stations whatsoever.

enforced paid sick leave for all employees until 3-5 days without symptoms. the vast majority of respiratory and food-borne illnesses circulate through industry sectors where employees come into work while experiencing symptoms. a taco bell worker should never be making food while experiencing strep throat symptoms, even without a strep diagnosis.

enforced virtual schooling options for sick students. the other vast majority of respiratory and food-borne illnesses circulate through schools. the proximity of so many kids and teenagers together indoors (with little to no proper ventilation and high levels of physical activity) means that if even one person comes to school sick, hundreds will be infected in the following few days. those students will most likely infect their parents as well. allowing students to complete all readings and coursework through sites like blackboard or compass while sick will cut down massively on disease transmission.

accessible testing for everyone. not just for COVID; if there's a test for any contagious illness capable of being performed outside of lab conditions, there should be a regulated option for performing that test at home (similar to COVID rapid tests). if a test can only be performed under lab conditions, there should be a government-subsidized program to provide free of charge testing to anyone who needs it, through urgent cares and pharmacies.

the last thing to note is that these things stack; upgraded ventilation systems in all public buildings mean that students and employees get sick less often to begin with, making it less burdensome for students and employees to be absent due to sickness, and making it more likely that sick individuals will choose to stay home themselves (since it's not so costly for them).

masking is great! keep masking! please use masking as a rhetorical "this is what we can do as individuals to make public life safer while we're pushing for drastic policy changes," and don't get complacent in either direction--don't assume that masking is all you need to do or an acceptable forever-solution, and equally, don't fall prey to thinking that pushing for policy change "makes up" for not masking in public. it's not a game with scores and sides; masking is a material thing you can do to help the individual people you interact with one by one, and policy changes are what's going to make the entirety of public life safer for all immune compromised people.

[singletutor]

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[jstor]

Hi. I'm a 2nd year philosophy student (the program is 4 years). My Descartes' professor helped me formulate a thesis for my research assignment, which is due in 2 months. Now, he has proposed that I publish the paper once it's finished (in an indexed journal), BUT signing him as a coauthor AND finishing it before May ends. I don't know what to do. I have 5+ research assignments due for other courses, and it is actually my first time writing a serious paper. What should I do? Is it okay to accept my professor proposal? I don't know how academic publishing works.

Hi, congratulations on receiving such a proposal from your professor, and for all the progress you've made in your program so far! It sounds like you're doing really interesting research.

It’s completely okay to pause and think this through. Publishing is an exciting prospect but can also be time-consuming, especially considering revisions and other components of the process. It seems like you're already balancing a full course load and a lot of moving pieces.

If you're interested in the opportunity, you might ask your professor what their co-authorship would involve and whether the timeline can be adjusted. Co-authorship is normal–especially when all parties contribute significant intellectual work to the paper. However, if it feels like too much right now, it’s also fine to decline and focus on your coursework for the time being. You’re still early in your academic journey and it's not necessary to rush. It may be worth learning more about the publishing process, either from your professor or from other sources, before making any commitments.

We’d love to hear from others, too:

Have you ever co-authored something with a professor?

What helped you decide when (or whether) to publish your first paper?

Any advice you wish someone had given you at the time?

[chaotic-archaeologist]

So to make a long story semi short; during fall term a couple unknowing found a set of mastodon teeth and brought to my anthropology professor at the college, since then they conducted some field work and found more bone. They obviously stopped because of winter but in summer the college will be offering a field work class to go help at the site. I want to do that, but as mentioned before I have Cerebral Palsy which means I don't have a lot of upper body strength or flexibility. But I can still do a lot. My I guess problem is my Professors respect me and that's hard for me to get with all the ableism and I worked hard these last two semesters to break out of my shell to get here , I guess I just don't want to 1. make a fool of myself 2. be a hindrance and/or mess something up

any advice?

This sounds like an incredible opportunity, and I would definitely encourage you to pursue it! I hear your concerns about embarrassing yourself and being a hindrance, but I think you should reframe your thinking around facts that 1) everybody deserves learning experiences regardless of their physical ability, and 2) there are things you can do that will be an asset to the excavation.

Some of these things include taking notes and photographs, documenting and storing finds, and working with any digital tools like GPS units. You may also be able to do lab work and different kinds of analysis, depending on what they find and how they run the program. A good supervisor (although not all are created equal) will be willing to work with you to come up with a plan for how you can participate and what that will look like.

Usually, classes like this have applications where students list their relevant coursework and write a brief personal statement about why they want to participate. There are a couple of ways you could go about this in regards to disclosing your disability and seeking accommodations. You can either:

Disclose early: this would entail including something about your disability in your personal statement, in an email to the professor running the dig, etc.

Disclose later: submit your application without mentioning your disability. Feel free to mention how hard you've worked to get where you are, and if you want to talk about vague challenges with your health as part of that, it's up to you. If you are accepted to the dig, ask for a meeting with the supervisor where you can then explain your needs and what you are able to do.

Generally, I advise erring on the side of disclosing later rather than earlier. As I'm sure you're aware, prejudice and implicit bias are unfortunately a thing, and sometimes the only way to protect yourself from those impeding your application is to withhold information (although obviously this isn't an option if the professor already knows you). Additionally, you have legal protections against discrimination that are much easier to enforce after you have been accepted.

That being said, I've been heartened to see that more and more people in archaeology spaces are thinking about what accessibility means in field settings and how to include people with disabilities.—perhaps this is also the case with whoever is running this dig. Archaeology is for everyone, and there are many roles in an excavation for someone who can't do physical labor.

Finally, I'll close with some resources that might be helpful.

The Disabled Archaeologists Network: while I don't think they have a ton of programming for undergraduates (yet), membership is free and can put you in touch with

Field Tested: an article about a disabled student who was able to participate in a geology field school (similar levels of work to an archaeology one). It discusses some of the accommodations the student needed, and what they were able to do.

Here's an article by Dr. Anita Marshall, the professor who ran that accessible field school. Its content isn't substantially different from the one I linked above, but at the end it also cites some good literature about accessibility in field work. You should be able to access a lot of those publications through your institution's library or @jstor's free (or institutional) service.

Good luck, -Reid

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Hi!! I love your blog, thank you for everything you do!! could you make a post similar to the one you did recently about the British school system, but about the American system instead?

I'm not American, and I’ve noticed there are a lot of little details about the U.S. education system that often go unexplained — which makes sense, since they probably seem basic, obvious, and second nature to Americans.... but for outsiders it can be confusing

If you could also point to some resources on the topic, I’d be really grateful! thanks again for your blog, you're so helpful and inspiring<3

Writing Notes: U.S. Education System

Basic Structure of the U.S. Education System:

In the United States, there are 3 levels of education:

elementary,

secondary, and

postsecondary

The approximate age range of people at the elementary and secondary levels:

Students ordinarily spend 6 to 8 years in the elementary grades,

which may be preceded by 1 to 3 years in early childhood programs and kindergarten.

The elementary program is frequently followed by a middle school or junior high school program, which generally lasts 2 or 3 years.

Students then may finish their compulsory schooling at the secondary or high school level, which may last 3 to 6 years depending on the structure within their school district.

Students normally complete the entire program through grade 12 by age 18.

High school completers who decide to continue their education may enter a technical or vocational institution, a 2-year college, a 4-year college, or a university.

A 2-year college normally offers the first 2 years of a standard 4-year college curriculum and a selection of career and technical programs.

Academic courses completed at a 2-year college are usually transferable for credit at a 4-year college or university.

A technical or vocational institution offers postsecondary technical training leading to a specific career.

The term "degree-granting institutions" used in this report refers to colleges and universities that offer associate's or higher degrees and whose students are eligible to participate in Title IV federal financial aid programs.

An associate's degree requires the equivalent of at least 2 years of full-time college-level work;

a bachelor's degree normally can be earned in 4 years.

At least 1 year beyond the bachelor's is necessary for a master's degree, while a

doctor's degree usually requires a minimum of 3 or 4 years beyond the bachelor's.

Professional schools differ widely in admissions requirements and in program length.

Medical students, for example, generally complete a 4-year program of premedical studies at a college or university before they can enter the 4-year program at a medical school.

Law programs normally require 3 years of coursework beyond the bachelor's degree level.

Other types of educational opportunities for adults are offered by community organizations, libraries, religious institutions, and businesses.

Some Vocabulary

ACT: A curriculum-based multiple-choice assessment that tests reading, English, mathematics, and science, with an optional essay section. The ACT is widely accepted at accredited two and four-year colleges and universities in the United States.

Community College: A postsecondary institution that offers associate degree programs, as well as technical and vocational programs.

Core Course: Courses that provide the foundation of the degree program and are required of all students seeking that degree.

Fellowship: A form of financial assistance, usually awarded to a graduate student. Generally, no service is required of the student in return.

Honors Program: A challenging program for students with high grades.

Minor: The student's secondary field of concentration. Students who decide to pursue a minor will usually complete about five courses in this second field of study.

Prerequisites: Programs or courses that a student is required to complete before being permitted to enroll in a more advanced program or course.

Semester: Period of study lasting approximately 15 to 16 weeks or one-half the academic year.

Subject: Course in an academic discipline offered as part of a curriculum of an institution of higher learning.

Syllabus: An outline of topics covered in an academic course.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Hi, thanks so much for your kind words! Glad to hear these references help with your writing <3 You can find more information and terms in the sources. Hope this helps!

[mortalfaerie]

hi here's my take on the gravity falls kids grown up since they're 25 now

Mason "Dipper" Pines

after wierdmaggedan and disposing of the journals, he still has a keen interest in mysteries, just not necessarily of a supernatural nature. he's aware of the supernatural that's all around them, but content to let it rest.

he gets really into history and archeology, and bonds more with ford about this - even though ford is a physicist, he appreciates dipper's enthusiasm

he's trans (i'll die on this hill) and continues to socially transition in high school, and starts testosterone around 16.

he also starts going more by his chosen name (mason, choosing one that starts similarly to mabel) but still lets close friends and family call him dipper. he stops covering his birthmark, though he still likes hats

he's suspicious of mabel's new friendship with pacifica in high school, but he warms up to pacifica ("paz," as they end up calling her) over time. he realizes they have a lot in common and she's actually a lot of help on his mystery hunting

paz's blooming interest in political science lends itself very much to his interest in history, and they spend lots of hours as teen up late on the phone together (seemingly everyone but them can see the writing on the wall, but it takes a few more years for them to realize their feelings)

he continues to be a massive nerd, and has at least one dd&md podcast he religiously listens to. he and mabel go to conventions in california together.

his favorite place remains gravity falls over the years, and he goes back at least once each summer.

he and pacifica both commit to UCLA and become closer there. he majors in archeology & anthropology. despite their very different social circles, they seek each other out. she has at least one twat boyfriend in freshman year that dipper confronts on her behalf (even though she didn't want him to)

he and paz almost kiss at his going away party for a semester abroad in greece, but he panics and runs off, leaving her confused and hurt. it takes a while for them to regain their footing, but they end up hooking up the night he comes back from greece. due to a comedy of errors they don't end up *going all the way* that night, and it's not until they're at the pool a week later that she realizes he's trans when she sees his top surgery scars (thanks rockslide @ ao3)

he was 99% sure she knew so it's a surprise moment for him, and he worries she won't be interested now, but she's pretty non-plussed. they start dating that summer.

her parents disapprove and she ends up putting her foot down and cutting them off for how they treat him, and his family ends up practically adopting her. they are each other's biggest supporters in everything.

he gets offered a spot in a phd program in london, which stresses him out until he finds out that paz applied for a posting at the us embassy in london and got it, so they move to england together

he studies pre-modern civilizations and religious rites (a la stonehenge, etc) and has just finished his coursework and moved from phd student to candidate. he's just started to write his dissertation on potentially matriarchal societies in pre-modern britain using burial site data from major burial sites of religious significance.

he and paz have a cat name tyrone, or ty. they've been together for almost four years now, and he's thinking about popping the question - they're young (25), but he's pretty certain that for him, it's always going to be paz.

[dudeimjustagirll]

The Second Thing I Thought Of

Ao3 Link :p

some light angst bc I just rewatched Under the Red Hood and it was sooooooo good

It didn’t happen all at once.

Grief never did. It leaked in slowly, soaked your skin in memories, settled behind your ribs–beside your heart, like a tumor.

You didn’t get the call. You got the absence of it. An empty inbox. A silent line. And then Alfred—steady, composed Alfred—whose voice cracked just enough to tell you everything.

Jason was gone.

You were nineteen. He was eighteen. One year apart, but soul-matched in defiance. You were the one he called when Bruce said no. The one who knew how that felt—how the word stuck in your throat, how it made you reckless.

And this time, it wasn’t just any defiance. It was personal.

He’d gotten a lead about his mother. A sliver of a chance. He said he didn’t expect her to be perfect, or kind, or even good. He just needed to know. He loved Bruce and Alfred—God, he adored them, even when he couldn’t say it. He’d do anything for Dick, would defend him in one breath and punch him in the next. But there was still this part of him—a bleeding edge, something unresolved—that needed answers. Needed to understand why his life started the way it did. Why she left. Why he never got to know her.

Bruce had said no. He said it was a setup, too dangerous, too uncertain. He told Jason to wait.

And Jason told you.

You knew how it burned. The waiting. The powerlessness. You looked into his eyes—so full of longing, so impossibly young—and you said, "Then go. Find her."

You didn’t know that would be the last time you’d feel his heartbeat.

You didn’t know it would get him killed.

The first week after… you couldn’t bring yourself to eat much. Or do much else, honestly.

The news was like a weight dropped onto your chest, and no matter how many days passed, you couldn’t seem to breathe around it. People tried to help. Friends. Classmates. Your parents. Professors. They offered food, company, soft words. You snapped at them. Bit down on kindness with grief-sharpened teeth. You weren’t angry at them. You were just… sad. Bone-deep, marrow-rotting sad.

And losing a partner wasn’t the same as losing a parent, or a sibling, or a friend.

It was worse, in its own, horrifying way. Because you’d chosen him. You’d loved him in quiet, deliberate ways—chosen him in the moments between chaos. And now he was gone, and nothing felt real.

You stopped responding to messages. Missed classes. Let your coursework rot in the back of your bag. The university noticed. Your grades slipped. You didn’t care.

Your parents did.

They got you into therapy. At first, you refused. The thought of sitting in a room with a stranger and sharing the pain was unbearable. You didn’t want to speak it into the air and make it more real than it already was.

You went, anyway. After a particularly stern talking to from your mother, telling you that this couldn’t go on any longer. You needed good grades to get into your graduate program, after all.

You hated it. The first few sessions were a quiet, seething hell. For weeks, you sat in silence. Arms crossed so tightly your shoulders ached. Head low so you wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes—not the therapist’s, not your own in the reflection of her glasses. Every question she asked felt like a scalpel. Too sharp. Too close. Like she was trying to peel you open and name all the pieces inside.

You weren’t ready for that. You weren’t ready to say his name out loud. Not in that room. Not in any room.

When she asked you what happened, you clenched your jaw until it hurt. When she offered you tissues, you didn’t take them. When she said it was okay to be angry, you stared at the floor like you could burn a hole through it.

You were angry. Furious, even—but not at him. Never at him.

You were angry at yourself. For saying, "Go." For meaning it. For being the one person who should’ve known better—should’ve stopped him—and instead handed him the push he needed to fall headfirst into his grave.

The guilt festered like a wound that wouldn’t close. And you thought, if you spoke it aloud, it would make it real. Concrete. Unforgivable.

But something shifted one afternoon.

You had shown up, out of obligation more than hope, and sat in the same chair you always did. Cold fingers gripping your sleeves, nerves frayed like wires. Your therapist didn’t ask anything that day. She just sat there. Quiet. Patient. Breathing softly across from you.

And for the first time, the silence didn’t feel like pressure. It felt like space.

And you cried.

Ugly, open sobs that collapsed your shoulders and twisted your mouth and shook your whole body like a tree in a storm. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t poetic. It was raw and wrenching and real.

You told her everything.

The guilt. The choice. The way you had told him to go. How you had said it like a gift, like liberation—when it had been a death sentence. How it felt like your hands were dipped in blood every time you looked at them. How the memory clung to you, cold and sticky and alive.

You told her how some mornings you woke up with his name on your lips, like he’d just walked out the door. How some nights you still reached across the bed for a shape that wasn’t there.

You told her how grief had gutted you. How it still did.

She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t correct you. Didn’t say it wasn’t your fault.

She just listened.

And somehow, that was enough.

It wasn’t a fix. It wasn’t even relief.

But it was the first time you didn’t feel like you were drowning alone.

And that was enough, for a start.

Healing wasn’t linear.

Some days, you thought you were okay. Then you'd hear a laugh like his in the grocery store, or catch the scent of his cologne in a crowd, and you’d feel like you were drowning all over again.

Once, it was a hoodie in the back of your closet. One he’d stolen from you and stretched out. You found it while looking for something else and sat on the floor for an hour, hugging it to your chest, sobbing like he’d just died yesterday.

But slowly—painfully—you got better.

The guilt that plagued you started to ebb. Bit by bit by bit.

Initially, his death felt like the worst thing in the world every single day. It was the first thought when you opened your eyes, the last one when you closed them.

After a year and a half, it was the second thing.

Eventually, the third.

You never forgot him.

He was kind. He was caring. He was a smart-mouthed, soft-hearted boy who brought you chaos and comfort in equal measure.

You still kept the polaroid from when he invited you to his senior prom. He was in the nicest suit he owned, grinning like he’d won the lottery just having you there.

Your ringtone for a few people was still set to his favorite song. Something fast and loud and stupid. It made you smile, even when it hurt.

You got back on your feet. Slowly, yes—but surely. The days stretched out longer. The sun felt a little warmer. You made friends in your program. You started laughing again.

After two and a half years, you thought—maybe—it was time to start dating again.

It didn’t go well.

The people were kind, mostly. But they weren’t him. They didn’t make your heart kick sideways when they looked at you. They didn’t know how to make you laugh from your stomach, or hold your wrist gently when you were anxious.

No one ever lasted.

You told yourself that was fine.

You were twenty one. You had time.

The world kept turning, and you had started turning with it—no longer stubbornly looking back, no longer clinging to memories like they could bring him to you again.

You made space for new dreams, kept your head down, worked hard in your classes.

There were good days. Warm ones. Quiet mornings where you caught yourself smiling without guilt. Sometimes you even imagined what your future might look like. A life built with patience. A life where the ache dulled to something you could carry without breaking.

And then you saw him.

It was late. Your shift had run over, and your body ached with the familiar burn of overwork—muscles sore, eyelids heavy, brain fogged with too many patients and too little rest. You were walking home in scrubs, the fabric clinging to your skin from the misty rain that had started to fall, keys laced between your fingers, humming a song you couldn’t name. Just another night. Just another tired breath, another stretch of cracked sidewalk beneath your shoes.

And then your breath caught mid-step.

There—across the street, beneath the flicker of a dying streetlamp—he stood.

Black jacket. Broad shoulders. That crooked stance, casual and coiled at the same time, like he was daring the world to try him. You knew that stance. Had leaned against it. Had run your hands over the leather and rested your head against those shoulders more times than you could count.

Your brain stalled. Refused to compute. For a second, you truly thought you were hallucinating. Sleep-deprived. Stress-delirious. It rewound. Glitched. Tried to place a logical explanation where one didn’t exist. A stranger. A ghost. A trick of the light.

But then he looked up.

And you saw those eyes.

Green. Startling. Too sharp to be kind, too soft to be cruel. Eyes that held memories you hadn’t let yourself touch in years.

You knew them.

Your heart plunged into your stomach, heavy and sick, like a weight dropped from a great height. Your pulse roared in your ears, blood rushing so loudly you could barely hear the distant sounds of the city anymore. Everything around you narrowed—blurred—until it was just him and the cold slap of the wind on your face.

You stepped off the curb without thinking. Barely noticed the screech of tires somewhere behind you. You crossed the street like gravity had tilted, and he was the only thing holding you to the earth.

Closer. Closer.

Every step felt like walking through water, thick and slow and disbelieving. Your fingers were trembling. Your breath refused to come steady. The air between you crackled like static.

You stopped inches away.

"Jason?" you breathed, voice breaking over the name like it was made of glass.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just looked at you—like he was trying to memorize you all over again. Like maybe he’d been standing under that streetlamp for a while, unsure if he’d actually come close.

You reached out.

You touched him.

His jaw was bruised. His knuckles bloodied. But it was him. His pulse was real beneath your fingers.

So you hit him.

Your fist cracked against his chest. Once. Twice. You weren’t even sure what for. For the years. For the silence. For the fact that you had buried him and here he was, alive and looking at you like he was the one who’d been left behind.

"You died," you choked, tears spilling fast. "You died. I buried you, Jason—"

He didn’t block you. Didn’t flinch. Just let you rage. Let you crumble.

"You said you'd just talk to her. You said you’d be fine. You promised me you’d be careful . "

He swallowed hard, the motion in his throat tight. "I thought I would be."

You hit him again, open-handed this time, and then your fingers curled in his jacket like you might fall apart if you let go. Confusion crashed over you in waves—grief, fury, disbelief, all tangled up in the shape of him standing there like no time had passed.

"I don’t understand," you whispered, eyes wild. "How are you here? Why didn’t you tell me?"

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at you like he wanted to, like the words were there and too dangerous to say. Like maybe he didn’t know how to start.

"Because I didn’t know if I was still him," he said at last. Quiet. Almost ashamed. "Didn’t know if I’d be someone you could still love."

Your knees buckled before the sob even escaped. But his arms caught you. Without hesitation. Like they remembered how.

You clung to him. Rain soaking through both your clothes. Heart pounding against his. Mind screaming that this couldn’t be real. That things didn’t just go back to the way they were.

They couldn’t. You wouldn’t let them.

But for now, you stayed right there.

Held by the ghost you had never stopped loving.

Held by the boy who had died and come back something else entirely.

And you didn't know what would come next.

Only that he was here.

And he was holding you just like he always had.

The months that followed felt like liminal space. Like you’d stepped sideways out of time.

Jason was back—but not really. The edges of him were sharper. The light behind his eyes dimmer. He flinched more, spoke less, and smiled like it cost him something. There were nights he would show up with blood on his hands and dirt under his fingernails, jaw clenched like he was holding back the end of the world. And you never asked where he'd been. You never asked why he looked at himself like he wasn’t sure he belonged in his own skin.

But he came to you. When the blood ran too hot, when the mission pushed too far, when he had nowhere else to go—he came.

You never stopped letting him in.

Tonight, the air was too still.

Gotham had a sound to it—constant, low, alive. Sirens, traffic, the hum of neon, that far-off sound of chaos you’d grown used to. It was a city that never slept, and you’d learned to fall asleep to its noise like a lullaby.

But tonight, the silence crept in thick and unnatural, curling around your apartment like fog. Even the ticking clock on your wall felt loud. You didn’t need a phone call. You didn’t need a text. Your bones just knew.

Jason was bleeding again.

You didn’t turn on the light outside of the door. You never did, not when it was him. Just the hallway lamp, casting a warm gold glow across the hardwood floor. The med kit was already open on the kitchen counter, supplies laid out with the same careful precision you used in your practice—alcohol wipes, gauze, antiseptic. A towel, already damp with warm water.

You didn’t pace. Didn’t wring your hands or flick glances at the door. That wasn’t how you waited for Jason.

You just sat. Steady. A quiet presence in the dark.

You remembered the first time he showed up at your door post-resurrection, soaked in rain and blood and guilt. You hadn’t spoken. Just guided him to the bathroom, sat him on the edge of the tub, and cleaned him up. He watched you like he expected you to vanish any second, like kindness was a language he no longer understood.

And tonight was no different.

The door opened just past midnight. No knock. He never knocked. He let himself in, quiet like a shadow, the hinges creaking softly as he pushed the door closed behind him.

You looked up from the armrest of the couch.

His shirt was torn. There was blood down one sleeve and a cut across his cheekbone. His eyes were unreadable, but they landed on you like he was half-relieved, half-terrified you’d finally stopped waiting.

You didn’t say anything.

Just nodded once. The smallest gesture.

He crossed the room slowly. Every step was a confession.

And when he stood in front of you, not quite meeting your eyes, you reached for him.

Not to pull. Not to fix.

Just to touch. Just to let him know you were still here.

He exhaled like it hurt.

Like being seen hurt.

And then, with a tremble so faint it might’ve been imagined, Jason Todd sat down beside you and let you take his hand.

You didn’t ask him to talk.

You just started cleaning the blood from his knuckles.

The silence wasn’t empty.

It was everything he didn’t know how to say.

Because if there was one thing he had never known how to handle, it was someone waiting for him like he was worth the wait.

You worked gently, dabbing antiseptic over scraped skin. The towel turned pink in your hands. His fingers twitched once beneath your touch and he let out a hiss.

“Too rough?” you asked softly.

He shook his head. “No. Just... not used to it yet.”

You paused, letting the weight of that settle.

“I know,” you murmured. “But you will be. Eventually.”

Jason was quiet again. His gaze was fixed on the floor, but his hand never pulled from yours.

“I didn’t come back right,” he said, finally. Voice low. Raw. “You loved Jason Todd. He’s gone.”

Your chest went tight. The sting behind your eyes was immediate and sharp. You set the cloth down slowly. 

No. He couldn’t just waltz into your place whenever he felt like it and say he wasn’t the man you loved.

“That’s not fair.”

His brows twitched, but he didn’t look up. “It’s true.”

“No,” you said, voice steady despite the tremble building in your throat. “It’s not.”

He scoffed, bitter and low. “You don’t know what I’ve done. What I’ve become.”

“I know exactly who you are,” you said, louder now, sharper. “Don’t you dare sit there and act like I’m some idiot who’s in love with a memory. I’ve seen you. I’ve held you. I’ve listened to you scream in your sleep and still woken up next to you in the morning.”

Jason flinched—just a little—but his hands were clenched now, tension bunching through his shoulders.

“You think I want this?” he bit out. “I was eighteen. I wanted answers, not a goddamn coffin. I shouldn’t have gone. You told me to go—”

“I know , Jason!” Your voice cracked. “Do you think I don’t know? I’ve lived with that every single day for years. You think I didn’t rip myself apart wondering if it was my fault you died?”

Silence pulsed between you. Thick. Heavy.

His eyes finally met yours—and there it was. The weight. The pain. The shame.

“I loved you,” he whispered. “So much it scared me.”

Your throat burned. “Then why are you trying to make me hate you?”

“Because it’s easier,” he said. “Because if you hate me, you’ll let go. You’ll move on. And maybe I won’t have to look at you and remember what it felt like to have a life.”

Your breath caught.

“You think I’m here because I want the old you back?” you asked, softer now. “ There is no old you. I’m here because it’s still you. Even when you think you're too far gone for anyone to ever care about you again.”

Jason blinked hard. You saw the tears, even if he didn’t let them fall.

“I still remember the way you looked at me,” you continued. “Like I was the best thing in the world. And now you look at me like I’m going to vanish. Like you’re not allowed to need me anymore.”

His shoulders dropped slightly. “You don’t know how much I still love you.”

You did.

You always did.

So you reached out, brushing the hair back from his brow with gentle fingers. His skin was warm beneath your touch—real. Present. Still here.

You leaned in close, cleaning the last of the blood from his jawline. He didn't flinch this time.

“I’m not leaving,” you said, quietly. “Even when you try to make me.”

He let out a shaky breath, the words catching in his throat.

“I don’t deserve this,” he whispered. “I don’t deserve you.”

You smiled, lips pressed to his hair. “I love you. So, so much. ”

“Horrible,” he rasped. “Useless, rotten work.”

You kissed the crown of his head. Closed your eyes.

“Not to me.”

[yjw1a1]

ANGOSTURA (TEASER) | PJS

PAIRING. Park Jongseong x female reader. GENRE. contemporary romance, drama and angst, University romance WORD COUNT. pendingg WARNINGS. brief mentions of overdose and heavy substance abuse, it's not graphic, I just thought I would mention it. cursing, and alcohol consumption. DISCLAIMER. This was inspired by keshi's song Angostura. I take credit for this story because it I wrote it with my imagination. characters used are just for the story and may not be how they are in irl. SUMMARY. Y/N never expected her junior year of college to be anything but routine—long nights in the research lab, endless pre-med coursework, and keeping her social circle small. But after an unplanned encounter with Jay, a reserved yet enigmatic student stuck in General Chemistry to fulfill a lab requirement, her carefully structured world starts to shift.

DATE RELEASED. ...PENDING...

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the campus courtyard, where different student organizations had set up their fundraising tables, calling out to passing students in an attempt to secure donations.

Faaiya adjusted the sign at her table for what felt like the hundredth time.

“Build-A-Bouquet – $8”

Underneath, in smaller text: All proceeds go toward funding STEM outreach programs for local elementary schools.

She exhaled, rubbing her hands together to warm them. It had been a long day, and she barely had the energy to keep up her usual fundraising pitch.

Still, she forced a polite smile as a pair of students approached, quickly helping them pick out a bouquet of white daisies and sunflowers.

Then she heard them.

A familiar trio.

“Why are flowers so expensive?”

Jake’s voice—loud, confused, and clearly not meant for discretion.

Faaiya closed her eyes briefly before forcing herself to look up.

Jake, Sunghoon, and Jay stood a few feet away, unmistakable in their presence. They weren’t the type to blend into a crowd, whether they wanted to or not. Dressed in varying degrees of casual disarray—Jake in a hoodie and joggers, Sunghoon looking effortlessly put together despite wearing the same black jacket he always did, and Jay, hands in his pockets, posture loose but observant.

Faaiya sighed. “Are you actually here to buy something, or are you just here to stand around and question the economy?”

Sunghoon smirked. “Little bit of both.”

Jake, ever the instigator, grinned. “We were just walking by, and Jay was so interested in your fundraiser that we had to stop.”

Jay didn’t react to the comment, but his gaze flickered briefly to Faaiya, as she crossed her arms. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

Jake drummed his fingers against the table. “So, how does this work? We pick, or do you?”

“You pick,” Faaiya said flatly.

Jake immediately turned to Sunghoon. “Dude, we should build one for you.”

Sunghoon scoffed, stepping back. “Absolutely not.”

Faaiya exhaled. “It’s for charity, not matchmaking.”

“Charity?” Sunghoon repeated, raising a brow. “Sure.”

Jake ignored him, turning back to the table with exaggerated interest. “So, what flowers would Sunghoon like?”

Sunghoon sighed. “I don’t want flowers.”

Jake grinned. “Yeah, yeah. That’s what they all say until they receive some, and suddenly, they have feelings.”

Faaiya rolled her eyes and turned her attention to Jay, who had yet to say anything.

“Are you just here for the show?” she asked.

Jay’s lips quirked slightly. “Maybe.”

Jake finally made his selection—a chaotic mix of marigolds, baby’s breath, and a single red rose. Sunghoon looked like he was physically restraining himself from making a comment.

Jay, meanwhile, reached into his pocket and pulled out a bill. He placed it on the table without hesitation.

A twenty.

Faaiya frowned. “I don’t have change.”

Jay tilted his head slightly, like he was amused by her response. “That’s fine.”

Jake let out a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest. “He’s donating?” Sunghoon shook his head in mock disbelief. “Didn’t think I’d see the day.”

Jay ignored them, instead gesturing lazily toward the flowers. “Pick for me.”

“Okay, demanding,” Faaiya mumbled. She hesitated before pulling together a bouquet—deep orange chrysanthemums, sprigs of rosemary, and white carnations. She wrapped them quickly, tying them off with a thin ribbon.

Jay accepted it without question, turning it over in his hands. Sunghoon eyed the arrangement. “You pick those on purpose?”

Faaiya shrugged. “It’s fall. Seemed fitting.”

Jake leaned in, still grinning. “And what do they mean?”

Faaiya adjusted the remaining flowers in her bin. “This is a fundraiser, Jake. not a show and tell of the meaning of flowers–.”

Jake groaned, cutting her off. “C’mon, Yunjin talks all the time about you geeking out on flower meanings so—”

Jay interrupted. “Chrysanthemums for resilience, rosemary for remembrance, and carnations…” He glanced at Faaiya, as if waiting for her to fill in the rest.

She crossed her arms looking away. “Purity.”

Sunghoon let out a low whistle. “Damn. Thought you weren’t thinking too hard about it?”

“I wasn’t,” Faaiya said evenly. “It just makes sense.”

Jay hummed, still turning the bouquet between his fingers, his expression unreadable, then tucked the bouquet under his arm, stepping back.

Jake pouted. “That’s it? No sentimental speech? No grand gesture?”

Jay ignored him. “You done?”

Sunghoon sighed, already walking away. “Yes. Please.”

Jake huffed but followed, tossing Faaiya a quick wink as he did. “See you around, flower girl.”

Faaiya rolled her eyes, watching as they disappeared into the crowd.

[official-linguistics-post]

Yessss Zotero user!!🖐️ Help me spread the world, persuade people that source managers are good (side-eye to my gf who insists it's fiiiiiine to write a thesis without one...)

CITATION MANAGER EVANGELISM UPON REQUEST

i picked up zotero right when i started graduate school (i can't remember why i chose that one specifically, but i do know i liked it better than mendeley). i have every single reference i used across coursework, exams, dissertation, and publications, which is literally hundreds of items.

not only does it let you keep the citations themselves, you can use libraries, folders, and tagging systems for organization, and zotero allows file attachment (either natively using zotero's cloud storage or linked to a local source), notetaking to a linked document, AND annotation within the program.

i got the most use out of its ms word plugin since that's where i wrote literally everything. every time i added a new citation, i could just zap it in with zotero and the manager would keep track of every reference. at the end, it let me drop the entire formatted reference section right into the document.

the only time it ever failed me was trying to reformat my dissertation references to school standards, and that was probably more the result of my own lack of csl editing knowledge than zotero itself.

please, if you are juggling many references or will be in the future, invest the time in a citation manager.

[mewguca]

MIP school uniform ref (and some notes about the MIP Academy AU under the cut.)

- Instead of the Development Center, they attend a more organized simulacrum of a school. They learn valuable skills to help them become better Groupmates, with the coursework often dictated by their Local Group Assignments. They can also study subjects for the sake of intellectual curiosity if they have time. Once they have completed their required courses as requested by their Local Groups, they "graduate" and reach their Local Group Integration.

- Director is the Principal

- SSR helps teach

- They hire various professors to teach at the school, though much of the coursework is handled by SSR and NCTG. technology allows for complex artificial intelligence programs to offer instruction.

- Implements are often called back to the school, but they're not forced to keep taking classes.

- Assistants serve as the student council and are not allowed to graduate until the Project is over. They also help teachers and help keep other students in line.

- in more silly versions we could have SSR's puppet like. physically show up so he can wear stupid outfits or whatever idk.

- tbh idk what else to do for the teachers youll have to use ur imagination

- sweaters and stuff are allowed. do whatever you want with shoes and socks as long as it isnt too disruptive. (if umbra and sls are watching)

- thorns is also the disciplinary committee and she might dress code you . idk what the dress code is but id imagine its wearing the standard uniform without too much modification.

- i don't remember anything else rn okay cool

[elizabeth-katz]

As a sophomore student studying Mathematics and Statistics, my academic journey has been both challenging and rewarding. I have always had a deep appreciation for problem-solving and logic, which is what drew me to these fields in the first place. In high school, I excelled in subjects that required analytical thinking, and as I transitioned to university, I realized that Math and Stats were where I truly belonged.The first year of my studies was a whirlwind. I was introduced to a wide range of topics, from calculus to probability, and though the coursework was demanding, I found myself captivated by the way abstract concepts could be applied to real-world problems. The foundation I built in my freshman year helped me understand the theoretical aspects of mathematics while giving me the tools to approach complex problems with a statistical mindset.Now, as a sophomore, I find myself diving deeper into more specialized areas, like linear algebra, statistical inference, and multivariable calculus. The material is more advanced, but my passion for these subjects has only grown. I've learned that the beauty of mathematics lies not just in finding answers, but in the process of discovery and critical thinking. Statistics, on the other hand, has shown me the power of data and its ability to reveal hidden patterns that can inform decisions and predictions.Being a sophomore means I’m beginning to connect the dots between different concepts and developing a more holistic understanding of my field. While there are still tough days when the formulas seem to blur together or the numbers don’t add up, the excitement of uncovering the solutions keeps me going. The support of professors and classmates makes a huge difference, and I feel more confident in tackling the challenges ahead.I’m looking forward to the rest of my time in this program, knowing that with each year, I’m growing closer to achieving my goals and perhaps even making my mark in the world of mathematics and statistics. Every lecture, every assignment, and every project is a stepping stone toward building the future I dream of.

[aerodynamic-acephalic]

ok so some world-building headcanons for the magisterium (because god knows they need it)

They used to use the American high-school education system, with Iron year as a gap year from education, to help with the transition to a magic school, and to prioritise apprentices gaining conscious control over their magic -

After the Cold Massacre, they started to use the Middle Year Program (accelerated) and the Diploma Program of the International Baccalaureate Program. I say "accelerated", because the MYP is for students aged 11-16, with the intention of DP ending at 18. So it'll start with revision of what they've learned at their old schools. This became the educational curriculum for almost all magical schools. -

The masters that don't teach magic don't usually have apprentices. It's no hard-and-fast rule, and many of them still have assistants, but this generally happens. -

The Magisterium does not have standardised testing, but they do have end-of-year exams. Magic levels are separate to education levels, so if an apprentice passes their Gate, but not their exam, they still learn magic of the next year wile repeating the education of the current year, and vice versa. The uniform apprentices wear represent the number of years they have been at the Magisterium, regardless of whether or not they were held back a year, but the metal on their wrist cuff shows what year they are magically (An apprentice in Bronze year who did not pass their Gate will wear white uniforms, but still have a bronze plate on their wrist cuff). An apprentice's education level is not visually shown. Apprentices who have failed either their exam and/or their Gate will still live with their apprentice group, but will learn their failed level separately to them. -

Masters can decide to stay in their quarters over the summer break. The ones who go back usually do so to visit family or friends. Otherwise they are either planning for lessons or honing their own expertise in their own quarters. -

Apprentices that do not pass the Gate of Control (Iron year) do not go home for the summer break. Their master is forced to stay as well. Legal guardians are informed of why their child is unable to leave the school, and are permitted the chance to stay at the Magisterium over the summer break in guest quarters. This is the only time non-magical people are permitted in the Magisterium. If the child passes the Gate of Control over the summer break, they can decide whether to leave or stay for the rest of the holidays. -

Apprentices at the end of their Copper year are able to apply to be an assistant. Through their master they can apply to assist with a particular subject (magic being one of them), and masters that teach this subject are given a compiled list and can choose to take an apprentice as an assistant, granted that they do not teach this apprentice. It's treated like (unpaid) work, and is often used to boost job opportunities, but they are still expected to keep up with their coursework. -

Makaris are generally discouraged from becoming assistants, because of their already increased workload, but they still can. -

All non-magical legal guardian(s) are made aware of the magical if their child is accepted into the Magisterium. This debrief is done just after the selection, once the chosen children have left, and the unchosen children are bound and escorted out with their families. This is also when masters are able to talk about accommodations and transportation with parents (see below) -

The push for disability recognition allowed for masters to make personalised accommodations, having both the apprentice and the legal guardian(s) of the apprentice in the conversation. There are guidelines and procedures, but they are not definite. The agreed upon accommodations are then bound between the master and any one legal guardian, with an assemblyman as a witness (think of something like the unbreakable vow from harry potter). The apprentice can choose whether to be physically present for the binding. Informal accommodations are common between masters and apprentices are common (being the only kind of accommodation during the first gen era), and do not require legal guardians, but other masters are not required to adhere to them. Addendums and retractions to this agreement are made in a similar fashion. -

Call and Al specifically didn't have the accommodations conversation with Rufus until Bronze Year, because of Al's outburst in the Iron Trial, and him being a suspected criminal on the run in Call's Copper year. Because there was nothing formal about Call's leg for two years, a whole buncha master either overestimated or underestimated what Call could do with his leg. Call technically wasn't in school for his Silver and Gold years, it was only used for a year at most anyway. -

Iron year students start a week earlier than other years. This is for the safety of the other students, and the sanity of the masters. -

The Magisterium has a school bus. It's used to bring the chosen Iron apprentices to the school. While the masters are debriefing the legal guardians, they can choose to sign their child up for the school bus. It's free and it's literally just a "yeah can my kid take the bus?". They know where to pick you up. Don't ask how. They won't tell you. The same bus picks up all the apprentices across America and heads to Virginia. It takes most of the day to get there. The bus travels a kilometre (or a mile, I guess) above the ground, but still drives "on the road". The windows show a view of the road as per normal. This means that sometimes the windows show the bus no-clipping through cars and running through every light regardless of colour, but that's all part of the fun! It's not too noticeable but time in the bus passes a little weirdly. It feels easier to lose track of time in there. Legacy families usually like to personally drop off their kids. The bus also takes kids back home at the end of the school year. -

There are 3 types of quarters: apprentice quarters, master quarters and guest quarters. -

Apprentice quarters consist of 1 common room and 3-5 bedrooms (depending on the number of apprentices in that apprentice group). The common room is decorated differently depending how the master likes it, but they all have a fireplace (without fire, but always emitting heat), a carpet, a couple soft places to sit, and a large table. Apprentice bedrooms are decorated as per the apprentice's wish, but all have a wardrobe, a queen-sized four poster bed (with a roof. I've seen some without one), a chest at the foot, a nightstand on one side and an oil lamp on top. -

Master quarters consist of a bedroom, a common room, and a lichen room. The common rooms are much like the apprentice quarters, but are a bit smaller, with a few less seating areas. The bedrooms are larger, and though they hold the same essentials as the apprentice bedrooms, they also have bookshelves, several lamps hanging in the corners, a large desk, and a tornado phone. Depending on the expertise of the master, there may be maps strewn up. The lichen room grows lichen. Masters get hungy for a midnight snack y'know. Some masters use it as a supply closet for ingredients instead. -

Guest quarters consist of a bedroom and a common room. The common room is much like the master common room. The bedroom is much like the apprentice common room. If two guests wish to sleep in the same quarters, their bed is upgraded to a king-sized four poster bed, with a wider chest, a larger wardrobe, and a nightstand with an oil lamp on both sides. These rooms are given to assemblymen, alumni, and other researchers for the duration of their stay at the Magisterium. They are also given to the guardian(s) of the apprentices under specific conditions (see above). -

Assemblymen who stay at the Magisterium are also given an office. This office is like the master and guest common room, but also has two bookshelves, one for books, one for ingredients, as well as a tornado phone on the desk. -

Yes, Master Rufus has an assemblyman office and a master's bedroom/study. Yes, Master Milagros, along with other masters, had raised brows about it. Yes, Master Rufus fought for it anyway. Yes, Master Rufus has two tornado phones. They are both alerted when someone calls him, and one disappears when he answers on the other.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for writing an essay and sending it to the sheriff?

This sounds so dumb but

I grew up Christian. I still believe most of it. Me and my family have always beenlaid back, don't judge, God loves all type people. I know there are some Christians who don't believe that- we aren't that kind and they give it a bad name I get it.

But my sister. I love her, I do, but she didn't know what she wanted to do when she graduated high school. She graduated the year before me and decided she would go do this "discipleship" program a woman had given a talk on.

We both were under the impression that going to this program, she would get the necessary coursework to become a pastor. Which, technically, they did do the coursework.

Except it was a cult. 100% a cult. Not every religion is a cult, but a lot of cults have religious aspects. I know without a doubt this was a cult.

Things she went through: wasnt allowed to get a job the first year she was there and was financially dependent on the leader to find them "charity" work and "fundraising" opportunities, all had to live at apartments the leader owned and pay him rent to live there, everyone was called family, was placed on restrictive diets that eventually got less restrictive the longer you stayed, got sprayed with a water hose for being unable to memorize Scripture, weekly had to thank the leader for allowing them to be there and include him in their prayers, etc.

After the first year you are there, you get more responsibility if you come back a second year. Those who didn't come back a second year are encouraged to not be talked to. Third and fourth years are invites only, but by the third year you are so indoctrinated they invite you *anyone who showed any signs of insecurity or questioning were not invited back*. After the fourth year, every single person has joined the staff or helps work for this group.

It grosses me out and I didnt even write half of what my sister went through. My sister got out after her third year because she was in a car accident and had to do extensive therapy to recover. She is fine now, but misses the group. She is convinced it isnt a cult.

I wrote down things she has said as well as things I was told by an excommunicated member. I used citations of well known cults as examples, and even cited different models and psychological papers.

I submitted it all as evidence to the local sheriff of where the cult is based. My sister and the member were not named. My sister found out and freaked out, saying they would never take her back if they found out what I did. Then she said she was scared they would harm me. She finally doubled back and claimed it wasn't a cult and I caused a ton of innocent people to lose their jobs as well as their homes if the leader gets arrested. I hadn't thought about that and felt bad about the families and innocent kids involved.

So AITA?

What are these acronyms?

[bitchesgetriches]

Hey bitches! When it comes to changing careers, is it worth it to enroll in a boot camp or other such school program or would you have better luck going for internships and then working your way up? From my research, people generally seem to think you should work rather than go to school, but for fields like cybersecurity, I feel like you need that basis of coursework to even be hired, is that right?

I think it really depends on the field! There are some jobs that absolutely require professional certifications or academic degrees. Others not so much! I've met a bunch of self-taught coders, self-taught carpenters, and self-taught small business owners, but not a single self-taught surgeon, self-taught somme, or self-taught elementary school teacher.

So research what you'd like to do starting with the path there. Reach out to professionals in your preferred field and see if any will hook you up with an informational interview or a brief email outlining how they got where they are. People will be honest about the requirements it takes to get where they are.

For example: it took ZERO certifications or higher degrees to become loudmouthed online advice-givers, and YEARS of unearned confidence and learning from our own mistakes to deliver the flawless Bitches you see before you today.

My Career Transition Succeeded When I Gave Fewer Fucks, Made More Friends, and Had More Fun 

If you found this helpful, consider joining our Patreon.

[crippy-tangerine]

Growing up autistic when not fit into “gifted program” category (because brain cannot do that stuff!), but also did not have needs met enough to get the specialist education you probably needed, is strange… (/neutral tone). Our experiences don’t really line up with either of the experience “categories” people mention on here. (Nobody’s “fault”, just observation!). Never seen our (specific?) experiences talked about, so here goes nothing, we want to talk about our school experiences with undiagnosed autism (and comorbidities), because been thinking about it a bit… Realising that maybe find more people similar experience if actual talk about it.! So…

Warning for mentions of bullying, ableism, suicide, abuse, social isolation, eating disorders, generally poor mental health!! Not happy post, skip if this is a sensitive group of topics for you! (/genuine and serious tone).

Putting all info under cut, please only read if you ok to!!

-> So. Go from the… From the start… Not really “school”, but sort of is? Americans call it kindergarten- is where children age like 2-5 years old go? During weekday? We went there when still no mouth words (or only a couple basic words? Cannot remember). Used sign language apparently most things. But apparent not interested in talking verbally. But not remember any of this time (not surprising).

-> We went to a tiny school in tiny rural village from that age until we were 11(?). Have speech (unreliable with verbal shutdown) this point. Was no special education in that school, or gifted program- instead all kids put in one big class and get same lessons. Except the “slow” kids like us… We were “bottom set” for mathematics, which meant getting pulled out of the group classes + sitting in the corridor with the other “slow” kids and trying to learn stuff whilst sat on the floor in a cold corridor. Do not have enough memory to comment on how our lessons were different from the others, but is fair to say they did not help..

-> It is possible the corridor lessons were done when the rest of our class had “golden time” (time to play instead of a lesson). But unsure about that right now (memory loss).

-> We would struggle hugely with homework (specifically mathematics + whatever minimal science we did at that school). Routinely sobbing over simple sums and equations because our brain could not understand, and we would be yelled at by parent for not getting it and being “difficult”. Getting regularly told “you’re not [insert ableist word], so why can’t you just figure it out?”.

-> We were “behind” our best friend in school, and would get compared to them by our own parent often, because “couldn’t you be more like them?!”. Very unhappy experience to be told you’re not good at something, but also not allowed be bad at it, and the only thing you’re allowed to be is worse than your friends. Uncomfortable “middle” space. No peers around us to relate to because socially isolated (aside from best friend). Misunderstandings with best friend too- socially confused and not able understand other children. Out of place.

-> In our next school still in the “bottom sets” for stuff. In none of the “gifted/top sets”. Having new concepts introduced constant and unable to understand them or apply them, crying from stress and fear regularly, mental health declining (many reasons- school work didn’t help).

-> Unable to keep up with coursework for any subjects, struggling more as years go on and coursework increases. Failing exams, not turning in work, unable to focus in lessons so not writing any notes…. All dismissed as us being difficult, lazy or anxious. “You’re smart you just need to try harder!” when we are already completely past limits.

-> Got assessed at some point for specific learning disabilities (stuff like dyslexia, dyscalculia, dyspraxia) for exam accommodations (because we couldn’t finish any exams we did)- met criteria for multiple. Never diagnosed with anything though, not told that brain is clinically slower/“worse” than 99% of our peers in some areas; instead just given extra exam time and told that is all “anxiety”. Not allowed view self as gifted, also not given language identify with disability. Left in middle space yet again and told to “try more”.

-> Extra classes/“revision sessions” during our lunch times with teachers (all our friends except one got to go eat lunch, go to clubs, chill out- but we were often in little classrooms trying to learn science theories everyone else already learned).

-> “Worth” routinely measured by academic success (it was… One Of Those Schools… /negative tone). We were not “worth” much. And we were visibly Other because of the autism and stuff. So bullied by peers and staff throughout entire six(?) years there. Hated by staff (poor mental health, visibly “mentally” disabled, “disobedient”/“difficult”/“lazy”/“rude”, queer/trans in bigoted school, etc.).

-> Ended up in position where missing months of coursework, rarely handed any work in, had no notes for anything was meant to have learned (had to copy friend’s work in all our free time) and we were fully convinced would fail the major exams (to be able change schools).

-> Routinely missing classes because panic attacks, autistic shutdowns, general anxiety + fears (and a hatred for all classes, teachers, students at this point). Hiding in the toilets for hours because not able leave school (gated/locked doors). Walking out of classes midway and not going back in because unable cope.

-> Unable mask autism + antisocial traits as much as used to, obviously combative and demand avoidant (now seen as “scary” by all peers because verbally aggressive, picked fights with teachers over their bigotry, generally unable to pretend to like people at all, rude and physically took out violence by hitting/slamming objects). Hated by most of peer group and teachers, losing friends did have.

-> Took big exams running on fumes. Fumes. Our revision for them all consisted of listening to free tutors on YouTube as we did other things, and then cramming written versions of other people’s notes the night before each exam (and the 30 minutes before the actual exams…). Mostly given up at that point- planned on killing ourself if we did not get the marks we needed. Passed most of them somehow. (To a lot of people’s surprise).

-> Moved to new school. Behind from start in some areas because wasn’t caught up with work at last school. Complete train wreck mentally. Spent all free time in “quiet room” (the room for all disabled kids to hide basically). School knew vulnerable from start- but chose subjects found easier, so managed keep up with coursework vaguely for first few months + get by (sort of). Easy to clock as autistic at this point. Visibly mentally unwell from OCD compulsions/eating disorder/depression, more visible Tourette’s symptoms too. Wearing headphones with music on through all lessons. Teachers mostly allow for us specifically because so visibly distressed. Few times not allowed headphones (because substitute teachers), dissociate whole class not able do any work. Not really able remember details any of this time (amnesia again).

-> No “sets” anymore for classes- randomised classes with other students. Completely isolated outside of “quiet room” (disabled) friends, because all abled students could see that “different”/disabled in some way and avoided. Meant had nobody to copy class work from when not able keep up in certain classes. Fell behind more.

-> Start having other disabled students point out that visibly disabled- have other autistic students say stuff like “oh just assumed you autistic too”. Teachers all aware some degree that very unwell (not able hide it anymore- having severe dissociative episodes in classes, doing OCD compulsions during classes, unable speak to/look at other students, looked visibly sick from eating disorder, etc.).

-> Became obsessive over schoolwork- trying meet “perfection” standards for written notes, homework, practice exams. Not meet the standards. Distress over that and difficulty with life generally meant spend all free time in/out of class doing schoolwork. Fixated on doing well- but not able do well because brain not work like that still. Made worse because still told that “very smart”, pressure meet that standard even though never able actually reach unless spend hours (like 3+ hours) on one piece of work meant spend one hour on (example).

-> Missing classes again. Having pick which classes able sit through because unable be in class long enough do a full day (only a few hours maximum in day already, because classes spaced over 5 day period- still unable do that though). Having to leave school grounds regularly because not able stand being in school environment (because too many people, sensory overload from noises/smells/sounds).

-> Not able handle friendships. Still verbally combative, very distrustful, defensive, easily provoked (and became very unkind when provoked). No real understanding what friendships/relationships “meant” look like. Meant vulnerable to abuse, which took because assumed “normal” relationship things. Assumed because nobody else respect boundaries (platonic), okay if happen in relationship (non-platonic) too.

-> One day we just snap. Dissociative episode during lesson. Spend whole time try keep eyes open and not let roll back into head. Virtual laying on table. Lesson end, friends who in lesson with us all concerned, we just go “no fuck this, going home”. Walk out, travel home (impressive, not sure how manage). Barricade self in room for week solid. Not respond anybody during week, ignore all screaming, angry rage from parent outside room. Simply lie in bed dissociative haze, seven days. Not remember it really (no surprise). Never go back that school. Referred emergency mental health care because completely insane this point.

-> Attempt school 2 extra time as adult. First time not even make it back into school setting- enrol then never turn up. Second time manage few months, crash out again because needs not met (still not diagnosed autistic). And never return again. Honestly no plan for us ever go back- disability too severe this point even sit through one class.

-> TLDR: undiagnosed, crashed and burned repeatedly through childhood. Socially isolated + ostracised, bullied by teachers/staff, unable keep up with workload but struggles all dismissed as “laziness”. Dropout age 16-17ish. Complete dropout- no online no part time, nothing. Consume by how bad disability get. Unable function anymore. Not ever given “community” other kids- barely treated human by peers anyways lot of time. Not given language understand disabled. Certain not “gifted” though like other friends.

So… Not relate to “super gifted kid talented perfect student” autistics. Not relate to autistics in special education (because never put in it). Somewhere in messy grey area between. And never see that talked about really. But maybe others relate.?

So here you go- example what a late-diagnosed autistic experience can be like. Is reason one million why late diagnosed not equal low support needs. Our life dumpster fire because mid-ish support needs but never have needs met (and now worsening disability = support needs increased over years). Late diagnosed autistics not all these savant types, super masking, unable tell disabled… We (personally) undiagnosed because neglect + inability get right healthcare.

By the way. This post not say have “easier/harder” time than any other autistics. Just bit different than experiences seen talked about more on here. This not about who have better/worse time. Just want talk about own experience, maybe find others who relate!

This also not meant be “vent” post. Want explain right so others able understand (misunderstood a lot and get harmed because that- so like explain when can).

Okay this all for now, bye, sorry long post…