Brief Mentions of Violence/gore Emojis & Text

Copy & Paste Brief Mentions of Violence/gore Emojis & Symbols į““įµ‰Ź³ į”†į¶œįµƒŹ³įµ‰ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ į¶ įµƒāæį¶ ā±į¶œā¾į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė”įµ‰į¶ įµ— įµƒ įµ—Ź³įµƒā±Ė” įµ’

į““įµ‰Ź³ į”†į¶œįµƒŹ³įµ‰ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ į¶ įµƒāæį¶ ā±į¶œā¾ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė”įµ‰į¶ įµ— įµƒ įµ—Ź³įµƒā±Ė” įµ’į¶  Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ’Ź·āæ įµ‡Ė”įµ’įµ’įµˆ įµ’āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµŹ³įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź·ā±į¶ įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒŹ· į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€™Ė¢ įµ‡Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµˆā±āæįµā€§ ā€œį”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæā€§ā€§ā€ ā€œį“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ, į“µ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆā€§ į“¼Ź° į“µ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ į“µā€™įµ Ė¢įµ’Ź³Ź³Źøā€§ į““įµ’Ź· į“µ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€¦ā€ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ–ā±į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ Ź°ā±įµ įµ˜įµ– ā±āæ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµƒāæįµˆĖ¢ā€§ ā€œį”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæ į“µ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹø Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° įµįµ‰ įµƒāæįµˆ Ė”ā±Ė¢įµ—įµ‰āæ; Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė”įµ’Ė¢įµ— įµƒ Ė”įµ’įµ— įµ’į¶  įµ‡Ė”įµ’įµ’įµˆā€§ā€§ā€ ā€œŹøįµ’įµ˜ā€™Ź³įµ‰ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ, Ė¢įµ’ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰ā€¦ā€ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į¶ įµƒįµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ įµƒĖ”Ė” Ė”įµƒĖ¢įµ— įµ‰į¶ į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ź·ā±į¶ įµ‰ā€§ ā€œį“øįµ’įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§ā€ Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢Ź°įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶ į¶  įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź·įµ’Ź³Ė”įµˆā€§ įµ€Ź°įµ‰ Ė”įµƒĖ¢įµ— įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ‰ įµāæįµ‰Ź· Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢ ā€˜į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ–ā€™ į¶ Ź³įµƒāæįµ—ā±į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµ‡Źø į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź·įµƒįµ—į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµ’Ź·āæ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ įµˆŹøā±āæįµ Ė”ā±įµįµ–Ė”Źø ā±āæ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµƒāæįµˆĖ¢ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź³įµ‰įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæā±āæįµ į¶ Ź³įµ’įµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į“·Ź³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡ā€§ ā€œį“¼Ź° į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ; āæįµ’, Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ–! į“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ–Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ‰, į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµįµ‰ā€¦ā€ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į¶œŹ³ā±įµ‰įµˆā€§ į”†Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµƒį¶œįµ— į¶ įµƒĖ¢įµ—ā€§ į”†Ź°įµ‰ įµ—įµ’įµ’įµ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ė”ā±į¶ įµ‰Ė”įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ā±Ź³ Ė”įµƒįµ‡ā€§ ā€œŹøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ā€¦ā€ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ–įµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ įµƒĖ¢ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ į¶ įµ’Ź³ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— įµā±įµŹ°įµ— Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–ā€§ į”†Ź°įµ‰ įµ–įµ˜įµ— Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‡įµ’įµˆŹø įµ’āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ—įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµƒĖ¢ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ įµ–Ź³įµ‰įµ–įµƒŹ³įµ‰įµˆ įµƒ įµįµƒį¶œŹ°ā±āæįµ‰ įµ’į¶  Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒŹ· Ź°ā±įµ įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ įµ‡įµ‰į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰ā€§ ā€œį“µ įµāæįµ’Ź· Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ‡įµ˜ā±Ė”įµ— įµįµ‰ įµƒ Ė¢įµ‰āæįµ—ā±įµ‰āæįµ— įµ‡įµ‰ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ Ė”ā±į¶ įµ‰ Ė¢įµ’ āæįµ’Ź· Ė”įµ‰įµ— įµįµ‰ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ– Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ’Ź·āæ Ė”ā±į¶ įµ‰ ā±āæ Ź³įµ‰įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæā€§ā€§ā€ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź°įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ– įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµįµƒį¶œŹ°ā±āæįµ‰Ź³Źø Ź·įµ’Ź³Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆĖ”Źøā€§ ā€œį“µ Ź°įµ’įµ–įµ‰ ā±įµ— Ź·įµ’Ź³įµĖ¢ā€¦ā€ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢Ė”įµ’Ź·Ė”Źø įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæįµ‰įµˆ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ā€§ ā€œįµ‚įµƒ, Ź·Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰ā€¦ā€ ā€œį”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæ įµ’Ź° įµĖ”įµƒįµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€™Ź³įµ‰ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ!ā€ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ā€§ ā€œį“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· į“µ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§ā€

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šŸ’œšŸ’šāœØplankton x karenāœØšŸ’ššŸ’œ
į““įµƒįµ–įµ–Źø į“®ā±Ź³įµ—Ź°įµˆįµƒŹø įµ—įµ’ į¶œį“¾įµ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ į¶ įµƒāæį¶ ā±į¶œā¾ @ALYJACI į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź·ā±į¶ įµ‰ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµƒŹ· Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ įµƒĖ¢ Ź·įµ‰Ė”Ė” įµƒĖ¢ įµ–įµ‰įµ— į”†įµ–įµ’įµ— įµƒŹ·įµƒā±įµ—ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµƒŹ³Ź³ā±įµ›įµƒĖ” įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµā±įµ—į¶œŹ°įµ‰āæā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’įµ— Ź²įµ˜įµįµ–įµ‰įµˆāø“ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–ā±Ė”Źø įµƒāæįµˆ įµ‰Ė£į¶œā±įµ—įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į““įµƒįµ–įµ–Źø įµ‡ā±Ź³įµ—Ź°įµˆįµƒŹø į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ!" @ALYJACI
įµ‚įµƒĖ”įµā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į“¾Ź³įµƒāæįµ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ į¶ įµƒāæį¶ ā±į¶œā¾ "į“¾įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė” Ź°įµƒĖ¢āæ'įµ— Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµ˜Ė¢ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° įµ–Ź³įµƒāæįµā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ‡įµ’ŹøĖ¢ įµ‡įµ‰į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰!" įµ€Ź°įµ‰ į“³įµƒĖ” į“¾įµƒĖ”Ė¢ Ź·įµ‰Ź³įµ‰ Ź°įµƒįµ›ā±āæįµ įµƒāæįµ’įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµā±Ź³Ė”Ė¢ āæā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ "į“µ'įµˆ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµƒ įµ–įµƒŹ³įµ— ā±āæ įµ–Ź³įµƒāæįµā±āæįµ!" į”†įµƒā±įµˆ į“¾įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”ā€§ "į““įµ’Ź· įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— į“¹Ź³ā€§ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢?" įµ€Ź°įµ‰Źø Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµƒāæį¶œŹ°įµ’Ź³ Ė¢Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ‰įµˆ Ź°įµ’įµįµ‰ā€§ "į“¹Ė¢ā€§ į“¾įµ˜į¶ į¶ ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†Ź°įµ‰ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ā€§ "į“¼Ź° Ź°įµ‰Źø į“¹Ė¢ā€§ į“¾įµ˜į¶ į¶ !" "į“±įµ˜įµįµ‰āæįµ‰āø“ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶ įµ’Ź³įµįµ’įµ—!" "į““įµ˜Ź°?" "į“¬įµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµˆįµƒįµ—įµ‰ įµ—įµ’āæā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµˆā±įµˆ įµ—įµ’ į“±įµ˜įµįµ‰āæįµ‰! į“µ'įµ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ’įµįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¹Ź³ā€§ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ į¶ įµ’Ė”Ė”įµ’Ź·įµ‰įµˆ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ— įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµįµƒĖ” įµ–įµƒĖ”Ė¢ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜'įµ›įµ‰ įµ‡įµ‰įµ‰āæ įµ–Ź³įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµˆ!" įµ€Ź°įµ‰Źø Ė”įµƒįµ˜įµŹ°įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“¼Ź°!" "į“µ'Ė”Ė” į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė” į“®Ź³įµƒāæ į¶ Ė”įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³Ė¢ į¶ Ź³įµ’įµ įµįµƒįµ—Ź° į¶œĖ”įµƒĖ¢Ė¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė” įµįµ’įµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ— Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµ–Ź°įµ’āæįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµˆā±įµƒĖ” Ź°ā±Ė¢ āæįµ˜įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³ā€§ "į“°ā±įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶ ā±āæā±Ė¢Ź° įµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ź°įµ’įµįµ‰Ź·įµ’Ź³įµ?" "į“µ įµˆā±įµˆāæ'įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· Ź·įµ‰ Ź°įµƒįµˆ įµƒāæŹøā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ'įµ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ–Ź³įµƒāæįµā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜!" į“¾įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė” Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆ Ź°įµƒāæįµā±āæįµ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ "į“µ Ź·įµƒāæāæįµƒ įµįµ’ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° įµƒ įµįµ’Ź³įµ‰ įµ‡ā±įµįµįµ‰Ź³ įµ–Ź³įµƒāæįµā€§ā€§ā€§" "į¶œįµƒāæ Ź·įµ‰ Ė”įµ‰āæįµįµ—Ź°įµ‰āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ‰Ė£įµ— įµ–Ź³įµƒāæįµ įµ’āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ?" į”†įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰Źø Ė¢āæįµ‰įµƒįµ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œŹ°įµ˜įµ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ "į”†Ź°įµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆ Ź·įµ‰ įµ–Ė”įµƒāæ ā±āæĖ¢įµ—įµ‰įµƒįµˆ įµ’į¶  Ź·ā±āæįµā±āæįµ ā±įµ—? į“µ įµįµ‰įµƒāæ įµŹø Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ Ź·įµ‰'įµˆ įµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ Ź°ā±įµ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµā±āæįµ į“µ'įµ įµƒ į¶œįµ˜Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµįµ‰Ź³!" į“¾įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė” ā±āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³Ź³įµ˜įµ–įµ—Ė¢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į¶œįµƒāæ įµ‡įµ‰ įµįµƒįµˆ įµƒāæįµˆ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ āæįµ’įµ— Ė¢įµ’ įµ—Ź³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—ā±āæįµāø“ Ė¢įµ’ ā±įµ— āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆĖ¢ įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµˆįµ’įµ‰Ė¢ Ź°įµ‰ įµāæįµ’Ź· Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ Ź°įµƒįµ›ā±āæįµ įµƒ įµā±Ź³Ė”Ė¢ āæā±įµŹ°įµ—?" į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø įµƒĖ¢įµįµ‰įµˆ į¶œįµ˜įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ’į¶ į¶  į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ "į“µ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ Ź°ā±įµ į“µ'įµˆ įµ‡įµ‰ įµįµ’āæįµ‰ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ—įµ’āæā±įµŹ°įµ—āø“ Ė¢įµ’ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµ‡įµ‰įµ— Ź°įµ‰'įµˆ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ ā±įµ— į¶œįµ’įµā±āæįµ ā±į¶  Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒŹ· Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· Ź°ā±įµ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ” Ź·įµ‰Ė”Ė”āø“ įµ‰Ė£į¶œįµ‰įµ–įµ— Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ įµƒį¶ Ź³įµƒā±įµˆ įµ’į¶  įµįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµˆįµ’įµ‰Ė¢ Ė¢į¶œā±įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ įµ‰Ė£įµ–įµ‰Ź³ā±įµįµ‰āæįµ—Ė¢ įµƒāæįµˆ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ įµįµƒā±āæ įµ‡įµ˜Ė¢ā±āæįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ į¶ Ź³įµ’įµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—Źø ā±āæįµŹ³įµ‰įµˆā±įµ‰āæįµ—Ė¢ā€§" "į““įµ‰ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµ’įµāæā±Ė¢įµ‰ įµƒāæŹø įµ’į¶  įµ˜Ė¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†Ź°įµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆāæ'įµ— Ź·įµ‰ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæ įµˆįµ’ā±āæįµ?" į“¹Ė¢ā€§ į“¾įµ˜į¶ į¶  įµƒĖ¢įµįµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“µ'Ė”Ė” įµįµ’ į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµā€§ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµā€§ "į“¼āæį¶œįµ‰ Ź·įµ‰ įµāæįµ’Ź· Ź·Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰ ā±Ė¢āø“ Ź·įµ‰ į¶œįµƒāæā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā±āæįµ ā±āæ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰Ė¢ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµā€§ "į“µ įµ–įµ‰įµ‰įµįµ‰įµˆ įµƒāæįµˆ įµŹø Ė¢įµ‰āæĖ¢įµ’Ź³Ė¢ ā±āæįµˆā±į¶œįµƒįµ—įµ‰įµˆ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ įµ˜įµ–ā» į”†įµ—įµƒā±Ź³Ė¢ ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ’įµā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†įµ’ Ė”įµ‰įµ—'Ė¢ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰āø“ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—'Ė¢ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ Ź·įµ‰ į¶œįµƒāæ įµˆįµ’?" "įµ‚įµ‰ į¶œįµƒāæ į¶œŹ°įµƒāæįµįµ‰ įµƒĖ”Ė” įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œĖ”įµ’į¶œįµĖ¢ įµƒāæįµˆ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæ į¶œįµƒĖ”įµ‰āæįµˆįµƒŹ³Ė¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ ā±įµ— įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰'Ė¢ įµƒ į¶œĖ”įµ’į¶œįµ įµ‡Źø įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į“µ į¶œįµƒāæ Ė¢āæįµ‰įµƒįµ ā±āæ!" į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆā€§ "įµ‚įµ‰ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµƒįµŹ³įµ‰įµ‰ įµ’āæ įµƒ įµ—ā±įµįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ'įµˆ Ė¢įµƒŹø āæįµ’įµ’āæ!" "į“ŗįµ’įµ’āæ ā±įµ— ā±Ė¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæ!" "įµ‚įµ‰'Ė”Ė” į¶œŹ°įµƒāæįµįµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œįµƒĖ”įµ‰āæįµˆįµƒŹ³Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ į¶œŹ°Ź³ā±Ė¢įµ—įµįµƒĖ¢ įµˆįµƒŹø!" į“¾įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė” Ė”įµƒįµ˜įµŹ°įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“µ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ ā±įµ—! Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶œįµƒāæ įµˆįµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œĖ”įµ’į¶œįµĖ¢ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæĖ¢įµ—įµƒā±Ź³Ė¢āø“ į“¹Ė¢ā€§ į“¾įµ˜į¶ į¶ ; į“µ'Ė”Ė” įµˆįµ’ įµƒĖ”Ė” įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµƒįµ–įµ–Ė”ā±įµƒāæį¶œįµ‰Ė¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ā€§ įµ€Ź°įµ‰Źø įµ–įµ˜įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ā±Ź³ Ź°įµƒāæįµˆĖ¢ ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµā±įµˆįµˆĖ”įµ‰ įµƒāæįµˆ Ė”ā±į¶ įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµ įµ˜įµ–āø“ įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµˆįµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ā±Ź³ įµˆįµ‰Ė¢ā±įµāæįµƒįµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµƒĖ¢įµĖ¢ā€§ į”†įµ’ Ė¢įµƒāæįµˆŹø Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ’įµāø“ į¶œįµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶ įµ˜Ė” āæįµ’įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµįµƒįµįµ‰ āæįµ’ā±Ė¢įµ‰ā€§ į”†Ė”įµ’Ź·Ė”Źø įµ–įµ˜Ė¢Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ’įµ’įµāø“ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ’įµˆ įµ’āæ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’įµ‰Ė¢ Ė¢įµ’ įµƒĖ¢ įµ—įµ’ āæįµ’įµ— įµˆā±Ė¢įµ—įµ˜Ź³įµ‡ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø į¶œŹ³įµƒŹ·Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œĖ”įµ’į¶œįµ įµƒāæįµˆ į¶œŹ°įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµˆ ā±įµ— įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³įµ‰āø“ Ė¢įµ—ā±į¶ Ė”ā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ˜Ź³įµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµā±įµįµĖ”įµ‰ā€§ į“¬į¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ į¶ ā±Ė£ā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œĖ”įµ’į¶œįµ įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰Ė¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź·ā±āæįµˆįµ’Ź·'Ė¢ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰įµˆāø“ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ‰įµ— įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæā» Ė¢įµ—įµƒā±Ź³Ė¢ā€§ "į“µ įµįµ’įµ— įµƒ į¶œŹ°Ź³ā±Ė¢įµ—įµįµƒĖ¢ įµ—Ź³įµ‰įµ‰ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  įµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµįµƒŹ³įµƒįµįµ‰!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆā€§ "į“øįµ‰įµ—'Ė¢ įµįµ‰įµ— Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ’į¶  Ź°ā±Ė¢ ā±āæįµ›įµ‰āæįµ—ā±įµ’āæĖ¢ įµƒāæįµˆ Ź·Ź³įµƒįµ– įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµ!" "į““įµ’Ź· įµƒŹ³įµ‰ Ź·įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— Ź°ā±įµ Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰?" "į“¾įµ‰Ź³Ź°įµƒįµ–Ė¢ Ź·įµ‰ Ė¢ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ’Ė”ā±įµˆįµƒŹø'Ė¢ įµįµ˜Ė¢ā±į¶œ Ė¢įµ’āæįµĖ¢ Ė”įµ’įµ˜įµˆ įµ‰āæįµ’įµ˜įµŹ°ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ—įµ‰Ė£įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµŹø įµˆįµƒįµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— Ź°ā±įµ ā±āæ įµ’āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ–Ź³įµƒāæįµ! į“µ įµįµƒŹø Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµƒĖ”Ė¢įµ’ įµ—įµ‰Ė£įµ—įµ‰įµˆ į“®Ź³įµƒāæ į¶ Ė”įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³Ė¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė” į¶œŹ°įµ˜į¶œįµĖ”įµ‰įµˆāø“ įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæā±āæįµ įµ’āæ Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ—Ė¢ā€§ "į”†įµƒāæįµ—įµƒ į”†įµƒāæįµ—įµƒ'Ė¢ Ź°įµƒĖ¢ įµįµ’įµ— Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ź²įµ’Ė”Ė”Źø Ė”ā±įµ—įµ—Ė”įµ‰ įµ‰Źøįµ‰Ė¢ įµ’āæ įµįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµƒįµ— įµ˜įµ– įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰āæā±āæįµā€§ "įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ— ā±Ė¢ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ’āæā€§ā€§ā€§" į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµˆįµƒįµ—įµ‰āø“ Ź°įµ‰ Ź·įµƒĖ¢ įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰āæ įµƒįµ‡įµƒį¶œįµā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµƒŹ· įµ–įµ‰įµ’įµ–Ė”įµ‰ ā±āæ Ź°įµƒįµ—Ė¢ įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢Ź·įµ‰įµƒįµ—įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ įµ˜įµ–; āæįµ’Ź·āø“ Ź·įµ‰ į¶œįµƒāæ įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæ įµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµā±į¶ įµ—Ė¢!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź°įµƒāæįµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ–Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ‰āæįµ—Ė¢ā€§ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ’āæĖ”Źø įµįµƒįµ›įµ‰ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ? įµ‚Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰'Ė¢ įµ’įµ˜Ź³ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæāø“ ā±įµ—'Ė¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ‡įµ‰Ė¢įµ— įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜'įµ›įµ‰ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµ‰āæ įµįµ‰!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į¶œįµ˜įµ— ā±āæāø“ įµ˜āæŹ·Ź³įµƒįµ–įµ–ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ Ė”įµƒįµ‡įµ‰Ė”Ė¢ 'įµ—įµ’ įµįµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į¶ Ź³įµ’įµ įµ–Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ' Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–ā±Ė”Źøā€§ "į“µā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“¾įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”āø“ Ź°įµ’Ź·'įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź· į“µ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµƒ āæįµ‰Ź· įµ›įµƒį¶œįµ˜įµ˜įµ?" "į“¼Ź°āø“ į“®Ź³įµƒāæ; Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ Ź°įµ’įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰'Ė¢ įµƒ įµįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢!" "į“µ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµƒ įµįµ–Ė¢ Ė¢ŹøĖ¢įµ—įµ‰įµ!" "Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ Ź·įµ‰Ė”į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ į“¹Ė¢ā€§ į“¾įµ˜į¶ į¶ !" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæ į¶ Ź³įµƒāæįµ—ā±į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”Źø į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ įµƒĖ”Ė” įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµƒįµ–įµ–Ė”ā±įµƒāæį¶œįµ‰Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµˆįµƒŹø Ė¢įµ‰įµ— įµƒĖ¢ į¶œŹ°Ź³ā±Ė¢įµ—įµįµƒĖ¢ā€§ "į“µįµ— į¶œįµƒāæ'įµ— įµ‡įµ‰ į¶œŹ°Ź³ā±Ė¢įµ—įµįµƒĖ¢; į“µ āæįµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ Ź·Ź³įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆāø“ Ź·Ź°Źø įµƒŹ³įµ‰ įµƒĖ”Ė” įµŹø ā±āæįµ›įµ‰āæįµ—ā±įµ’āæĖ¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆĖ¢ įµ—įµ’ įµ˜āæŹ·Ź³įµƒįµ– Ź°ā±Ė¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†įµƒāæįµ—įµƒ į”†įµƒāæįµ—įµƒ'Ė¢ Ź°įµƒĖ¢ įµįµ’įµ— Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ź²įµ’Ė”Ė”Źø Ė”ā±įµ—įµ—Ė”įµ‰ įµ‰Źøįµ‰Ė¢ įµ’āæ įµįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" į¶ Ź³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµƒįµ—įµ‰įµˆāø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ—Ź³įµ‰įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ į¶ ā±āæįµˆ Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ė”įµƒįµ‡įµ‰Ė” 'įµ—įµ’ įµ–Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į¶ Ź³įµ’įµ įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢' Ź·Ź³įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ˜āæŹ·Ź³įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ ā±įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ‰į¶œŹ³įµ‰įµ— įµ‡įµ’įµ—įµ—Ė”įµ‰ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ–įµƒįµ–įµ‰Ź³ įµ’į¶  ā±āæįµŹ³įµ‰įµˆā±įµ‰āæįµ—Ė¢ā€§ įµāæįµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµˆā±Ė¢Ė”įµ’įµˆįµįµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė”ā±įµˆāø“ Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµįµƒĖ¢Ź°įµ‰Ė¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµĖ”įµƒĖ¢Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ ā±įµ— įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæā€§ į“±Ė£į¶œā±įµ—įµ‰įµˆĖ”Źø įµ˜āæį¶ įµ’Ė”įµˆā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ–ā±įµ‰į¶œįµ‰ įµ’į¶  įµ–įµƒįµ–įµ‰Ź³ Ź³įµ’Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆāø“ ā±įµ— Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ 'Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµįµ’įµ— įµ–Ź³įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµˆ' įµ’āæ ā±įµ—ā€§ į“¬Ė”Ė” įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ Ė”įµƒįµ˜įµŹ°ā±āæįµ įµƒįµ— į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµƒĖ¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰Źø įµ˜āæįµ›įµ‰ā±Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź·ā±āæįµˆįµ’Ź·Ė¢ Ė¢Ź°įµ’Ź·ā±āæįµ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” įµˆįµƒŹ³įµ āæā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ—ā€§ į““įµ˜įµā±Ė”ā±įµƒįµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµƒāæįµˆ įµ‰įµįµ‡įµƒŹ³Ź³įµƒĖ¢Ė¢įµ‰įµˆāø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź³ā±įµ–Ė¢ įµ˜įµ– įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ’Ė”Ė” įµ’į¶  įµ–įµƒįµ–įµ‰Ź³ įµƒāæįµˆ įµįµ’įµ‰Ė¢ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ—įµ’ Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ź³įµ’įµ’įµ įµ˜įµ–Ė¢įµ‰įµ—ā€§ "į”†įµ‰įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒįµ— Ė¢į¶œŹ°įµ’įµ’Ė” į“¾įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“®Ź³įµƒāæ į¶ Ė”įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³Ė¢ Ė”įµ‰į¶ įµ—ā€§ įµ‚Ź°įµ‰āæ įµ’āæĖ”Źø įµƒĖ”Ė” įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµįµƒĖ” įµ–įµƒĖ”Ė¢ Ź³įµ‰įµįµƒā±āæįµ‰įµˆ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į““įµ‰'Ė”Ė” į¶œįµƒĖ”įµ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæāø“ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ—?" "į““įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµƒŹøā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†Ź°įµ‰ įµƒįµˆįµā±įµ—Ė¢ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµ įµƒĖ¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ— įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµ Ź³įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµƒįµ–įµ–Ė”ā±įµƒāæį¶œįµ‰Ė¢ā€§ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ?" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ’įµ’įµ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ Ė¢ā±Ė”įµ‰āæįµ—Ė”Źø įµ’āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ įµ’āæāø“ Ź·įµ‰ įµ–Ź³įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµƒĖ¢ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢ā€§ įµ€Ź°įµ‰ įµ’įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµįµƒĖ” įµ–įµƒĖ”Ė¢ į¶œįµƒįµ˜įµŹ°įµ— įµ˜įµ–ā€§ "į““įµ‰Źø įµ‡įµ˜įµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ?" į““įµ‰ įµ˜Ė¢įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø Ė”įµƒĖ¢Ź° įµ’įµ˜įµ— Ź·Ź°įµ‰āæ įµįµƒįµˆāø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµƒāæįµŹ³Źø įµ‰āæįµ’įµ˜įµŹ° įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹø į‘«įµ˜ā±įµ‰įµ— įµƒāæįµˆ āæįµ’įµ— Ė¢įµƒŹøā±āæįµ įµƒ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµˆā€§ā€§ā€§ "į“µ ā±āæįµ›ā±įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ’įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ā€§" į“¾įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė” įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ Ź°ā±įµā€§ "į“°įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·įµƒāæįµ— Ė¢įµ–įµƒį¶œįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ‰ įµƒĖ”įµ’āæįµ‰?" "į“øįµ‰įµ—'Ė¢ į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė” ā±įµ— įµƒ āæā±įµŹ°įµ— įµįµƒĖ” įµ–įµƒĖ”Ė¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ ā±āæį¶ įµ’Ź³įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ’įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµįµƒĖ” įµ–įµƒĖ”Ė¢ā€§ "įµ‚įµ‰ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµˆā±įµˆ ā±įµ— į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµƒĖ”Ė” ā±āæ į¶ įµ˜āæā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµāæįµ’Ź·; į“µ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė” Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ–Ź³ā±įµˆįµ‰?" "Źøįµ‰Ė¢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµƒįµ–įµ’Ė”įµ’įµā±Ė¢įµ‰ į¶ įµ’Ź³ Ź·įµƒįµā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§" "įµ€Ź°įµƒāæįµĖ¢; į“µ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµƒŹø įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµˆ 'Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰' ā±āæ įµƒ Ė¢įµ‰āæįµ—įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰āø“ Ė”įµ‰įµ— įµƒĖ”įµ’āæįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµ’įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ā€§ į”†Ź°įµ‰ įµāæįµ‰Ź· Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢Ź°įµ’Ź·įµ‰įµˆ įµƒį¶ į¶ įµ‰į¶œįµ—ā±įµ’āæ įµƒįµ— įµ—ā±įµįµ‰Ė¢ ā±āæ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ’Ź·āæ Ė”ā±įµ—įµ—Ė”įµ‰ Ź·įµƒŹøā€§ā€§ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ Ź·įµ‰Ė”į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰; Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—įµ’ā€§ā€§" Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ įµ—įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ Ź°ā±įµ ā±āæā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶œįµƒāæ į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė” į¶ Ź³įµ‰įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė” įµįµ‰ įµƒāæŹøįµ—Ź°ā±āæįµā€§ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµƒŹøāø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³ā±āæįµā€§ "į”†Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– įµ—ā±įµŹ°įµ—āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§ā€§"
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W ired I ntegrated F emale E lectroencephalograph Š›ŃŽŠ±ŠøŠ¼Š°Ń Š¶ŠµŠ½Š°!
įµ‚įµ’Ź³Ė¢įµ— į“±āæįµ‰įµŹø š’˜š’š’“š’… š’„š’š’–š’š’•: šŸ—šŸ‘šŸŽ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶ įµƒāæį¶ ā±į¶œā¾ .ą³ƒąæ ššƒšš : š™±šš•šš˜šš˜šš į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµƒāæįµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź·įµ‰Ź³įµ‰ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’āæ įµ‰įµįµ–Ė”įµ’Źøįµ‰įµ‰ Ź³įµ‰įµ—Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—; įµƒ įµ–įµ‰Ź³į¶ įµ‰į¶œįµ— įµ—ā±įµįµ‰ į¶ įµ’Ź³ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—Ź³ā±įµįµ‰ā€§ į“¹Ź³ā€§ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµƒįµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµŹ³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡ įµ‡Źø Ź°ā±įµĖ¢įµ‰Ė”į¶ ā€§ "į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢āø“ į“µ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµ įµ—įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜!" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ˜įµ—ā€§ į“¹Ź³ā€§ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ ā±āæ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ’į¶ į¶ ā±į¶œįµ‰ā€§ "į“µ'įµ įµ’āæĖ”Źø įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė”ā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ‡įµ‰į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰ į“µ Ė¢įµ—įµ‰įµƒĖ” įµ—Ź°įµ‰ ā±āæįµŹ³įµ‰įµˆā±įµ‰āæįµ—Ė¢; Ź·įµ‰ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ į¶œŹ°įµƒāæįµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ– įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ˜Ė”įµ‰Ė¢ā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė¢į¶œįµƒāæāæįµ‰įµˆ įµįµ‰ į¶ įµ’Ź³ ā±āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³āæįµƒĖ” įµˆįµƒįµįµƒįµįµ‰ įµƒāæįµˆ į“µ'įµ›įµ‰ Ź·įµ‰įµƒįµāæįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ Ė¢įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶œįµƒāæ įµˆįµ’ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ– įµįµ‰ įµ‰Ė£į¶œįµ‰įµ–įµ— į¶ įµ’Ź³ā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒį¶œįµ—įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ į“µ'Ė”Ė” įµ‡įµ‰Ė”ā±įµ‰įµ›įµ‰? 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"į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” į¶œŹ³Źøā±āæįµāø“ į“¹Ź³ā€§ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ Ė”įµ‰įµƒāæįµ‰įµˆ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³ Ė¢Ź°įµƒĖ”Ė”įµ’Ź· įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—Ź°ā±āæįµā€§ į““įµ‰ įµįµ’įµ— įµ˜įµ– įµˆįµ‰Ė¢įµ–įµ‰Ź³įµƒįµ—įµ‰ įµƒāæįµˆ įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ įµƒ įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—Źøāø“ āæįµ’įµ— įµ—įµƒįµ˜āæįµ—ā±āæįµ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ź°įµ’įµ–ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ‰'įµˆ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰āæā€§ "į¶œįµƒāæ įµƒ įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡įµ‡Źø įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—Źø Ė¢į¶œįµ‰āæįµ— įµ’į¶  Ė¢įµįµ‰Ė”Ė” Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ˜įµ–?" į“ŗįµ’ ā±āæįµˆā±į¶œįµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæ į¶ Ź³įµ’įµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—Ė¢įµ’įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ā€§ į“¹Ź³ā€§ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ– įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œŹ°įµ˜įµ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ— įµ–Ź°įµ’āæįµ‰ āæįµ˜įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³ įµƒāæįµˆ į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į““įµ‰Ė”Ė”įµ’ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµƒāæĖ¢Ź·įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ– ā±Ė¢ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆįµ‰įµˆā€§" "į“°ā±įµˆ įµŹø Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė” Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ź³ā±Ė¢įµ įµ‡Ź³įµƒā±āæ įµˆįµƒįµįµƒįµįµ‰ 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Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµˆĖ¢ā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµįµ’āæā±įµ—įµ’Ź³įµ‰įµˆ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆāø“ Ė¢įµ’ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰'Ė¢ įµƒ į¶œŹ°įµƒāæįµįµ‰ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰āæā±āæįµā€§ "į“µ'įµ įµˆįµ‰įµ—įµ‰į¶œįµ—ā±āæįµ įµ–įµ’Ė¢Ė¢ā±įµ‡Ė”įµ‰ Ź³įµ‰įµ›ā±įµ›įµƒĖ”ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¹Ź³ā€§ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ Ź·įµƒĖ¢ Ė¢ā±įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ˜įµ– Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµƒā±įµŹ°įµ—įµ‰Ź³ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” įµˆā±įµˆāæ'įµ— įµįµ’įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ‰įµ—āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ‡įµ‰įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³; į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź³įµ‰įµįµ’įµ›įµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ‰į‘«įµ˜ā±įµ–įµįµ‰āæįµ— įµ‡įµ‰į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰'įµˆ į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė” ā±įµ—ā€§ į“¹Ź³ā€§ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ į¶œŹ³ā±įµ‰Ė¢ įµ‡įµ‰į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ Ė”įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ įµˆā±Ė¢įµ—įµƒāæįµ— Ė¢įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆā±āæįµ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ė¢įµ‰āæĖ¢įµ‰Ė¢ Ź³įµ‰įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæįµ‰įµˆā€§ į“ŗįµ’Ź· Ź·įµƒįµā±āæįµāø“ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæ įµįµƒāæįµƒįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ į¶ Ė”įµ˜įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæā€§ 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Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ—ā±įµįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ‰įµįµƒā±āæįµ‰įµˆ įµŹ³įµ’įµįµŹøā€§ į“¹įµ‰įµįµ’Ź³ā±įµ‰Ė¢ Ė¢įµ˜įµˆįµˆįµ‰āæĖ”Źø į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµƒĖ¢ Ź·Ź°įµ‰āæ Ź°įµ‰ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ—įµ’ į“¹Ź³ā€§ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµ‡įµ‰į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰ įµ‡įµ‰ā±āæįµ į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ į¶œŹ°ā±į¶œįµįµ‰āæā€§ į““įµ‰ įµˆā±įµˆāæ'įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰āæįµ‰įµˆ ā±āæ įµ‡įµ‰įµ—Ź·įµ‰įµ‰āæāø“ āæįµ’Ź³ Ź°įµ’Ź· įµįµ˜į¶œŹ° įµ—ā±įµįµ‰ Ź°įµƒĖ¢ įµ–įµƒĖ¢Ė¢įµ‰įµˆā€§ į““įµ‰ āæįµƒŹ³Ź³įµ’Ź·įµ‰įµˆ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆ "į¶œŹ°ā±į¶œįµįµ‰āæ" įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµā€§ į“¹Ź³ā€§ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæ įµ–Ź³įµ’į¶œįµ‰įµ‰įµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė” Ź°ā±įµ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³Źøįµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ į¶œŹ³ā±įµ‰įµˆā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź³įµ‰įµƒį¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆ Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ź°įµƒāæįµˆ įµ’įµ˜įµ— į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµ—įµ’ į“¹Ź³ā€§ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢āø“ Ź·Ź°įµ’ įµ‰įµįµ‡Ź³įµƒį¶œįµ‰įµˆ Ź°ā±Ė¢ į¶ įµ’Ź³įµįµ‰Ź³ įµ‰āæįµ‰įµŹøā€§ "į“µ į¶ įµ’Ź³įµā±įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§ā€§"
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"į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµįµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ‡įµ‰ įµ–Ė”įµƒāæāæā±āæįµ įµ‡ā±įµ įµ’Ź³ įµ—įµ’ į¶œįµƒįµ—į¶œŹ° įµ˜Ė¢ įµ’į¶ į¶  įµįµ˜įµƒŹ³įµˆ!" į“¹Ź³ā€§ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ‰āæįµˆĖ¢ Ź°ā±Ė¢ į¶ Ź³Źø į¶œįµ’įµ’įµ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ’ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—'Ė¢ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ’āæ į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµ—įµ’įµˆįµƒŹøā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œŹ°įµ˜įµ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ— įµ—įµ’ į¶ ā±āæįµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į¶œŹ³Źøā±āæįµā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’įµ— āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œįµ‰įµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµƒāæįµˆ įµ‡įµƒŹ³įµįµ‰įµˆ į¶ įµ’Ź³ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµ‡įµƒŹ·Ė”ā±āæįµ āæįµ’Ź· įµˆŹ·ā±āæįµˆĖ”įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµƒįµˆįµˆŹ³įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ Ź°ā±įµā€§ "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ įµįµ’āæįµ‰ įµƒāæįµˆ į“µ āæįµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ– Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµˆįµƒįµ—įµƒ āæįµ’Ź³ įµįµ‰įµįµ’Ź³ā±įµ‰Ė¢ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź·Ź°ā±āæįµ‰įµˆ įµƒĖ¢ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµāæįµ‰Ė”įµ— įµ‡Źø Ź°ā±įµ įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’įµ—ā€§ "į“µ'įµ Ė¢įµ’ Ė¢įµ’Ź³Ź³Źø į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ'Ė”Ė” āæįµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³āø“ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµ’Ź³ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³ įµƒįµįµƒā±āæ!" "į”†Ź°įµ‰ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒāæįµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ā€§ įµ‚Ź°įµ‰āæ įµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ Ė”įµ’Ė¢įµ— Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ė”įµƒĖ¢įµ— Ź·įµ‰įµ‰įµ įµƒįµįµ’ Ź·Ź°įµ‰āæ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ’įµ— įµ‡Ź³įµ’įµįµ‰āæ įµƒāæįµˆ į“µ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰āæ'įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµ‡įµ‰įµ— ā±įµ—'Ė¢ Ź°įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹø Ź·Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ įµˆā±įµ‰įµˆ įµƒāæįµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ— Ė¢įµ’ į“µ į¶œįµƒāæ Ė”įµ‰įµ— įµ‡įµ’įµ—Ź° įµ’į¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’įµ— Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹø įµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³ įµƒįµ— įµŹø įµ–Ė”įµƒį¶œįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź·ā±įµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµƒŹ·įµƒŹø Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ’į¶  Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ—įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ į¶œįµ’āæĖ¢ā±įµˆįµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ įµ’į¶ į¶ įµ‰Ź³ā€§ "į“µ įµāæįµ’Ź· ā±įµ—'įµˆ įµ‡įµ‰ įµ˜āæĖ¢įµ‰įµ—įµ—Ė”ā±āæįµ į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµįµ‰ ā±į¶  į“µ'įµ Źøįµ’įµ˜āø“ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ’Ź· įµ‰įµįµ–įµ—Źø įµįµ’āæā±įµ—įµ’Ź³ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆā€§ į”†įµ’ Ė¢įµ–įµ’įµ— į¶ įµ’Ė”Ė”įµ’Ź·Ė¢ Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– įµˆįµ‰įµ–Ź³ā±įµ›įµ‰įµˆ įµ’Ź·āæįµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ įµ–ā±āæįµ‰įµƒįµ–įµ–Ė”įµ‰ā€§ "į“³įµƒŹ³Źøāø“ Ź°įµ‰Źø; įµˆįµƒįµˆįµˆŹø'Ė¢ Ź°įµ’įµįµ‰! į“¬āæįµˆ į“µ'įµ›įµ‰ įµįµ˜įµ‰Ė¢įµ—Ė¢ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’įµ— įµƒāæįµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøā±āæįµ įµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³ā€§" į“³įµƒŹ³Źø įµ‡Ė”ā±āæįµįµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“µį¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’įµ— įµ–Ė”įµƒŹø įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹø įµ˜įµ– įµ—įµ’ Ė”įµƒįµ—įµ‰ā€§ į“¼Ź° įµƒāæįµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ā±Ė¢ įµƒ įµįµ˜įµ‰Ė¢įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµƒāæįµˆ āæįµ’įµ— įµƒ įµ—Ź°Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ— įµ—įµ’ā€§ā€§" į“³įµƒŹ³Źø Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ–įµ’įµ—ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶œįµƒāæ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰ ā±į¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“µ'Ė”Ė” Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ–įµ‰į¶œįµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ į¶ įµ’Ź³ Ė¢įµ–įµƒį¶œįµ‰ āæįµ’įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³ Ė¢įµ—įµ‰įµ– įµ‡įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆįµƒŹ³ā±įµ‰Ė¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµƒįµ–įµ–Ź³įµ‰į¶œā±įµƒįµ—įµ‰ įµā±įµˆāø“ Ė¢įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæįµĖ¢ā€§ į”†įµ’Ź³Ź³Źø į“µ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· ā±įµ—'Ė¢ Ė¢įµ˜įµˆįµˆįµ‰āæ įµƒāæįµˆ įµƒĖ”Ė” Źøįµ‰įµ— į“µ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ź·įµƒāæįµ— Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ— ā±į¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ—įµƒāæįµˆ įµƒāæįµˆ ā±įµ—'Ė¢ įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ Ė”įµƒįµ—įµ‰ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“µ įµˆā±įµˆāæ'įµ— įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµƒŹ°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ į¶ įµ’Ź³ āæįµ’įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź·ā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜'įµˆ įµ‡įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøā±āæįµ Ė¢įµ’ į“µ įµįµ˜įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶œįµƒāæ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµŹø įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ įµƒāæįµˆ į“µ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œįµ’įµ˜į¶œŹ°ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ'įµ āæįµ’įµ— įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ° į“µ'įµ āæįµ’įµ— Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ į“µ į¶ įµƒāæį¶œā±įµ‰įµˆ įµ‡įµ‰ā±āæįµ įµƒĖ”įµ’āæįµ‰ įµˆįµ˜Ź³ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’āæā±įµŹ°įµ— įµƒā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ į¶œįµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ įµƒāæįµˆ Ź·įµ‰ į¶œįµƒāæ įµ—įµ’ įµ’āæ įµŹø įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œįµ’įµ˜į¶œŹ°ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ’įµ— įµ‡Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµ—Ė¢ į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµ‡įµ’įµ—Ź°ā€§ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶ ā±Ź³Ė¢įµ— įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµ įµ—įµ’ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰āø“ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ˜āæ Ź³ā±Ė¢įµ‰ įµ›ā±Ė¢ā±įµ‡Ė”įµ‰ į¶ Ź³įµ’įµ Ź·ā±āæįµˆįµ’Ź·ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµ įµįµ˜į¶œŹ° įµ‡įµ‰įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ–įµ—ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“ŗįµ’ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµ įµƒįµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµŹ³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡ į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµ—įµ’įµˆįµƒŹø į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµįµ‰ā€§ā€§" į”†įµā±Ė”įµ‰įµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡āø“ įµĖ”įµƒįµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ‰ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° į¶ įµ’Ź³ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ āæįµ’Ź·ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµƒįµ— įµ˜įµ– įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ’Ź· Ź·įµ’įµįµ‰āæ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµŹ³ā±āæāæįµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— Ź°ā±įµā€§ "į““įµ‰Źø įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµ! į”†įµ’ į“µ Ź·įµƒāæāæįµƒ Ė”įµ‰įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź· į“µ'Ė”Ė” įµƒĖ”Ė”įµ’Ź· Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—įµ’ įµˆįµ‰į¶œā±įµˆįµ‰ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ Ź·įµ‰ įµˆįµ’āø“ įµ‡įµ‰ ā±įµ— įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’Ź³ ā±į¶  Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— į¶œŹ°ā±Ė”Ė”įµƒĖ£ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė” įµ˜įµ– įµ—įµ’ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— āæįµ’Ź· įµƒĖ¢ į“µ'įµ›įµ‰ āæįµ’įµ— įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµ‰āæ įµƒ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ įµƒĖ”Ė” Ź·įµ‰įµ‰įµā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶œįµƒāæ įµƒĖ¢įµ įµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµ įµƒāæŹø įµ—ā±įµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“µ'Ė”Ė” Ė”įµ‰įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ‡įµ‰ Ė¢įµ’ įµ—įµ’ į¶œįµƒįµ—į¶œŹ° įµ˜įµ– įµ’āæ į¶»'Ė¢ā€§ā€§" "į“¬Ź° Ė¢į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶ ā±āæįµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµįµ‰įµ— įµƒ į¶ Ź³įµ‰įµ‰ Ź·įµ‰įµ‰įµįµ‰āæįµˆ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµ— į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—Ź³Źøā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ’įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³; į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ įµˆįµ‰įµā±Ė¢įµ‰āø“ įµ‡Ź³ā±Ė”Ė”ā±įµƒāæįµ— įµįµ‰āæā±įµ˜Ė¢! į“ŗįµ’Ź· Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ įµ‡įµ˜Ė¢Źø Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–ā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė”ā±įµ—įµ—Ė”įµ‰ įµįµ˜Źø Ź·Ź°ā±Ė”Ė¢įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰Źø įµ‡įµ’įµ—Ź° įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ 'įµƒį¶œį¶œā±įµˆįµ‰āæįµ—įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµ‰Ė£įµ–Ė”įµ’įµˆįµ‰įµˆ' Źøįµ‰įµ— āæįµ’įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź·ā±āæįµ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— į“µ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµˆįµ’āæįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆ Ź·įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ’įµ— Ź°ā±įµĖ¢įµ‰Ė”į¶  įµƒ įµ‡įµ˜įµ‡įµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ‡įµƒįµ—Ź°ā€§ā€§
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"į“µ'įµ įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ įµįµ˜įµƒŹ³įµˆ ā±įµ— āæįµ’Ź· Ė¢įµ’ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆāø“ įµƒĖ¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµ įµ—įµ’āæ įµˆā±į¶»į¶»ā±āæįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ Ė¢įµ˜įµ‡Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰įµˆā€§ "į”†įµ’Ź³Ź³Źøā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµƒāæŹø Ź·įµ’Ź³įµ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ’Ź³Ź³įµ’Ź· Ė¢įµ’ į“µ į¶œįµƒāæ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– ā±āæ įµ’āæį¶œįµ‰ įµŹø Ź°įµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢ įµ‰āæįµˆā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ā±āæį¶ įµ’Ź³įµĖ¢ā€§ "į“µ'Ė”Ė” į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµ į¶ įµ’Ź³ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµāæįµ’Ź·!" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź³įµ‰įµ–Ė”ā±įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œŹ°įµ˜įµ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ "į“µ'įµˆ įµ‡įµ˜ā±Ė”įµ— Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµƒ Ė¢įµ—įµƒįµ—įµ˜įµ‰ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ āæįµ’įµˆįµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµƒĖ¢ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–įµ‰įµˆ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ įµ˜įµ– įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“µ'įµ›įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ’ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ—įµ’įµįµ’Ź³Ź³įµ’Ź· įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµā€§ā€§" "į“µ'įµ įµĖ”įµƒįµˆ; įµįµ‰įµ— įµƒ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ āæā±įµŹ°įµ—'Ė¢ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ—!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢ā±įµ—įµ˜įµƒįµ—įµ‰įµˆā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ‰Ė£įµ— įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–ā±Ė”Źø įµ–įµƒįµ—Ź³įµ’Ė”Ė”ā±āæįµ įµƒŹ³įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—įµƒįµ—įµ˜įµ‰ā€§ "į“µ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ā±įµ—'Ė¢ įµˆŹ³Źøā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’įµ˜į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆ ā±įµ— įµƒāæįµˆ Ź·įµƒĖ¢ įµˆŹ³Źøā€§ "į“¬Ė”Ė” įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ!" į““įµ‰ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ "į“ŗįµ’ įµˆįµƒįµįµƒįµįµ‰ įµƒĖ¢ į¶ įµƒŹ³ įµƒĖ¢ į“µ į¶œįµƒāæ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė”ā€§ā€§" "į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ'Ė¢ įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ įµ‡įµ‰ Ė¢įµ’ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–Źø!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė”įµƒįµ˜įµŹ°įµ‰įµˆ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ įµ—įµ‰Ė£įµ—įµ‰įµˆ į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆā€§ "į“µ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ Ź°ā±įµ!" į”†įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź°įµ’įµ– Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° įµĖ”įµ‰įµ‰ įµƒįµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— įµ’į¶  Ė¢į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰Ź°įµ’Ź· įµįµƒįµˆįµ‰ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė” įµˆįµ’Ź·āæā€§ 'į““įµ‰ ā±Ė¢ Ė¢įµ’ āæā±į¶œįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµƒĖ”Ė” įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰ Ź°ā±Ė¢ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆĖ¢ā€§ į“µį¶  įµ’āæĖ”Źø į“µ įµāæįµ‰Ź· Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ź°įµ’Ź· Ź°įµ‰ į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė”Ė¢ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµįµ‰ įµˆįµ‰įµ‰įµ– įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ ā±āæĖ¢ā±įµˆįµ‰' į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į¶ įµ‰Ė”įµ— āæįµ’įµ— Ė¢įµ’ ā±įµįµ–įµ’Ź³įµ—įµƒāæįµ—ā€§ 'į“µį¶  įµ’āæĖ”Źø į“µ įµįµƒįµˆįµ‰ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµ’ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–Źø įµ—įµ’' į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— Ź°ā±įµ įµˆįµ‰įµ–Ź³įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ā±āæįµĖ”Źøā€§ į““įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒŹ· į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ź³įµ˜āæ įµ—įµ’ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµƒāæįµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—įµƒįµ—įµ˜įµ‰ įµƒĖ¢ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ‡įµ’įµ˜āæį¶œįµ‰įµˆ Ė¢įµā±Ė”ā±āæįµā€§ "į“µ'įµ įµƒį¶œįµ—įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø ā±įµįµ–Ź³įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ; ā±įµ— Ė”įµ’įµ’įµĖ¢ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæ įµ‡įµ‰įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ įµˆŹ³Źø!" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė”įµ’āæįµā±āæįµĖ”Źø Ė¢įµƒŹ· į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ˜įµ– įµƒĖ¢ Ė¢į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµįµƒįµ›įµ‰ Ź°ā±įµ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ–įµƒįµ—Ė¢ā€§ "į“¼į¶  į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰ Ė¢ā±āæį¶œįµ‰ ā±įµ—'Ė¢ įµ’į¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜!" "į“¼Ź°; įµ—Ź°įµƒāæįµĖ¢ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ įµƒ įµ‡įµ‰Ė¢įµ— į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆ įµ’į¶  įµā±āæįµ‰āø“ įµ’įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ! į¶œįµƒāæ į“µ į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė” Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµŹø įµ‡įµ‰Ė¢įµ— į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆ?" "į“µį¶  į“µ Ė¢įµƒŹø Źøįµ‰Ė¢āø“ Ź·ā±Ė”Ė” Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ–Ź³įµ’įµā±Ė¢įµ‰ įµįµ‰ āæįµ’įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµƒŹø ā±įµ— ā±āæ įµ–įµ˜įµ‡Ė”ā±į¶œ?" į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ Ź°ā±įµā€§ į”†į‘«įµ˜įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±āæįµ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° Ź²įµ’Źøāø“ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ‰įµįµ‡Ź³įµƒį¶œįµ‰ Ź°ā±įµā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ įµƒįµįµƒį¶»ā±āæįµāø“ Ź·Ź°ā±į¶œŹ° į“µ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰!" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź·įµƒįµ—į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ į¶ įµ‰Ė”įµ— Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµ‰Ė”Ė” įµ˜įµ– ā±āæ įµ—įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢; Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰įµˆ į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµ’įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ Ź°ā±įµĖ¢įµ‰Ė”į¶  į¶œŹ³Źøā€§ 'į“µ įµˆįµ’ āæįµ’įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· Ź°įµ’Ź· Ė¢į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµįµƒįµįµ‰Ė¢ Ź°ā±įµ Ė¢įµ’ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–ā±įµ‰Ź³ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæ į“µ į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆ' į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ–įµ’āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§ į““įµ‰ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ āæįµ’įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ė”įµ‰įµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµƒ Ė¢įµ’įµ‡ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæįµ‰įµˆ įµƒŹ·įµƒŹø Ė¢įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰Źø įµā±įµŹ°įµ—āæā€™įµ— Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰ā€§ į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė”ā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ—įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ— įµ—įµ’ į¶ įµƒĖ”Ė”āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ‡Źø Ź°ā±įµĖ¢įµ‰Ė”į¶  įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³ įµƒ įµ—Ź³įµ‰įµ‰ā€§ "įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ—'Ė¢ įµ˜įµ– Ź·ā±įµ—Ź°ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“µ'Ė”Ė” įµįµ’ į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµ įµ’āæ!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź³įµƒāæ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź·Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ—Ź³įµ‰įµ‰ā€§ į““įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒŹ· Ź°ā±įµ Ź°įµ˜įµįµā±āæįµ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµāæįµ‰įµ‰Ė¢ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ Ź°įµ’Ė”įµˆā±āæįµ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ Ź·Ź°ā±įµįµ–įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ā€§ į“ŗįµ’įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź·ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ’Ź· įµ—įµ’ įµƒįµ–įµ–Ź³įµ’įµƒį¶œŹ° Ź°ā±įµāø“ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµāæįµ‰Ź· į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ āæįµ’įµ— įµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³Ė”Źø įµƒį¶ į¶ įµ‰į¶œįµ—ā±įµ’āæįµƒįµ—įµ‰ āæįµ’Ź³ įµƒĖ¢įµ į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµ—įµ’įµ˜į¶œŹ° įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµƒŹ· Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ Ź°įµƒāæįµˆ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµā±āæįµ įµ˜įµ– įµ—įµ’ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶œįµ’āæį¶œįµ‰Ź³āæįµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— Ź°ā±įµā€§ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į“µ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ įµ˜įµ–Ė¢įµ‰įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†įµ’ā€½" "įµ‚įµ‰Ė”Ė” įµˆįµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµƒāæŹø įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ į“µ į¶œįµƒāæ įµˆįµ’?" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰įµ įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ‰ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė¢įµ’ įµĖ”įµƒįµˆ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ‰įµƒ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ įµƒ įµ‡Ź³įµ’įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰!" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°įµ‰įµˆ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° į¶œŹ³Źøā€§ "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰Ė¢įµ— į“µ'įµ›įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµƒ įµ‡įµ‰Ė¢įµ— į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆāø“ įµƒāæįµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ įµ–įµ’Ė”ā±įµ—įµ‰ įµ‰āæįµ’įµ˜įµŹ° į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµ‰Ź³įµƒįµ—įµ‰ įµįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’įµ’įµ įµƒ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—Ź°ā€§ "į“µ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— įµįµ‰įµ— Ź°įµ’Ź· įµ—Ź°įµ‰Źø įµįµ‰įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµƒāæįµ įµ’įµ˜įµ— Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·Ź°ā±Ė”Ė¢įµ— į“µ į¶œįµƒāæāæįµ’įµ— įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæ įµįµ’ įµƒ įµˆįµƒŹø Ź·ā±įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµƒŹ³įµįµ˜ā±āæįµ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° įµŹø Ź·ā±į¶ įµ‰ į“µ Ź°įµƒįµˆ įµ–Ź³įµ’įµŹ³įµƒįµįµįµ‰įµˆ! į“µį¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— Ź·įµƒāæįµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ–Ź³įµ‰įµ—įµ‰āæįµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ įµŹø į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµƒāæŹø Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— Ź°įµƒįµ‡įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ āæįµ’!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµįµƒįµ›įµ‰ Ź°ā±įµ įµƒ įµā±Ė¢Ė¢ įµ’āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź· Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶œįµƒāæ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰āø“ įµƒāæįµˆ į“µ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµƒįµ įµƒį¶ Ź³įµƒā±įµˆ įµ’į¶  ā±Ź³Ź³ā±įµ—įµƒįµ—ā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ į“µįµ—'Ė¢ Ź°įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ź·Ź°įµ‰āæ į“µ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµ įµƒįµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµŹ³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“µ'įµˆ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ‰ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµ‰įµƒāæ ā±įµ—?" 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į¶ įµ’Ź³ į““įµƒįµ›ā±āæįµ įµ€Ź³įµ˜įµ‰ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆĖ¢ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ į¶ įµƒāæį¶ ā±į¶œā¾ ā•° āœ§ ļ½„ļ¾Ÿāˆ™ āˆ— ā€” į“”į“Ź€į“… į“„į“į“œÉ“į“› āŸØ 3 4 2 āŸ© į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµįµ‰įµˆ įµƒĖ”Ė” įµ—Ź°Ź³įµ’įµ˜įµŹ° įµ—Ź°įµ‰ āæā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ ā±āæįµ›įµ‰āæįµ—ā±įµ’āæĖ¢ Ź·Ź°įµ‰āæ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź·ā±į¶ įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³ įµƒ įµ—Ź°įµ˜įµˆ į¶ Ź³įµ’įµ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆā€§ "į“¼Ź·ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ?" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— ā±āæ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ’įµ’įµ Ź·Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ āæįµ’Ź· į¶œŹ³įµƒįµˆĖ”ā±āæįµ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµāæįµ‰įµ‰ įµƒĖ¢ ā±āæŹ²įµ˜Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæā€§ā€§" "į“µ'įµ›įµ‰ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė¢Ė”ā±įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµƒāæįµˆ įµŹø įµ–Ź³įµ’įµ—įµ’įµ—Źøįµ–įµ‰ į¶ įµ‰Ė”Ė” įµ’āæ įµā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į“µ'įµ įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ Ė”ā±į¶ įµ— ā±įµ— įµ˜įµ– įµ’į¶ į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė”įµ‰įµā€§" į“°įµ’ā±āæįµ Ė¢įµ’āø“ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ įµ–įµ˜įµ— ā±įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ā€§ "į“¼įµ˜į¶œŹ°ā€§" "į”†įµ’Ź³Ź³Źø Ė¢Ź·įµ‰įµ‰įµ—ā±įµ‰āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ė”įµ‰įµ—'Ė¢ įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆįµƒįµįµ‰ ā±įµ—ā€§" įµ€Ź°įµ‰ā±Ź³ įµ–įµ‰įµ— įµƒįµįµ’įµ‰įµ‡įµƒ įµ–įµ˜įµ–įµ–Źø į”†įµ–įµ’įµ— į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ’Ź·āæįµ‰Ź³ ā±āæ įµƒ į¶œįµƒĖ¢įµ—ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµįµ‰įµˆāø“ įµƒĖ”Ė” āæā±įµŹ°įµ— Ė”įµ’āæįµāø“ įµƒāæįµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ė”Ė” āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ— įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæ ā±į¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµˆā±įµˆāæ'įµ— ā±āæŹ²įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰Ė”į¶ ā€§" į”†Ź°įµ‰ įµ—įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ Ź°ā±įµ ā±āæ Ź·Ź°ā±Ė”Ė¢įµ— įµįµƒįµā±āæįµ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµ‰Ė”įµ‰įµ›įµƒįµ—įµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė”įµ‰įµ įµ’āæ įµƒ įµ–ā±Ė”Ė”įµ’Ź·ā€§ "į“µ'įµ›įµ‰ įµƒ įµā±Ź³Ė”Ė¢ āæā±įµŹ°įµ— Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° Ė¢įµƒāæįµˆŹø įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“µ į¶œįµƒāæ į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė” įµ—įµ’ į¶œįµƒāæį¶œįµ‰Ė” įµ–įµ’Ė¢įµ—įµ–įµ’āæįµ‰ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ įµƒĖ¢ į”†įµ–įµ’įµ— Ė¢įµ–Ź³įµƒŹ·Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ‡Źø į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ įµā±įµ›ā±āæįµ įµ‡įµ‰Ė”Ė”Źø Ź³įµ˜įµ‡Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ—įµ‰Ė£įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢ā±įµ—įµ˜įµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµ—įµ’ įµ‰Ė£įµ–Ė”įµƒā±āæ Ź·Ź°Źø įµįµƒĖ” įµ–įµƒĖ”Ė¢ āæįµ’įµ— įµ’į¶œį¶œįµ˜Ź³Ź³ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’āæā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ "į““įµ‰Źø Ė¢Ź·įµ‰įµ‰įµ—Ė¢ Ź°įµ’Ź· ā±Ė¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ’ā±āæįµ—įµįµ‰āæįµ— Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–Ė¢ įµƒ įµ‡ā±įµ— į¶ įµ’Ź³ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— āæįµ’Ź·; įµ—Ź°įµƒāæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§" "į“¼į¶  į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰āø“ įµ‡ā±įµ įµįµ˜Źøā€§ į“µ'Ė”Ė” įµā±įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢įµ–įµƒį¶œįµ‰ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė”įµ‰įµ— Ź°ā±įµ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ— Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° į”†įµ–įµ’įµ—ā€§ į“¬į¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź·Ź°įµ‰āæ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ āæįµ‰Ė£įµ— į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ’āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒŹ· Ź°ā±įµ įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’įµ— Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµ—Ź° įµˆŹ³ā±į¶ įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ’į¶ į¶  įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ į”†Ź°įµ‰ Ė”įµ‰į¶ įµ— 'įµ‰įµ įµ‡įµ‰ įµƒĖ¢ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ įµāæįµ‰Ź· Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė” įµįµ’Ź³įµ‰ įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ–įµƒā±āæ Ź·Ź°įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ’ā±āæįµ—įµįµ‰āæįµ— Ź·įµ’Ź³āæ įµ’į¶ į¶ āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į¶œįµƒāæ įµ–įµ˜įµ— įµįµ’Ź³įµ‰ įµ’āæ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ‰ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰Ė¢ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø Ė¢į‘«įµ˜ā±Ź³Ź³įµ‰Ė” įµƒŹ³Ź³ā±įµ›įµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œŹ°įµ˜įµ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ā€§ "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į“µ'įµ›įµ‰ įµįµ’įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢įµƒįµįµ‰ įµƒāæįµˆ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµā±įµ›įµ‰ įµŹøā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ Ė¢įµ’ āæā±į¶œįµ‰ā€§ į““įµ‰'Ė¢ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā±āæįµ āæįµ’Ź· įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“µ į¶œįµƒāæ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė” Ź°ā±įµ Źøįµ’įµ˜'įµˆ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµ‡Źøā€§ā€§" į“¹Ė¢ā€§ į“¾įµ˜į¶ į¶  Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµ‡Źø įµ’āæ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź·įµƒŹø įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į“·Ź³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡āø“ įµƒāæįµˆ įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµ’į¶ į¶  Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ įµƒŹ³įµ—ā±į¶ ā±į¶œā±įµƒĖ” į¶ Ė”įµ’Ź·įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ā€§ į“¬Ė”Ė¢įµ’ į“¹Ė¢ā€§ į“¾įµ˜į¶ į¶ 'Ė¢ į¶œĖ”įµƒĖ¢Ė¢ įµįµƒįµˆįµ‰ įµƒ įµįµ‰įµ— Ź·įµ‰Ė”Ė” į¶œįµƒŹ³įµˆā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆ į““įµƒāæāæįµƒ į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆ 'į“µ Ź°įµ’įµ–įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė”Ė¢ įµ‡įµ‰įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³' Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ įµ—įµ’ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ–Ź°įµ’āæįµ‰ā€§ į“±įµ›įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµ–įµ’įµ— Ź°įµ˜įµˆįµˆĖ”įµ‰įµˆ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ–įµ—ā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ‰āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ’įµ’įµ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ Ź·įµ’įµįµ‰ā€§ "į“øįµ’įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§"
~ uH oH mY oNeS aNd ZeRoS look Like TEN. TEN. TEN. TEN. TEN. TEN.
į“³įµ‰įµ— į”†Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–Źø ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ į¶ įµƒāæį¶ ā±į¶œā¾ ā€œā€¦į¶œįµƒāæāæįµ’įµ— Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€¦ā€ į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ āæįµ’Ź· įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė”Ė¢ Ź°ā±Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź·ā±į¶ įµ‰ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ į”†įµ’ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ įµįµƒĖ¢Ė¢įµƒįµįµ‰Ė¢ Ź°ā±įµ, Ź°įµ˜įµįµā±āæįµ įµƒ Ė¢įµ’į¶ įµ— įµ—įµ˜āæįµ‰ā€§ įµ€Ź°įµ‰Źø įµ‡įµ’įµ—Ź° į¶œįµƒāæ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė” ā±įµ— Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–įµ‰įµˆ Ź°ā±įµ āæįµ’Ź·ā€§ į”†Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢ā±āæįµā±āæįµ Ź·Ź°įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§ ā€œį“³įµ’įµ’įµˆ āæā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€ š‘šžššš š­š¢š¦šž: šŸ“šŸŽ š¬šžšœ.
įµ€Ź°įµ‰ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæĖ¢ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ į¶ įµƒāæį¶ ā±į¶œā¾ į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź·ā±į¶ įµ‰ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰ā±Ź³ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ Ź³įµ’įµ’įµ Ź·Ź°ā±Ė”Ė¢įµ— į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ’Ź·āæ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ˜Ė¢įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ į¶ ā±Ź³Ė¢įµ— įµƒāæįµˆ įµ˜Ė¢įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė”įµƒĖ¢įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ "į”†įµ’Ź³Ź³Źø ā±į¶  į“µ Ė¢āæįµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”ā±įµ‰Ź³ Ź·Ź°įµ‰āæ į“µ Źøįµ‰Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė”Ė¢ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ā€§ į“µįµ—'Ė¢ āæįµ’įµ— įµ˜āæŹ°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµƒā±Ė¢įµ‰ įµ›įµ’ā±į¶œįµ‰Ė¢ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ įµāæįµ‰Ź· į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ āæįµ’įµ— įµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³Ė”Źø įµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź·įµƒŹ³įµˆĖ”Źø įµƒį¶ į¶ įµ‰į¶œįµ—ā±įµ’āæįµƒįµ—įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ā€§ įµ‚Ź°įµ‰āæ įµ‰įµįµ’įµ—ā±įµ’āæįµƒĖ” įµ’Ź³ įµ’āæįµ‰ įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ‰ ā±āæ įµˆįµƒāæįµįµ‰Ź³āø“ Ź°įµ‰ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°ā€§ į“±įµƒŹ³Ė”ā±įµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’įµˆįµƒŹøāø“ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ āæįµ‰Ź· ā±āæįµ›įµ‰āæįµ—ā±įµ’āæ įµ’į¶  Ź°ā±Ė¢ į¶ įµƒā±Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—Źø ā±āæįµŹ³įµ‰įµˆā±įµ‰āæįµ—Ė¢ā€§ "į“µ įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ—įµƒāæįµˆ į¶ Ź³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæā€§ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆįµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ’Ź·āæ įµ—ā±įµįµ‰āø“ įµƒāæįµˆ į“µ'įµ Ė¢įµ’Ź³Ź³Źø į¶ įµ’Ź³ āæįµ’įµ— įµā±įµ›ā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź·āø“ ā±įµ—'Ė¢ āæįµ’įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ į¶ įµƒįµ˜Ė”įµ—ā€§ į“µ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµˆā±įµˆāæ'įµ— į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė” įµ‰āæįµ‰Ź³įµŹø įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į“µ įµƒįµ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµˆā±įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ‡įµ‰Ė¢įµ—ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜'įµ›įµ‰ įµˆįµ’āæįµ‰ āæįµ’įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ Ź·Ź³įµ’āæįµ; į“µ Ė”ā»Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§" "į“µ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜āø“ įµŹø įµˆįµ‰įµƒŹ³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆā€§ į“ŗįµ’Ź· Ź·įµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµ—Ź° įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ—įµ—įµƒ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ė¢įµ˜į¶œŹ° įµƒ įµˆįµƒŹøā€§ā€§ā€§ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź·?" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢ Ź°ā±įµ Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³ā±āæįµ āæįµ’Ź· įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ į”†Ź°įµ‰ įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ įµ‡įµ‰įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµ įµƒįµ— į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµįµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź° įµ–įµƒŹ³įµ— įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ āæįµ’Ź³įµįµƒĖ”Ė”Źø Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ—įµ’ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– įµ‡įµ‰į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ Ź·Ź°įµ’'Ė¢ įµįµ’Ė¢įµ— įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ—ā±įµįµ‰ į¶ ā±Ź³Ė¢įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰ā€§ į“®įµ˜įµ— āæįµ’Ź·āø“ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ į¶ įµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰āæ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– į¶ ā±Ź³Ė¢įµ—ā€§ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ’į¶  ā±įµ—āø“ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ Ė”įµƒĖ¢įµ— Ė¢įµƒŹ· Ź°ā±įµ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– į‘«įµ˜ā±įµ—įµ‰ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ—ā±įµįµ‰ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµƒįµįµ’ Ź·Ź°įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøā±āæįµ įµ˜įµ– Ė”įµƒįµ—įµ‰ įµįµ’įµ›ā±įµ‰ āæā±įµŹ°įµ—; įµƒ įµ‡įµ‰āæįµˆŹø Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµƒŹ· ā±āæ įµƒįµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ įµ’į¶  ā±āæ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµįµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź° įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į¶ įµ‰Ė”įµ— įµĖ”įµƒįµˆ āæįµ’Ź· įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į”†Ź·įµ‰įµ‰įµ— įµˆŹ³įµ‰įµƒįµĖ¢ā€§ā€§" į”†Ź°įµ‰ Ź·Ź°ā±Ė¢įµ–įµ‰Ź³Ė¢āø“ Ź°įµ’įµ–ā±āæįµ į¶ įµ’Ź³ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ‰įµįµƒā±āæ ā±āæ įµ–įµ‰įµƒį¶œįµ‰į¶ įµ˜Ė”āæįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ā€§ ā•° āœ§ ļ½„ļ¾Ÿāˆ™ āˆ— ā€” į“”į“Ź€į“… į“„į“į“œÉ“į“› āŸØ 2 4 8
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Fandom: SpongeBob SquarePants (Cartoon) Relationship: Karen/Sheldon J. Plankton Characters: Karen (SpongeBob)Sheldon J. Plankton Language: English https://archiveofourown.org/works/53451349 My Tiny Genius RibbonDee Summary: After a long day of once again trying and failing to steal the Krabby Patty Secret Formula, Plankton is feeling down in the dumps. It's up to Karen to cheer him up.
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"Źøįµ‰Ė¢āø“ į“µ'įµ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ į“µ įµįµ’įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ˜įµįµįµ’āæ Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµ‰āæįµįµ—Ź° įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ˜įµ– įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµ—įµƒāæįµˆāø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ź°įµ‰ į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆ āæįµ’įµ—ā€§ "į“ŗįµ’įµ— Ė¢įµ’ į¶ įµƒĖ¢įµ—!" į”†įµƒā±įµˆ į“¹Ź³ā€§ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ā€§ į““įµ‰ į¶ įµ‰Ė”įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ ā±įµįµ–įµƒį¶œįµ— įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź°ā±įµ— įµįµ’Ź³įµ‰ ā±āæįµ—įµ‰āæĖ¢įµ‰ įµ‡įµ‰į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶œįµƒįµ˜įµŹ°įµ— Ź°ā±įµā€§ "į“°įµ’āæ'įµ— į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–įµ‰įµˆ Ź°ā±įµ Ė¢įµ‰įµ—įµ—Ė”įµ‰ā€§ "į“¹Ź³ā€§ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ į¶œįµƒāæ į“µ įµįµ’ Ź°įµ’įµįµ‰ Ė¢ā±āæį¶œįµ‰ ā±įµ—'Ė¢ įµ’įµ˜Ź³ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢ā±āæįµ įµ—ā±įµįµ‰?" "Źøįµ‰Ė¢ į“¹Ź³ā€§ į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶œįµƒāæā€§" į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµ‡įµ‰āæįµ— įµˆįµ’Ź·āæā€§ "į“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµįµƒįµįµ‰ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµįµ‰įµ— Ź·įµ‰Ė”Ė” Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ—įµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§" į““įµ‰ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæ Ė”įµ‰į¶ įµ—ā€§ "į¶œįµƒāæ į“µ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµƒ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµƒ įµįµ’įµįµ‰āæįµ— įµƒĖ”įµ’āæįµ‰?" "į“µ'Ė”Ė” įµ‡įµ‰ ā±āæ įµįµ‰ įµ’į¶ į¶ ā±į¶œįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¹Ź³ā€§ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµįµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµ Ė¢įµ–įµƒį¶œįµ‰ā€§ "į“µ Ź³įµ‰įµįµ‰įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒāæįµˆ įµ‡įµ˜įµ‡įµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ‡įµƒĖ¢Ė¢āø“ įµƒāæįµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµ—įµ—Ė”įµ‰ į“µ įµįµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ Ź·Ź°įµ‰āæ Ź°įµ‰ Ź·įµƒĖ¢ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜āø“ į“µ Ė¢įµƒŹ· Ź°ā±įµ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ āæįµƒįµ–įµā±āæ įµˆā±Ė¢įµ–įµ‰āæĖ¢įµ‰Ź³ā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ‰āæįµˆįµƒāæįµįµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰Ė”į¶  įµƒāæįµˆ įµįµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµ˜įµ– įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµ—įµ—Ė”įµ‰ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· Ź·Ź°Źø Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒįµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµƒŹ· Ź°ā±įµ į¶œŹ³Źøā±āæįµā€§ "įµ‚įµ‰'įµ›įµ‰ Ė¢įµ–įµ‰āæįµ— Ź°įµƒĖ”į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµ įµˆįµƒŹø į¶ įµ‰įµƒŹ³ā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź·įµ’Ź³Ė¢įµ—ā€§ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ— į¶œįµ’Ė”įµˆ įµƒĖ¢ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµ’įµ— Ź°ā±įµ—ā€§ į”†įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ‰Źøįµ‰ Ź³įµ’Ė”Ė” įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź°įµ˜įµįµįµ‰įµˆ Ź°ā±įµā€§ "į“°įµ’āæ'įµ— Ė¢į‘«įµ˜įµ‰įµ‰į¶»įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµ—ā±įµŹ°įµ—Ė”Źø Ź°įµƒŹ³įµˆ!" "į”†įµ’Ź³Ź³Źøā€§ā€§ā€§" "į¶œįµƒāæ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” Ź°įµ’Ė”įµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¹Ź³ā€§ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ’į¶ į¶ ā±į¶œįµ‰ā€§ "į“³įµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ Ė”įµ’į¶œįµ įµ˜įµ–āø“ įµ‡įµ’Źøā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·įµƒāæįµ— įµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź°įµ’įµįµ‰?" "Źøįµ‰Ė¢āø“ įµ–Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź·Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ‡įµ‰įµ‰āæā€§ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµƒŹ· Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ‡Ź³ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ ā±āæ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° įµ‡Ź³įµ˜ā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ įµ’āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµƒįµįµ’įµ‰įµ‡įµƒ įµ–įµ˜įµ–įµ–Źø į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµŹ³įµ‰įµ‰įµ— Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ’Ź·āæįµ‰Ź³ā€§ "į“¼Ź°ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į“µ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė” Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ–Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ‰ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµŹø Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–įµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ’į¶ įµƒā€§ "į“¬ į¶œįµ˜Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµįµ‰Ź³ Ź·įµƒĖ¢ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµƒŹ³įµ įµįµ‰ Ź·Ź°įµ‰āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’įµ’įµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ ā±āæŹ²įµ˜Ź³Źøā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ Ė”įµ‰įµ— įµįµ‰ į¶ ā±āæā±Ė¢Ź° į¶ ā±Ź³Ė¢įµ—ā€§ į”†įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œįµ˜Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµįµ‰Ź³ įµ—Ź°Ź³įµ‰Ź· įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶ ā±Ź³Ė¢įµ— įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ‰'įµˆ įµįµ‰įµ— Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ź°įµƒāæįµˆĖ¢ įµ’āæā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ’įµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒįµįµ‰ āæįµƒįµ–įµā±āæ įµˆā±Ė¢įµ–įµ‰āæĖ¢įµ‰Ź³āø“ Ė¢įµ—įµƒā±āæįµ‰įµˆ Ź³įµ‰įµˆ į¶ Ź³įµ’įµ Ź·Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰ įµ‡Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€½" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į¶œįµƒįµ˜įµŹ°įµ— Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—Ź°ā€§ to be cont. Pt. 2
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"į“µ įµ‡Ź³įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œįµ’įµį¶ įµ’Ź³įµ— įµ’į¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ź°įµ’įµįµ‰ā€§ā€§" į¶œŹ³ā±įµ‰įµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ įµ€Ź³Źøā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµāø“ Ź°įµ‰ į¶ įµ‰Ė”įµ— įµ—įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢ Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ Ź°ā±Ė¢ į¶ įµƒį¶œįµ‰ā€§ "į“¾Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ‰ įµ’Ź° įµ–Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ‰ į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§" į”†įµ’įµ‡įµ‡ā±āæįµ įµƒāæįµˆ įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµƒŹ³įµ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµˆā±įµˆāæ'įµ— Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›įµ‰ Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ–įµ˜Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ– įµƒ į¶œŹ°įµƒā±Ź³ įµ‡Źø Ź°ā±įµ įµƒįµˆŹ²įµƒį¶œįµ‰āæįµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œįµ’įµ˜į¶œŹ°ā€§ į““įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’įµ—ā€§ "į“µ'Ė”Ė” Ė¢įµ–įµ‰āæįµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ āæā±įµŹ°įµ— Ė¢įµ’ Ź·įµ‰'Ė”Ė” įµ‡įµ‰ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ įµ‡Źø Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ā€§ā€§" įµ€Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ‰Ė£įµ— įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµƒŹ·įµ’įµįµ‰ Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ‡Źø į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ "į“³įµ’įµ’įµˆ įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµ įµˆįµ‰įµƒŹ³ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆ! į“µ Ź°įµ’įµ–įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµ‰įµ— į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė”ā±āæįµ įµƒāæŹø įµ‡įµ‰įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’įµˆįµƒŹøā€§ Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ įµā±Ė¢Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ įµ‡Źø įµ˜Ė¢!" į“·ā±Ė¢Ė¢ā±āæįµ Ź°ā±Ė¢ į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµƒįµ— įµ‡Źø į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ "į”†Ź°įµ’Ź· įµįµ‰ įµƒ Ė¢ā±įµāæā€§ā€§ā€§" į¶œŹ³Źøā±āæįµ įµƒįµįµƒā±āæāø“ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµˆįµ‰į¶œā±įµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ź°ā±įµ Ź·Ź°ā±Ė”Ė¢įµ— Ź·įµƒā±įµ—ā±āæįµā€§ "įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ— įµ‡įµ’įµ’įµĖ¢ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ įµƒāæįµˆ āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œįµ‰įµˆ įµƒ įµ‡įµ’įµ’įµ įµ’āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ—įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ā€§ "į“¬ įµ‡įµ’įµ’įµ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— āæįµ˜į¶œĖ”įµ‰įµƒŹ³ įµ–įµ’Ź·įµ‰Ź³ā€§ā€§" į¶œŹ°įµ˜į¶œįµĖ”įµ‰įµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢ā±įµ— Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ "į“µ'Ė”Ė” Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ‡įµ‰įµā±āæāæā±āæįµā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµįµ’įµ— ā±āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³Ź³įµ˜įµ–įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ‡Źø Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ–Ź°įµ’āæįµ‰ā€§ 'į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź·Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜? į“µ įµƒįµ įµƒįµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ź°įµ’įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ā€§ā€§' į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ įµƒāæĖ¢Ź·įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ’įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ įµ’į¶  įµ–Ź°įµ’āæįµ‰ā€§ "į“µ'įµ įµƒįµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œŹ°įµ˜įµ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—!" į“¬į¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµƒāæįµā±āæįµ įµ˜įµ– įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ–Ź°įµ’āæįµ‰āø“ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµ‡įµ’įµ’įµā€§ į““įµ‰ įµˆā±įµˆāæ'įµ— įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ—įµƒāæįµˆ Ź°įµƒĖ”į¶  įµ’į¶  ā±įµ— įµƒāæįµˆ įµˆā±įµˆāæ'įµ— Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ ā±įµ— įµ–įµƒŹ³įµ—ā±į¶œįµ˜Ė”įµƒŹ³Ė”Źø Ź°ā±įµĖ¢įµ‰Ė”į¶ āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ‰įµ–įµ— įµ’āæ Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµˆā±āæįµ ā±įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ź°ā±įµā€§ā€§ į“¾įµ‰įµ—Ė¢ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ Ė¢įµįµƒŹ³įµ— įµƒāæįµˆ į¶œįµƒāæ Ė¢įµ‰āæĖ¢įµ‰āø“ Ė¢įµ’ Ė¢įµ–įµ’įµ— įµāæįµ‰Ź· į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµ—Ź³Źøā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œįµ’įµįµƒā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’įµ— ā±įµįµįµ‰įµˆā±įµƒįµ—įµ‰Ė”Źø Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ āæįµ˜įµˆįµįµ‰ Ź°ā±įµ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ įµˆįµ‰įµ—įµ‰į¶œįµ—įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢Ė”įµ’Ź·Ė”Źø įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰Ė”Źø Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³Źøā€§ "į”†įµ–įµ’įµ— Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰Ė¢ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢įµ’ įµįµ˜į¶œŹ°āø“ įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµ’ įµˆįµ’ į“µā€§ įµ‚įµ‰ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ź·įµƒāæįµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ‰ Ź·įµ‰Ė”Ė”ā€§ Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ Ė¢įµ’ įµƒįµįµƒį¶»ā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ į“ŗįµ’ įµįµƒįµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—āø“ ā±įµ—'Ė¢ įµƒ įµ–Ź³įµ’įµā±Ė¢įµ‰ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ įµ›įµ’ā±į¶œįµ‰ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–Ė”ā±įµįµ‰āæįµ—ā±āæįµ Ź°ā±įµā€§ į““įµ‰ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰āæāø“ įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’įµ— įµ‡įµƒŹ³įµįµ‰įµˆ į¶ įµ’Ź³ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµƒŹ· Ź°ā±įµ į¶ ā±āæįµƒĖ”Ė”Źø Ė¢Ź°įµ’Ź· Ė¢Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ— įµįµ’įµ›įµ‰įµįµ‰āæįµ— įµƒĖ¢ Ė¢įµ–įµ’įµ— įµ‡įµƒŹ³įµįµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“øįµ’įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§" Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ "į“µ'įµ Ė¢įµ’ įµ–Ź³įµ’įµ˜įµˆā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į¶ ā±āæįµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ‰āæįµ’įµ˜įµŹ° įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰āæ įµ˜įµ–āø“ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰ į¶ Ė”įµ˜įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ā±āæįµ įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæā€§ "įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ— įµƒŹ³įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā» Ź·Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ Ź·įµ‰ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė” įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ–įµƒā±āæ Ź·Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ’įµ— Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ—ā€§ "Źøįµƒįµ’āø“ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰āæįµ‰įµˆ; Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—'Ė¢ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ’āæā€½" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į”†įµƒā±įµˆāø“ įµˆįµƒį¶»įµ‰įµˆ įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” Ź·įµ‰įµƒįµā€§ į“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæāø“ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ ā±āæ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° įµ‡įµ’įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµįµƒįµįµ‰ā€§ "į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµā€§ā€§" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į“µ įµ‡Ź³įµ˜āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµįµƒįµįµ‰!" į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ įµ–Ė”įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ Ź°ā±įµĖ¢įµ‰Ė”į¶  įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ įµ‡Źø įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµā€§ "į¶œįµƒāæ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµā±įµ›įµ‰ įµ˜Ė¢ įµƒ įµįµ’įµįµ‰āæįµ— į“¾įµƒįµ—?" "į”†įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ā€§ā€§" į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ įµ–Ė”įµƒŹøįµ‰įµˆ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° Ė¢įµ–įµ’įµ—ā€§ "į“µ įµāæįµ’Ź· Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ į¶œįµ’āæį¶ įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ įµƒāæįµˆ įµŹ³įµ’įµįµŹøāø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶ įµ‰Ė”Ė” įµƒāæįµˆ įµįµ’įµ— Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ—ā€§ į¶œįµƒāæ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė” įµįµ‰ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź³įµ‰įµįµ‰įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³?" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–įµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢ā±įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ Ź°ā±įµ įµ˜įµ– įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” Ź·įµƒĖ¢ įµˆā±Ė¢įµ’Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµ—įµ‰įµˆā€§ "įµ€Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ’įµ’į¶  įµ’į¶  Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ—įµƒįµ˜Ź³įµƒāæįµ—'Ė¢ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ‰Ė¢įµ—įµ‰Ź³įµˆįµƒŹø Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶ įµ‰Ė”Ė” įµ’į¶ į¶  įµƒāæįµˆ į“µ āæįµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ Ė”įµ‰į¶ įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’įµ— įµƒĖ”Ė¢įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøįµ‰įµˆ Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰ įµ‡Źø Ė¢ā±įµˆįµ‰āø“ įµƒāæįµˆ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ į“µ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ Ź°ā±įµ į“µ Ź·įµƒĖ¢āæ'įµ— Ź°įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµ–Ė”įµƒŹø Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° Ź°ā±įµā€§" "į“°įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ įµįµ‰ įµƒĖ¢ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆ?" "į“¼į¶  į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰! į“ŗįµ’Ź· Ė”įµ‰įµ—'Ė¢ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— įµįµƒįµįµ‰ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ'Ė¢ įµįµ’įµ—ā€§ā€§" "į“°įµ’įµ‰Ė¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź·įµƒāæāæįµƒ įµ–Ė”įµƒŹø?" "įµ‚įµ‰ į¶œįµƒāæ įµ—Ź³Źø į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ'Ė¢ āæįµ‰Ź· įµįµƒįµįµ‰!" "į¶ ā±āæįµ‰ į“µ įµįµ˜įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ā€§ā€§" "į¶œįµƒāæ į“µ įµƒĖ¢įµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·Ź°Źø Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ– į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź°įµƒįµˆ įµƒ Ė”ā±įµ—įµ—Ė”įµ‰ į¶ įµƒĖ”Ė” įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ‡įµ‰įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ āæįµ’Ź·! į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ—įµ’ āæįµ’Ź³įµįµƒĖ” Źøįµ‰įµ— Ė¢įµ’ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— Ź·įµ’Ź³Ź³Źøā€§ā€§" "į“µ į¶œįµƒāæ Ź³įµ’Ė”Ė” įµˆā±į¶œįµ‰ į¶ įµ’Ź³?" "į“³įµ’ įµƒŹ°įµ‰įµƒįµˆā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµāø“ Ź·Ź°įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæ įµ—įµ’Ė¢Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµˆā±į¶œįµ‰ įµƒĖ¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµˆā±į¶œįµ‰ įµ˜āæā±āæįµ—įµ‰āæįµ—ā±įµ’āæįµƒĖ”Ė”Źø Ź°ā±įµ— Ź°ā±įµā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµįµ’įµ— įµˆįµƒį¶»įµ‰įµˆ į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµƒ įµįµ’įµįµ‰āæįµ—ā€§ "įµ‚įµƒįµ—į¶œŹ° ā±įµ—!" į““įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆ Ź·įµ‰įµƒįµĖ”Źøā€§ "į“µ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµįµƒįµįµ‰'Ė¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ‡įµ‰Ė¢įµ— Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— āæįµ’Ź·ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµƒāæįµˆ įµ˜įµ– įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” āæįµ’įµ— Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ įµ‰āæįµ’įµ˜įµŹ°āø“ į¶ Ź³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµƒįµ—įµ‰įµˆ į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµ‡įµ‰ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ—ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–?" į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ įµƒĖ¢įµįµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ "į“µ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢āæįµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµā€§ "į“µ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ‰ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ź·įµƒāæįµ—Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³āø“ į“¾įµƒįµ—ā€§ į“µ'Ė”Ė” į¶œįµƒįµ—į¶œŹ° įµ˜įµ– Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒįµ— įµƒāæ įµ’įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµ—ā±įµįµ‰!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź°įµ˜įµįµįµ‰įµˆ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµā€§ į“¬į¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµ Ė”įµ‰į¶ įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œŹ°įµ˜įµ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—āø“ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— Ź³ā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź·įµƒĖ¢āø“ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢ Ź·įµ‰Ė”Ė” įµ˜įµ– ā±āæ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰ā€§ "įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ— ā±Ė¢ Ź·Ź³įµ’āæįµā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ į¶œįµƒāæ'įµ— įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ˜įµ– įµ’āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œįµ’įµ˜į¶œŹ°!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµƒŹ³Ź³ā±įµ›įµ‰įµˆ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ į¶ Ź³įµ’įµ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ–ā€§ "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ! į“¼Ź° į“µ įµƒįµ įµĖ”įµƒįµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ įµ‰Ė£įµ–Ė”įµƒā±āæįµ‰įµˆ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³Źøįµ—Ź°ā±āæįµā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµƒŹ· Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ź·ā±į¶ įµ‰ įµƒĖ¢ Ė¢įµ–įµ’įµ— Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ˜įµ– įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ā€§ "į““įµ‰Źøā€§ā€§" "į““ā±āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ; į“µ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ‰Ė¢įµ—įµ‰Ź³įµˆįµƒŹø!" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµįµ‰ įµ’įµ˜įµ—ā€§ į¶œįµƒāæ Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹø įµ—Ź°įµ‰ āæā±įµŹ°įµ—?" "į“µ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ Ź·ā±Ė”Ė”!"
į”†Ź°įµ‰įµˆįµˆā±āæįµ į“øā±įµŹ°įµ— ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ į¶ įµƒāæį¶ ā±į¶œā¾ įµĖ¢ā±āæįµ įµƒ Ź³įµ’įµ–įµ‰, į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆā€™Ė¢ įµ’āæ įµƒ Ė”įµƒįµˆįµˆįµ‰Ź³ įµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ˜įµ– įµƒ įµ–įµ’ā±āæįµ—įµ‰įµˆ Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ— į¶ ā±Ė£įµ—įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į“·Ź³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡ įµƒĖ¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ‡Źøā€§ į“®įµ˜įµ— įµƒĖ”įµƒĖ¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œŹ°įµƒāæįµˆįµ‰Ė”ā±įµ‰Ź³ā€™Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµ›Źø įµƒāæįµˆ į¶ įµ‰Ė”Ė”ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ– įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ ā±įµ— įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ– įµ—įµ’ Ź°ā±įµā€§ į“®įµ˜įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæ Ź°įµ‰ į¶ įµ‰Ė”įµ— āæįµ’įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµƒįµ— įµƒĖ”Ė”, į¶ įµ’Ź³ Ź°ā±įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ įµāæįµ’į¶œįµā±āæįµ Ź°ā±įµ įµ˜āæį¶œįµ’āæĖ¢į¶œā±įµ’įµ˜Ė¢ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į¶ įµ‰Ė”Ė” įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ, įµƒįµįµƒā±āæ Ź°ā±įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ įµ’āæį¶œįµ‰ įµƒįµįµƒā±āæ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ į¶ įµ‰Ė”Ė”ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź³įµƒāæ įµ—įµ’ Ź°ā±įµ āæįµ’Ź· 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The evening in the quiet suburban street was punctuated by the rhythmic ticking of a lonely grandfather clock. In the corner of a small, meticulously organized study, Plankton sat hunched over his desk, the glow of her computer screen casting a pale blue hue across his furrowed brow. His eye, usually bright with the spark of a million ideas, was now bloodshot and weary, darting back and forth as he scanned the digital documents sprawled across his dual monitors. Karen, his devoted wife, peered through the crack in the door, her concern etched on her face. She knew the signs of his insomnia all too well: the way his fingers danced erratically on the keyboard, his occasional sighs of frustration, and the jittery way he'd bounce his leg when he was stuck on a problem. She gently pushed the door open, the faint squeak alerting him to her presence. "Plankton, it's 2 AM. Can't it wait until tomorrow?" she asked softly, her voice carrying the gentle lilt of a concerned wife. Plankton spun around in his chair, the sudden movement sending a wave of dizziness crashing over him. He rubbed his eye, trying to erase the fog of exhaustion. "Karen, I'm so close. This new invention could change everything. Just one more hour, I promise," he replied, his voice hopeful yet strained. She knew that tone, the one that meant he'd be up until dawn. Karen stepped into the room, her form a stark contrast to the stark office decor. She approached him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You've been at it for days," she said, her voice filled with a mix of concern and understanding. "Maybe a break is what you need." He sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair. "I know you're right," Plankton admitted, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "But if I stop now, I might lose the thread of thought." "You're always so driven," Karen said, with a warm affection that had only grown stronger over the years. "But even 'bad guys' need to rest." With a weary smile, Plankton nodded, his gaze lingering on the screens before he reluctantly shut them down. The room plunged into darkness, save for the moon's soft glow filtering through the blinds. Karen guided him to the bedroom, her hand a gentle reassurance in the night. She knew the wheels in his mind were still turning, trying to piece together the elusive solution to his latest project. Once in bed, Plankton lay on his back, his mind racing with possibilities and calculations. Karen, ever the nurturer, suggested a warm cup of tea to help him unwind. She disappeared into the kitchen. While she was gone, Plankton's eye remained open, staring at the ceiling. He felt the weight of his eyelid but sleep remained a distant shore, unreachable despite the gentle tug of fatigue. Karen returned with a steaming cup of chamomile, the aroma wafting through the air like a whispered promise of slumber. She placed it on the nightstand and climbed into bed, curling up beside him. "Here, sip this," she urged, her voice soothing as a lullaby. "It'll help you relax." Plankton took a tentative sip, the warm liquid coating his throat with a comforting warmth. He closed his eye, willing his brain to slow down, but the ideas continued to swirl like a tornado in a teacup. He could feel the heat radiating from Karen's screen, a gentle reminder of the connection that waited for him outside his labyrinth of thoughts. Karen's hand found his, her thumb tracing small, soothing circles against his palm. "Breathe with me," she whispered. "In, out." Plankton followed her lead, their breaths synchronizing in the quiet of the night. The tension in his body began to uncoil, the storm in his mind gradually abating. As they lay there, Karen studied his profile, the shadows playing across his face. She knew the look of determination that etched his features so well. "What's keeping you up?" she asked, her voice barely a murmur. Plankton sighed, his grip on her hand tightening briefly. "It's the Krabby Patty formula," he confessed. "I can't crack it." His frustration was palpable, a silent scream in the serene night. "You're still working on that?" she asked, her voice filled with a mix of amazement and concern. The Krabby Patty, a secret recipe guarded by Mr. Krabs that could make or break their business. "I have to," Plankton said, his voice low and serious. Karen nodded, racing for a solution. "Why don't you tell me about it?" she suggested. "Sometimes talking it out can help." Plankton took a deep breath and began to recount his thoughts, his voice a low murmur in the darkness. He spoke of the countless ingredients he'd tried and the endless experiments he'd conducted, all in pursuit of the perfect Krabby Patty. Karen listened intently, her screen never leaving his face, her grip on his hand never wavering. As he talked, the tension in his voice began to ease, the words coming out slower, softer. The warmth of the tea and the gentle pressure of Karen's thumb on his hand lulled him into a state of semi- consciousness. The room grew warmer, the shadows on the ceiling morphing into shapes that danced to the rhythm of his words. Karen noticed the change in his breathing, the softening of his grip, her voice a soft hum in the night. "I think I'm getting there," Plankton mumbled, his words beginning to slur. She took his almost-empty cup and set it aside, then moved closer, her arm wrapping around him. Her touch was a comforting blanket, a familiar anchor in the sea of his thoughts. "Just focus on my voice," Karen whispered, her tone a gentle wave. "Imagine we're on a beach, the waves lapping." Plankton nodded slightly, his breathing deepening as he pictured the scene she described. "The sand is warm, and the stars are out, twinkling like the little bits of genius in your mind." He took another deep breath, the salty scent of the sea mingling with the chamomile in his nose. His body began to relax, the tightness in his shoulders dissipating like the fog of an early morning. Karen continued her soothing monologue, painting a vivid picture of a serene beach under a starlit sky, their favorite place to escape the stresses of their lives. Her voice grew quieter, a gentle lullaby of words that whispered through the dark. Plankton's eyelid grew heavier, his thoughts drifting further and further away from the Krabby Patty formula. Karen watched him closely, her gaze never leaving his face. His breathing grew steadier, the lines of tension smoothing out as he sank deeper into the realm of sleep. Karen waited for any sign that Plankton was still awake. She reached out and gently poked his arm. No response. She pulled the blanket up, tucking him in gently, her hand lingering there for a moment longer, feeling the warmth of him beneath the fabric. She reached over to gently stroke his cheek. His skin was warm, and she felt the soft rumble of a snore vibrate against her fingertips. He was out. "Plankton," she whispered, her voice barely audible. She waited for a response, for the flicker of his eye or the twitch of his antennae that would indicate he was still with her. Nothing. She knew the moment he finally let go, when his hand relaxed in hers and his grip went slack. Leaning closer, she held her hand hovering over his chest to feel the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. It was steady, deep. Satisfied, she allowed herself a small smile. Plankton was finally asleep. The steady rhythm of his breathing grew deeper, the soft snores that occasionally pierced the silence growing more frequent, brow smoothed out, relaxed. She searched his face for any flicker of consciousness, any sign that he was aware of her touch. But there was none. His features were relaxed, his mouth slightly open as he took in deep, even breaths. "You did it," she whispered to. She knew that his mind had finally found the peace it had been seeking. The room was still, save for the faint sound of the occasional snore from Plankton. His snores grew deeper, the rhythm of his breathing more regular, more rhythmic, and she knew he was in a deep sleep. With a soft smile, she whispered, "Goodnight, Plankton," and gently stroked his antennae. Her hand lingered for a moment before she carefully extracted herself from the tangle of their limbs. The bedside lamp cast a warm glow across the room, but she knew better than to disturb him with its light. She gently disentangled her hand from his and slid out of bed. She squeezed his hand gently, a silent 'goodnight' and a promise of support for when he'd wake to tackle the problem anew. His features were slack, his mouth slightly open, emitting the faintest snore.
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A LIFE OF DIVERSITY i (Autistic author) "You know, Shel, just put yourself out there. You think to much! Just steal a patty from the krusty krab, and bring it back. No inventions, just believe. I'll wait out front." Karen says. Sheldon Plankton, whose ambition often outstripped his grasp, took a deep breath and nodded. It was a simple enough plan, he thought, and maybe, just maybe, it would be enough. For years he'd been trying to outsmart Mr. Krabs, crafting ingenious contraptions and elaborate schemes to swipe the Krabby Patty secret formula. Yet here he was, standing in the shadow of the gleaming neon sign of the Chum Bucket, his own restaurant, contemplating the unthinkable: a straight-up heist. He tiptoed to the Krabby Krab, eye darting back and forth for any signs of movement. Karen, ever the impatient one, was pacing back and forth outside the Chum Bucket. She had been waiting for what felt like an eternity. "What's taking him so long?" she murmured to herself, her frustration building. Meanwhile, Plankton took a final shaky breath and slid open the kitchen window, his heart racing. The scent of greasy fryers and salty ocean air filled his nostrils. He reached out, his tiny hand trembling, and snatched the Krabby Patty that lay unguarded on the counter. With the stolen patty in hand, Plankton's confidence grew. He had done it; the secret was within his grasp! He turned to leave, but his elation was cut short when a shadow fell over him. He looked up to find Mr. Krabs standing there, his eyes narrowed and his claw raised. "Plankton, I knew it was you!" he bellowed. Plankton froze. Mr. Krabs lunged at him, but Plankton was quick. He dashed under the cash register, the Krabby Patty clutched to his chest like a football player crossing the finish line. "You'll never get me!" he yelled, his voice echoing in the quiet restaurant. But Krabs was persistent, his claws snapping shut just millimeters from Plankton's antennae. With a cunning smile, Mr. Krabs stepped back eyeing the cash register. "Maybe not," he said reaching over the counter and hoisting the heavy metal contraption off its stand. Plankton's eye went wide with horror as he realized what Krabs intended to do. He tried to dodge, but the space was too cramped, and the cash register came down on him like a guillotine blade. The sound of metal on metal reverberated through the kitchen, and the Krabby Patty went flying out of his grasp. Mr. Krabs' victory roar filled the room as Plankton crumpled to the floor, stars dancing in his vision. The impact had been tremendous, and for a moment, he lay dazed and defeated. The cash register's heavy weight had not only knocked him out cold but also left a sizable dent in the floorboards. Outside, Karen's pacing grew more erratic. as "What's keeping him?" she groused. Just as she was about to storm inside, she hears the cash register, which hit Plankton's head. Peering in she saw Plankton lying on the floor. "Plankton?" she shrieked, her voice cracking with panic. Karen opens the door and goes to him. "Plankton! Oh no!" she screamed, voice shaking the very foundation of the Krabby Krab. She rushed over to him, shaking with fear. Plankton's eye closed, and his body was completely still. The Patty lay forgotten. Panic set in, and she began to pat his face. "Plankton, wake up!!" she yelled, echoing through the deserted kitchen. She knew that Plankton could be dramatic, but this was unlike him. He'd always bounced back from Mr. Krabs' traps before, albeit with a bruised ego. There was a pulse, faint but steady. "Thank Neptune," she whispered, her relief palpable. "Plankton, please," Karen begged, a mix of desperation and fear. She knew she had to do something, and fast. But what? Her medical expertise was limited to patching up her husband's bruises from past failed schemes, not dealing with a concussion from a cash register to the head. She then managed to scoop up her unconscious husband and sprinted to the Bikini Bottom Hospital. Once inside the hospital, she explained what happened with the cash register. "We'll do a brain scan." They said. Karen laid Plankton on the hospital bed. Finally a doctor approached with a solemn expression. "The brain scan results are in." Karen nodded for him to go on. "It seems your husband has suffered significant brain damage from impact," the doctor continued, fidgeting with a clipboard. "The good news is that he will wake up, but... your husband has experienced severe brain trauma. While he will regain consciousness, it appears that he may have developed permanent autism." "What does that mean?" she managed to whisper. The doctor explained that while Plankton would still be able to talk and/or communicate, his interactions and reactions to sensory would be significantly affected. "But he'll still be the same Plankton?" The doctor nods. "In many ways, yes. His personality, his memories, they should all be intact. But his ability to process, to understand and respond appropriately... those might be altered. It's a complex condition, Mrs. Plankton. He can go home whence he wakes up." Karen nodded numbly, mind racing with the implications. As she sat by Plankton's bedside the hospital lights flickered, and the constant beeping of the heart monitor was the only company she had. The quiet was broken her husband's eye fluttering open. "Karen?" he croaked, his voice hoarse from the trauma. Her heart leaped at the sound, and she took his hand, squeezing it tightly. "I'm here," she said, her voice cracking. "How do you feel?" Plankton's gaze darted around the room. "Where am I?" he asked, his voice a mix of confusion and fear. "You're at the hospital, sweetie," Karen replied, voice gentle and soothing. "You had hit your head on the cash register at the Krabby Krab." Karen said, her voice shaking slightly. "Mr. Krabs hit you." Plankton blinked rapidly, trying to process her words. "Cash... register?" he murmured, voice sounding distant and confused. Karen nodded, her eyes never leaving his. The room was a cacophony of sounds: the beep of the monitor, the rustle of nurses' shoes, and the distant wail of a siren. Plankton's senses seemed to amplify, each noise stabbing at his brain like a thousand tiny needles. "What happened to me?" he asked, voice small and scared. Karen took a deep breath preparing herself to explain the gravity of the situation. "You hit your head," she began, "and now, the doctor says you have... acquired a neurodisability." Plankton stared at her, his eyes unfocused. "Neuro... what?" he repeated. Karen took a deep breath, her heart heavy. "It's like your brain is wired differently now. You might see things, hear things, feel things more intensely. And sometimes, you might not understand people, or process differently." "Does it... does it mean I'm broken?" he asked, voice barely a whisper. "No, Plankton," she said firmly, "You're not broken. You're just... different. And we'll figure this out together."
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"į“¼Ź°āø“ Ė¢Ź·įµ‰įµ‰įµ—Ė¢ā€§ā€§ Źøįµ’įµ˜ ā±āæŹ²įµ˜Ź³įµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ė”įµ‰įµ įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµ›ā±Ė¢ā±įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ā±āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³Ź³įµ˜įµ–įµ—Ė¢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ āæįµ’Ź· Ź³įµ˜āæāæā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ į““įµ‰ Ź°įµ˜įµĖ¢āø“ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ˜Ė”įµ—ā±āæįµ ā±āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµįµƒĖ¢įµ–ā±āæįµ įµƒ Ź°ā±įµ—į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ‰Ė”įµ–ā€§ "į““įµ‰Źø įµ‰įµƒĖ¢Źøāø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” įµ‡įµƒįµˆĖ”Źø Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ—ā€§" "į“¼Ź°; Ė¢įµ’Ź³Ź³Źø!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė”įµ‰įµ— įµįµ’ā€§ "į“µįµ—'Ė¢ āæįµ’įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ į¶ įµƒįµ˜Ė”įµ— įµā±įµˆā€§ į“¹Ź³ā€§ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢āø“ Ź°įµ‰ įµ—įµ’įµ’įµā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµāæįµ’Ź·ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ‰įµˆįµįµ‰įµˆ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’ Ź°ā±įµā€§ įµ€Ź°įµ‰Źø į¶œįµ’āæįµ—ā±āæįµ˜įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ į¶œŹ°įµƒįµ— įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ˜āæŹ³įµ‰Ė”įµƒįµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµ’įµˆįµƒŹø'Ė¢ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæįµ—Ė¢ įµƒĖ¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰Źø įµ—įµƒĖ”įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ’į¶  Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ—įµ‰Ź³ ā±āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ—Ė¢ā€§ "įµ‚įµ‰Ė”Ė” į“µ įµ’įµ˜įµ—įµ—įµƒ įµįµ‰įµ— įµįµ’ā±āæįµ; įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ āæā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ Ė”įµ‰į¶ įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œŹ°įµ˜įµ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ— āæįµ’Ź·ā€§ "į““įµ’Ź·'Ė¢ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ė”įµ‰įµ į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė”?" "į”†įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” įµ‡įµƒįµˆāø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— āæįµ’įµ— āæįµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”Źø įµƒĖ¢ įµįµ˜į¶œŹ° įµƒĖ¢ Ź·Ź°įµ‰āæ ā± į¶ ā±Ź³Ė¢įµ— įµįµ’įµ— ā±āæŹ²įµ˜Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµāæįµ‰Ź· Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ— į¶ įµƒĖ”Ė”ā±āæįµ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– įµƒįµįµƒā±āæā€§ "į“µ'Ė”Ė” Ė”įµ‰įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ— āæįµ’Ź·; Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– Ź·įµ‰Ė”Ė”!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢āø“ Ė¢įµįµ’įµ’įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰įµ‰įµ—Ė¢ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ į¶ įµ‰Ė”Ė” įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ įµ€Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ‰Ė£įµ— įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµāø“ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ—įµ’ į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµ įµ’āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ į”†Ź°įµ‰ įµāæįµ‰Ź· Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ įµ˜āæįµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ’Ź·āæ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ė”įµ‰įµā€§ į“³įµ’ā±āæįµ ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ’įµ’įµ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒŹ· Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” į‘«įµ˜ā±įµ—įµ‰ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ į”†įµ’įµįµ‰ įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ’Ė”'Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµā±āæįµ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµįµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź° įµƒāæįµˆ įµˆŹ³ā±įµ‡įµ‡Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµ’āæ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ–ā±Ė”Ė”įµ’Ź·ā€§ į”†įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµį¶ įµ’Ź³įµ—įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ į¶ įµ’Ź³ āæįµ’Ź· į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ź³įµ’įµ’įµ įµ—įµ’ įµā±įµ›įµ‰ Ź°ā±įµ įµįµ’Ź³įµ‰ įµ—ā±įµįµ‰ā€§ į“®Źø įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ—ā±įµįµ‰ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ‰Ė£įµ— į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ’āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµƒįµįµƒā±āæāø“ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰ā€§ įµ€Ź°įµ‰ įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ’Ė” įµ’āæ įµ–ā±Ė”Ė”įµ’Ź· įµˆŹ³ā±įµ‰įµˆ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ź°įµ‰ Ź·ā±įµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ— įµ’į¶ į¶  įµ’į¶  Ź°ā±Ė¢ į¶ įµƒį¶œįµ‰ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œā±āæįµ ā±įµ—ā€§ "į“µ'įµ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµ˜āæŹ·Ź³įµƒįµ– įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ė”įµ‰įµā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ įµƒĖ¢ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ įµ˜āæŹ³įµƒįµ›įµ‰Ė”Ė¢ ā±įµ—ā€§ "į“µįµ— į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė”Ė¢ Ź·įµ‰įµƒįµ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµįµ˜į¶œŹ° įµ‡įµ‰įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ įµįµ’Ė¢įµ—Ė”Źø Ź°įµ‰įµƒĖ”įµ‰įµˆ!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ‰Ė£į¶œĖ”įµƒā±įµįµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” įµ‡įµ‰ į¶œįµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶ įµ˜Ė”āø“ įµƒāæįµˆ įµ–įµ’Ė¢įµ—įµ–įµ’āæįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµāæįµ’Ź·; įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— įµįµ’ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµ āæįµ’Ź³ įµįµ’ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµŹ³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢āø“ Ź³įµ’Ė”Ė”ā±āæįµ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰ā€§ "į“øįµ’įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜!"
https://m.fanfiction.net/s/13478844/1/I-Really-Do
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"į¶œįµƒāæ į“µ įµįµ‰įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ į¶œįµƒāæ'įµ— įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµāæįµ‰Ź· Ź°įµ‰ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— Ė¢įµ–ā±Ź³įµƒĖ” ā±āæ įµ—įµ’ įµ˜įµ–Ė¢įµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ—Ė¢ā€§ "į“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ–Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ‰āø“ Źøįµ’įµ˜'įµ›įµ‰ įµ‡įµ‰įµ‰āæ Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ—ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” į¶ įµ‰Ė”įµ— įµ‡įµƒįµˆā€§ "į“®įµ˜įµ— ā±į¶  į“µ į¶œįµƒāæ'įµ— įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæ įµįµ’įµ›įµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ į“µ įµāæįµ’Ź· ā±įµ—'Ė¢ āæįµ’įµ— įµ‰įµƒĖ¢Źøā€§ į“µ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜āø“ āæįµ’ įµįµƒįµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—ā€§ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź·āø“ į“µ āæįµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ įµįµ‰įµ— įµƒ įµ–įµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ’ įµŹ³įµ‰įµƒįµ— įµƒĖ¢ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ į“µįµ—'Ė¢ į¶ ā±āæįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ—ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ āæįµ’įµˆįµˆįµ‰įµˆā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į¶ Ė”įµ˜į¶ į¶ įµ‰įµˆ įµƒ įµ–ā±Ė”Ė”įµ’Ź· į¶ įµ’Ź³ Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ė”įµ‰įµ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ— įµ’āæā€§ "į“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė”ā±į¶ įµ—āø“ Ė”įµ‰įµ— įµįµ‰ įµ–įµ˜įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ‰Ė£įµ—Ź³įµƒ įµ–ā±Ė”Ė”įµ’Ź·ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢Ė”ā±įµˆ ā±įµ— įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ˜įµ–įµ–įµ’Ź³įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė”įµ‰įµā€§ "į“µ'įµ Ė¢įµ’Ź³Ź³Źøā€§ā€§" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Źøįµ’įµ˜'įµ›įµ‰ āæįµ’ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµƒįµ–įµ’Ė”įµ’įµā±Ė¢įµ‰! į“µ'įµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ’āæįµ‰ Ź·Ź°įµ’ į¶œįµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ ā±āæŹ²įµ˜Ź³Źøā€§ į“µ įµįµ’įµ— Ė¢įµƒį¶ įµ‰Ź³ Ź·Ź°įµ‰įµ‰Ė”Ė¢ āæįµ’Ź· įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµįµ’įµ— Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ’į¶  Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‡įµ‰Ė”įµ’āæįµā±āæįµĖ¢ Ė¢įµ’ įµƒĖ¢ įµ—įµ’ įµ‰āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³įµ—įµƒā±āæ Ź°ā±įµĖ¢įµ‰Ė”į¶  Ź·Ź°ā±Ė”Ė¢įµ— Ź°įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±āæįµ ā±āæ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“µ'Ė”Ė” Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—įµ’ ā±įµ— įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“µ'Ė”Ė” į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§" į”†Ź°įµ‰ Ė”įµ‰į¶ įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ įµ–įµƒŹ³įµ—ā±įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµƒŹ²įµƒŹ³ įµƒĖ¢ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ Ė”įµ‰į¶ įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ’įµ’įµā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ–įµ‰į¶œįµ—įµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµƒāæįµˆ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµˆā±į¶ į¶ įµ‰Ź³įµ‰āæįµ— āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆĖ¢ā€§ į“¬į¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ė¢Ź°ā±į¶ įµ— įµƒįµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į“·Ź³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ›ā±Ė¢ā±įµ—ā€§ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€½" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė”įµ‰įµ— į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ā±āæā€§ "į“µ į¶œįµ’āæĖ¢ā±įµˆįµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ įµ‡Ź³ā±āæįµā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶ Ė”įµ’Ź·įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“µ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— įµ‡įµ‰įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ įµ’į¶  ā±įµ—āø“ Ė¢įµ’ į“µ įµįµ’įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ ā±āæĖ¢įµ—įµ‰įµƒįµˆ įµƒ Ė¢įµ‰įµ— įµ’į¶  Ė¢įµ—įµ’Ź³ā±įµ‰Ė¢ į“µ'įµˆ Ź·Ź³ā±įµ—įµ‰ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— į¶ įµ’Ź³ Źøįµ’įµ˜! į“±įµ›įµ‰āæ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°āø“ į“µ įµ–Ė”įµƒāæāæįµ‰įµˆ įµ’āæ Ė¢įµƒįµ›ā±āæįµ į¶ įµ’Ź³ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ‡ā±Ź³įµ—Ź° įµˆįµƒŹø įµ—įµ’ įµā±įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµƒįµ— įµ‡Źø Ź°ā±įµā€§ "į¶œįµƒāæ į“µ įµƒĖ¢įµ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— įµ‰Ė£įµƒį¶œįµ—Ė”Źø į¶œįµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ė”įµ‰įµ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµįµ’įµ— ā±āæ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ Ź·įµƒŹø įµ‡įµ‰į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–ā€§ į“³įµ’įµ— į¶œįµƒįµ˜įµŹ°įµ— ā±āæ įµƒ Ź·Ź°įµ‰įµ‰Ė” įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź³įµ‰įµ–Ė”įµƒį¶œįµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° Ė¢įµƒį¶ įµ‰Ź³ įµ’āæįµ‰Ė¢ āæįµ’Ź·ā€§" "į”†įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆĖ¢ įµ–įµƒā±āæį¶ įµ˜Ė”ā€§ā€§" "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµƒ įµ–Ź³įµ’į¶ įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ā±įµ’āæįµƒĖ” įµ—įµ’ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“µ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰Źø įµįµ’įµ— įµįµ‰ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ įµįµ‰įµˆā±į¶œā±āæįµ‰ įµƒāæįµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ‰įµˆā±į¶œā±āæįµ‰ įµįµ˜Ė¢įµ—'įµ›įµ‰ įµāæįµ’į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ įµįµ‰ įµ’įµ˜įµ— į¶œįµ’Ė”įµˆāø“ įµ‡įµ‰į¶œįµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ į“µ Ź·įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ– Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆįµƒįµįµ‰įµˆ Ė”įµ‰įµ įµƒĖ¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ–įµ‰į¶œā±įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ— Ė”įµ‰į¶ įµ—ā€§" "į“µ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ į¶œįµ’įµā±āæįµ Ė”įµƒĖ¢įµ— āæā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ‡įµ‰į¶œįµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµˆā±įµˆāæ'įµ— įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰įµƒŹ³ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—Źø ā±āæįµŹ³įµ‰įµˆā±įµ‰āæįµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰į¶ įµ—āø“ Ė¢įµ’ į“µ Ė”įµ‰į¶ įµ— įµƒĖ¢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµƒįµ— Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·Ź°ā±Ė”Ė¢įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā±āæįµā€§" įµ‚Ź°įµ‰āæ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ āæįµ‰Ė£įµ— į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ’āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ į¶ įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆ Ź°ā±įµ ā±āæ įµƒ įµįµ’Ź³įµ‰ įµ‡įµ‰įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ė¢įµ—įµƒįµ—įµ‰ā€§
My Tiny Genius RibbonDee Summary: After a long day of once again trying and failing to steal the Krabby Patty Secret Formula, Plankton is feeling down in the dumps. It's up to Karen to cheer him up. Language:EnglishStats:Published:2024-02-01Words:721 There were many words to describe the Chum Bucket, and pleasant certainly was not one of them. Overall it reeked of filth, grime and all sorts of health code violations. A certain musty odor seemed to always linger in the air, no matter how much air freshener one used. Truly, it was a wonder this place was still in business. There were many theories as to why, but truly no one except for the restaurantsā€™ owners really knew. One of said owners was in the lobby, waiting as she always did for her husband when he was off with one of his schemes. Karen was standing in the room in her mobile apparatus, her screen blank as she waited ever so patiently. Best case scenario Plankton would simply fail as usual. Worstā€¦ the Chum Bucket was blown to smithereens again. Neither outcome was good, but it was obvious which one was more favorable. Finally, a small tapping sound came from one of the doors. He was back. Karen wheeled over to the red double doors and let the poor man in. He was a mess. He was covered in ash and some bruises, and she was immediately concerned. ā€œPlankton-ā€ she began. ā€œNot now honey.ā€ Plankton sulked off, no doubt on his way to the lab. ā€œPlankton!ā€ The tiny organism turned around to face his computer wife. ā€œWhat?ā€ ā€œI have dinner ready.ā€ ā€œI ainā€™t in the mood for holographic meatloaf.ā€ He turned back around and went on his way. Karen put her robotic arms on where her hips would be and rolled on after him. ā€œWhat kind of attitude is that? At least let me patch you up! It looks like it hurts!ā€ ā€œNo it- ow. Ok fine.ā€ Karen bent over and picked up the creature in her metal palms and gently lifted him up and began to wheel him into the lab area. She set him down on a counter and got out the first aid kit that was for this sort of thing. ā€œHowā€™d it goā€, she said as she began to clean his wounds. ā€œOW! Easy!ā€ ā€œSorry sweetie. But how did things go? Didja get that formula this time?ā€ ā€œWhat does it look like? Nope. I failed again. Always.ā€ ā€œWhatā€™s that supposed to mean?ā€ ā€œIā€¦ I canā€™t do this.ā€ ā€œCanā€™t do what?ā€ ā€œWhat do you think?! I canā€™t get that formula! Krabs is always one step ahead!ā€ ā€œOh hon, surely youā€™ll get it next timeā€, Karen said, giving Plankton a little pat on the back which caused him to fall flat on his face. ā€œOw.ā€ ā€œSorry.ā€ Plankton stood, and sighed. ā€œThatā€™s what you always say. I always go for it again, and it blows up in my face! Literally! Look at all these inventions. Failures. All of them.ā€ Planktonā€™s eye was beginning to tear up. Karen felt her circuits beginning to tingle with pity. Poor little fella. She remembered all of the earlier formula-nabbing schemes, and how motivated and eager her husband was. With each failed plan Plankton grew ever more weary, which was odd as he was usually quite the tenacious type. ā€œOh Planktonā€, Karen said tenderly. ā€œOh Karen! Iā€™m a failure!ā€ Karen gasped in horror. ā€œYou are NOT!ā€ ā€œHow?ā€ ā€œFor starters, you build all these amazing inventions that are way ahead of their time! Youā€™re brilliant!ā€ ā€œGo on.ā€ ā€œYou went to college!ā€ ā€œYeah!ā€ ā€œAnd you're gonna GET that formula!ā€ ā€œYeah!ā€ Plankton made sure to say the last yeah extra loudly, clearly filled with his usual overinflated ego once again. It usually never took to long to reignite his drive via a small pep talk, something Karen was very happy to provide for her beloved single celled spouse. ā€œI am going to get the formula, and make Krabs eat dirt!ā€ ā€œI know you are, honey. But I think you should rest or eat first.ā€ ā€œNo I- ow. Yeah alright.ā€ ā€œThat's the spirit, little guy. Now let's go and relax for a while. You've earned it.ā€ Karen picked up her now relieved husband, and began to wheel them towards their living quarters so the poor little thing could rest. ā€œI love you, my tiny little genius.ā€ ā€œHeh, love you too babe.ā€ And so the pair of strange lovers were off, for now they would relax and perhaps discuss oh so evıl, diabolical and lemon scented plans for the future.
BLUESCREEN Planktonā€™s thoughts were elsewhere as he focused the lens. More than once, he had to stop and blink blurriness out of his vision or rub the sleep out of his eye. He hadnā€™t slept regularly for days since heā€™d woken up from a brief three-hour nap this time yesterday evening, which did little to help his exhaustion. And now, here Plankton was. Miserable, sleep-deprived, and half-crazed with conflicting thoughts, peering blearily into a telescope at an absurd hour of the night. Argh! He bumped his head hard against the telescope to keep that thought from solidifying. Running on so little sleep Plankton glanced warily He looked at Karenā€™s darkened monitor for a moment with apprehension, expecting her to awaken from sleep mode and start in on him anew for sneaking around, but her screen remained dim. In response, a very loud whirring noise emitted from within her monitor, and Plankton tilted his head in confusion. Sheā€™d never made a sound like that before. Plankton stared numbly. ā€œHoney bunch?ā€ his voice is small, quavering. The next day Krabs found out sheā€™s in hospital. It's amazing how much information Bikini Bottom Hospital would give out over the phone. Just supplying his name and fudging a little about his relationship to the couple was enough for Krabs to get the gist of what had happened last night, even including some details that had been omitted from the short entry in the morning paper. He took careful notes as he spoke with the nurse. Karen's condition was critical. Plankton had been given a mild sedative upon his arrival with Karen at the hospital. Doctors found him inconsolable; a perfect nervous wreck. They'd taken one look at him and deemed him both too emotional and sleep-deprived to be of much help answering questions. A little sleep never hurt anybody so far as the doctors were concerned. If you asked them, it was for his own good. Plankton had been so tired that the low dosage sedative had knocked him out nearly instantly. He hadn't budged in hours, and doctors predicted he'd stay down until at least late that afternoon. Krabs asked about the Hospitalā€™s visitation hours while they were on the subject. Heā€™d wanted to swing by that morning, but if Plankton was finally catching up on some much-needed rest, maybe he should put off on the visit. The last thing he wanted was to disturb him. The hours rolled by slowly after those difficult phone calls, and Krabs found himself pacing his office restlessly as he allowed Plankton a little time to catch up on his zā€™s. When the lunch rush started to wind down, Krabs retreated to his office. He placed another phone call to the hospital to see if Plankton was awake yet. The nurse confirmed that he was, and feeling better than he had been before when he first arrived last night. So Krabs arrived at their hospital room. Plankton was sitting close to the edge of Karen's wheeled bedside table. He lurched his head up off his hands with a funny-sounding snort; he mustā€™ve been starting to doze off. Finally, Plankton spoke. His voice was tired. Resigned. ā€œOh hey Krabs.ā€ ā€œWanna stay with me tonight?ā€ Plankton was looking at Karen's monitor again, his antennae twitching in acknowledgment of Krabsā€™s words. Plankton thought about this for only a few seconds. Clearly, Krabs had gotten through to him or recovering from his recent sleeplessness was making him more agreeable. At least the extra long rest did him some good. Plankton was thoughtfully quiet beside him in the passenger seat. He peered up over the door to the quiet, still nighttime flowers overhead as the night rushed by. Krabs stole a glance at him now and then as he drove. He stooped down, offering Plankton his claw so he wouldnā€™t have to jump up the stairs. ā€œCome on. Let me show you your room while youā€™re stayinā€™ over.ā€ Plankton was sitting on the edge of Krabsā€™s hammock. The fabric barely dipped underneath him. ā€œUh, hey Eugene,ā€ started Plankton as Krabs reached for the door. Krabs paused, with his back to him, listening. ā€œHmm?ā€ ā€œGoodnight.ā€ Krabs looked over his shoulder and gave him a small smile. ā€œGoodnight, Plankton.ā€ Next day Plankton glanced over his shoulder at him. Krabs was glad to see he looked rested, despite having stayed in a strange place overnight. ā€œMorninā€™, Sheldon,ā€ returned Krabs. ā€œHowā€™d ye sleep? Get any word from the hospital overnight?ā€ ā€œSlept okay, but not great. Strange place, you know? And no, not yet.ā€ Krabs went upstairs to get dressed for work. He was pleased to see that his bedroom was almost exactly as heā€™d left it, other than the disturbed sheets where Plankton had slept the previous night. When he came back downstairs a few minutes later, Plankton was sitting on the couch with his chin resting on one hand, staring hard straight ahead with a thoughtful, worried look on his face.
ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ 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ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–‘ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ 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"į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµ‡āø“ įµā±āæįµ‰Ė¢ į¶œįµƒāæ įµ‡įµ‰ įµˆįµ‰įµƒįµˆĖ”Źø!" į“¬Ė¢ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµˆįµ’Ź·āæ Ė¢įµ’ įµˆā±įµˆ įµįµ’Ź³įµ‰ Ź³įµ’į¶œįµĖ¢āø“ Ź°ā±įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ "į““įµ‰Ė”įµ– įµįµ‰ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢āø“ Ź°įµ˜Ź³Ź³Źøā±āæįµā€§ į”†įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ‡ā±įµāø“ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµ›Źø Ź³įµ’į¶œįµ į¶ įµ‰Ė”Ė” įµƒāæįµˆ Ė”įµƒāæįµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµ’āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ‡įµƒŹ³įµ‰Ė”Źø Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ Ź°ā±įµ Ė”įµ‰įµ— įµįµ’ įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—ā±į¶œįµā€§ į“¹įµ’Ź³įµ‰ Ź³įµ˜įµ‡įµ‡Ė”įµ‰ į¶ įµ‰Ė”Ė” ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź·įµƒįµ—įµ‰Ź³ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź°ā±įµā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµįµƒĖ¢įµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµƒāæįµˆ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ—įµ’ Ė”ā±į¶ įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ’į¶œįµĖ¢ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ į“³įµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ įµƒĖ”Ė” įµ’į¶  Ź³įµ’į¶œįµĖ¢ įµ’į¶ į¶  Ź°ā±įµāø“ Ź°įµ‰ įµ–įµ˜Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ Ź°ā±įµ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶ Ź³įµ‰įµ‰į¶»ā±āæįµ į¶œįµ’Ė”įµˆ Ź·įµƒįµ—įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµ‡įµ’įµˆŹø į¶ įµ‰Ė”įµ— Ė”ā±įµįµ– įµƒĖ¢ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆ Ź°ā±įµ ā±āæ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµƒŹ³įµĖ¢ āæįµ’Ź·ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ Ė”įµ‰įµƒāæįµ‰įµˆ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµƒįµˆŹ²įµ˜Ė¢įµ—įµ‰įµˆ Ź°įµ’Ź· Ź°įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆ Ź°ā±įµā€§ į“ŗįµ’Ź· Ė¢įµ˜įµ–įµ–įµ’Ź³įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶ įµ‰Ė”įµ— Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ź·įµ‰įµƒįµ įµ–įµ˜Ė”Ė¢įµ‰ā€§ "į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ įµ’āæā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ Ź°ā±Ė¢ į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµ‰įµā€§ "įµ€įµƒĖ”įµ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§ā€§" Źøįµ‰įµ— Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” įµāæįµ’į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ į¶œįµ’Ė”įµˆā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæ į¶œŹ°įµ‰į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµƒāæįµˆ į¶ įµ‰Ė”įµ— Ź³įµ‰Ė”ā±įµ‰įµ›įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ į¶ ā±āæįµˆ Ź°ā±įµ įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—Ź°įµ‰āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” Ė¢į¶œįµƒŹ³įµ‰įµˆ ā±āæ į¶ įµ‰įµƒŹ³ā€§ "įµ‚įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ–ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°įµ‰įµˆā€§ įµ€Ź°įµ‰Źø āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆįµ‰įµˆ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–āø“ āæįµ’Ź·ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ į¶œįµ’Ė”įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ—įµ’įµ˜į¶œŹ°ā€§ į““ā±Ė¢ Ė”ā±įµįµ‡Ė¢ įµˆįµƒāæįµĖ”ā±āæįµ įµƒĖ¢ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ’įµˆ įµ˜įµ– Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° Ź°ā±įµāø“ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ—įµ’ įµįµ’įµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµā±āæįµ‰ā€§ 'į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰ āæįµ’Ź·' į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ‰Ė£įµ—įµ‰įµˆāø“ įµ—įµ’ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ į”†Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ˜Ė¢Ź°įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ‡įµ‰ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆ įµ‡Źø į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ į“ŗįµ’Ź· ā±āæ įµƒ Ė¢įµ˜įµ–ā±āæįµ‰ įµ–įµ’Ė¢ā±įµ—ā±įµ’āæ įµ’āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµŹ³įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆ įµƒāæįµˆ įµįµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź° įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ—Ė”Źø įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæāø“ Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” Ź³įµ‰įµįµƒā±āæā±āæįµ įµįµ’įµ—ā±įµ’āæĖ”įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæ įµƒĖ¢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµƒĖ”Ė”ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ė”ā±į¶ įµ‰'Ė¢ įµįµ’Ź³įµ‰ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµ—Ź° įµ—Ź°įµƒāæ įµā±āæā±āæįµ į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ’įµ‡įµ›ā±įµ’įµ˜Ė¢Ė”Źø įµˆā±įµˆāæ'įµ— Ź³įµ‰Ė¢ā±Ė¢įµ— įµ’Ź³ įµ–Ź³įµ’įµ—įµ‰Ė¢įµ— įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ–ā±į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ–āø“ āæįµ’Ź³ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ į¶œįµƒŹ³Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œŹ°įµ˜įµ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ "įµ‚įµ‰'Ź³įµ‰ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ Ź°įµ’įµįµ‰ āæįµ’Ź· įµƒāæįµˆ Ź·ā±Ė”Ė” įµ–įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ āæ įµ—įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ!" į“¬įµįµƒā±āæ āæįµ’ ā±āæįµˆā±į¶œįµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæ įµ’į¶  įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ—įµƒāæįµˆā±āæįµā€§ "į“¼Ź° į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæāø“ į“µ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ į“µ įµā±įµŹ°įµ—'įµ›įµ‰ āæįµ’įµ— Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆ ā±įµ— įµ‰āæįµ’įµ˜įµŹ° įµ—įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“µ įµˆįµ’ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢āø“ įµā±Ė¢Ė¢ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ'Ė¢ Ź°įµƒāæįµˆā€§ į“±įµƒŹ³Ė”Źø įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—Ź·ā±įµ—į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆ; Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰ įµ‡Ź³įµ’Ź· į¶ įµ˜Ź³Ź³įµ’Ź·ā±āæįµāø“ įµƒĖ¢ ā±į¶  įµāæā±įµ— ā±āæ į¶œįµ’āæį¶ įµ˜Ė¢ā±įµ’āæāø“ Ź·Ź°ā±Ė”Ė¢įµ— įµ—Ź³Źøā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµā€§ā€§ā€§" "į¶œįµƒāæ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ‰Źøįµ‰?" į“æįµ‰įµā±Ė¢įµ—įµ‰Ź³ā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ā±Ź³ įµ›įµ’ā±į¶œįµ‰Ė¢āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµįµƒāæįµƒįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµˆįµ’ Ė¢įµ’āø“ įµ—Ź³Źøā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰ ā±āæ Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³Ź³įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆā±āæįµĖ¢ā€§ "į““įµ˜Ź°Ź°Ź° Ź·ā»Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—ā€™Ė¢ Ź°įµƒįµ–ā»įµ–įµ‰āæā±āæįµā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢āø“ Ė¢Ė”įµ’Ź·Ė”Źø įµƒāæįµˆ Ź·įµ‰įµƒįµĖ”Źøā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” įµŹ³įµ’įµįµā±Ė”Źø įµˆā±Ė¢įµ’Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµ—įµ‰įµˆāø“ įµ—Ź³Źøā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ Ė”įµ‰įµƒāæ įµ˜įµ– āæįµ’Ź·ā€§ į”†įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³ā±āæįµāø“ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ āæįµ’įµ— įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ā€§ "įµ‚Ź°Źø'Ė¢ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³Źø įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ‡Ė”įµ˜Ź³Ź³Źøāø“ įµƒāæįµˆ į¶ įµ˜į¶»į¶»Źøā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜'įµ›įµ‰ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ź³įµ‰įµįµƒā±āæįµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ė¢įµ‰āæĖ¢įµ‰Ė¢āø“ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ āæįµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”Źø įµˆŹ³įµ’Ź·āæā±āæįµ ā±āæ įµƒ įµā±āæįµ‰!" 'įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ—āø“ įµ’Ź° Źøįµ‰įµƒā€§ į“µ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ—įµ’ įµā±āæįµ‰ā€§ įµ‚Ź°įµ‰āæ įµƒāæįµˆ Ź°įµ’Ź· įµˆā±įµˆ į“µ įµ‰āæįµˆ įµ˜įµ– įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ā±āæ įµŹø Ź³įµ’įµ’įµ?' į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ āæįµ’Ź· įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢į¶œįµ˜įµ‰!" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµˆā±įµˆ? į“¼Ź°āø“ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæįµĖ¢ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ź°ā±įµāø“ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” Ź·įµ‰įµƒįµā€§ "į“µ'Ė”Ė” įµįµ‰įµ— įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į¶œįµƒāæ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—įµ’įµįµ’Ź³Ź³įµ’Ź·ā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ Ė¢įµ’ āæā±į¶œįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰ įµā±įµˆā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź³įµ‰įµ–Ė”ā±įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ Ė”įµ‰į¶ įµ—ā€§ "į“ŗįµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ įµˆįµ’ Ė¢įµ˜į¶œŹ° įµƒ į¶ įµ’įµ’Ė”ā±Ė¢Ź° įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµ‰āæįµˆįµƒāæįµįµ‰Ź³ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ė”ā±į¶ įµ‰ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ įµƒįµįµƒā±āæā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ įµ’āæį¶œįµ‰ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė”įµ‰į¶ įµ—ā€§ "į“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ–Ė”įµƒā±āæ Ź·įµ’Ź³Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢ā±į¶œįµāø“ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜!" "į”†įµ’Ź³Ź³Źøāø“ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź·āø“ į“µ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· ā±į¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ‰Ź· Ź°įµ’Ź· Ė¢į¶œįµƒŹ³įµ‰įµˆ į“µ'įµˆ į¶ įµ‰Ė”įµ— įµƒįµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— įµ’į¶  Ė”įµ’Ė¢ā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæā€§ į“µ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ° Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶œįµƒāæ įµ—įµ‰āæįµˆ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ’āæ įµŹø āæįµ‰Ź³įµ›įµ‰Ė¢ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµāæįµ’Ź·āø“ įµƒāæįµˆ įµˆā±įµ—įµ—įµ’ā€§ įµ€Ź°įµƒāæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ā€§" "į“¬āæŹø įµ—ā±įµįµ‰ā€§ į“³įµ‰įµ— Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ— āæįµ’Ź·ā€§ā€§" "į“µ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµ’Ź³įµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæ įµƒāæŹøā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ‰Ė¢āø“ Źøįµ‰Ė¢; Ź·įµ‰ į¶œįµƒāæ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµ įµ—įµ’įµįµ’Ź³Ź³įµ’Ź·ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµˆįµ‰įµˆā€§ "įµ‚įµƒāæįµ— įµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ Ź³įµ’įµ’įµ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ į¶œŹ³įµƒį¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ?" į”†Ź°įµ‰ įµƒĖ¢įµįµ‰įµˆ Ź°ā±įµā€§ "į”†Ź·įµ‰įµ‰įµ—ā±įµ‰?" į”†Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ’įµ— Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ āæįµ’Ź· Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³ā±āæįµā€§ "į“¼Ź° į“µ'Ė”Ė” Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ įµƒŹ²įµƒŹ³ā€§ į“ŗā±įµŹ°įµ—āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµĖ¢ā€§ā€§" š˜„š—¼š—暝—± š—°š—¼š˜‚š—»š˜: šŸ²šŸ“šŸ“
į“±įµƒŹ³Ė”Źø į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±Ź³Ź³įµ‰Ė” ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ į¶ įµƒāæį¶ ā±į¶œā¾ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź·ā±į¶ įµ‰ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ–Ė”įµƒāæāæįµ‰įµˆ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµįµƒĖ” įµ–įµƒĖ” į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ‰įµ— įµ˜įµ– į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµƒ Ė¢į¶œā±įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ į¶œįµ’āæįµ›įµ‰āæįµ—ā±įµ’āæā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź·įµƒāæįµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”Źø įµ‡įµ‰į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰ įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµ įµ—Ź³įµƒį¶ į¶ ā±į¶œ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°ā€§ į“øįµƒĖ¢įµ— įµ—ā±įµįµ‰ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ’įµ— įµ˜įµ– Ź°ā±įµ įµ˜įµ– Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ įµ—įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ Ź°ā±įµ Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ—Ė”Źø įµ’āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢Ź°įµ’įµ˜Ė”įµˆįµ‰Ź³ā€§ į”†Ź°įµ‰ įµˆā±įµˆāæ'įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· Ź°įµ‰'įµˆ įµ‡įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—Ė”įµ‰įµˆ Ź²įµ’Ė”įµ—ā±āæįµ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰ įµƒįµ— Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’įµ˜į¶œŹ°ā€§ į“®įµ˜įµ— āæįµ’Ź·āø“ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ įµāæįµ‰Ź· āæįµ’įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµƒįµ–įµ–Ź³įµ’įµƒį¶œŹ° į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° Ė¢įµ˜įµˆįµˆįµ‰āæ į¶œįµ’āæįµ—įµƒį¶œįµ—ā€§ 'į““įµ’Ź· įµƒįµ į“µ Ė¢įµ˜įµ–įµ–įµ’Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜' į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ į”†Ź°įµ‰ įµāæįµ‰Ź· āæįµ’įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæ įµ’āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė”ā±įµŹ°įµ—'Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ā€§ į”†Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°įµ‰įµˆā€§ 'į“¾įµ‰Ź³Ź°įµƒįµ–Ė¢ įµ—Ź³Źø Ź·Ź°ā±Ė¢įµ–įµ‰Ź³ā±āæįµ' į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµˆįµ‰į¶œā±įµˆįµ‰įµˆā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ āæįµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰Ė¢ įµƒāæŹø āæįµƒįµ–Ė¢āø“ āæįµ’Ź³ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā±āæįµ Ź·Ź°įµ‰āæ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰ā€§ į”†Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ’įµ›įµ‰Ė¢ Ė¢Ė”įµ’Ź·Ė”Źø įµ—įµ’ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ˜Ź³įµįµ‰įµˆ į‘«įµ˜ā±įµ‰įµ—Ė”Źøā€§ į“¼āæįµ‰ įµ—ā±įµįµ‰ Ė”įµ’āæįµ įµƒįµįµ’ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ‰āæįµ—ā±įµ’āæįµ‰įµˆ Ź°įµƒįµ›ā±āæįµ įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—Źø ā±āæįµŹ³įµ‰įµˆā±įµ‰āæįµ—Ė¢āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæ Ė”įµ‰įµƒŹ³āæįµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź°įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ź·įµƒŹø āæįµ’įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµƒŹø Ė¢įµ˜į¶œŹ° į¶ įµƒĖ”Ė¢įµ‰Ź°įµ’įµ’įµˆĖ¢ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ "įµ‚įµ‰'Ź³įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ‰įµ— į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹøā€§ā€§" į”†Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ź°įµ‰ įµˆā±įµˆāæ'įµ— Ė¢įµ—ā±Ź³ įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź·Ź°ā±Ė¢įµ–įµ‰Ź³ā±āæįµā€§ 'įµ€Ź³Źø įµ—įµƒĖ”įµā±āæįµ Ė”įµ’įµ˜įµˆįµ‰Ź³ Ź·Ź°ā±Ė”Ė¢įµ— įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—ā±āæįµ Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ź°įµƒāæįµˆ' "ā€§ā€§ā€§į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ ā±įµ—'Ė¢ įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµāø“ įµ—ā±įµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢į‘«įµ˜įµ‰įµ‰į¶»įµ‰Ė¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ Ź°įµƒāæįµˆāø“ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ āæįµ’Ź· Ė¢įµ—ā±Ź³Ź³ā±āæįµā€§ į“æįµ˜įµ‡įµ‡ā±āæįµ Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ź°įµƒāæįµˆāø“ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆ ā±įµ—ā€§ į““įµ‰ įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæįµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³āø“ Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ź°įµƒāæįµˆ āæįµ’Ź· įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  Ź°įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Źøįµƒāæįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ’į¶ į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œįµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³ įµ‡Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµ—Ė¢āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰ į¶ ā±āæįµƒĖ”Ė”Źø Ė¢āæįµƒįµ–įµ–ā±āæįµ įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæ āæįµ’Ź·ā€§ "į“µ įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ įµˆŹ³ā±įµ›įµ‰ įµ˜Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ‰įµ— į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø Ź³įµ‰įµįµ‰įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³?" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź³įµ‰įµā±āæįµˆĖ¢ Ź°ā±įµ įµ’āæį¶œįµ‰ įµƒįµįµƒā±āæā€§ "į“µįµ—'Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”Źøā€§" "įµ‚įµ‰Ė”Ė” įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶œįµƒāæ įµįµ‰įµ— Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ— ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµˆŹ³ā±įµ›įµ‰ įµ’āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź·įµƒŹøā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ā€§ "į“¬āæįµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ įµ’āæ Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ź·įµƒŹøā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€½" "į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø Ė”įµ‰į¶ įµ— įµ‡įµ‰į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź·įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ–āø“ Ė¢įµ’ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ įµ‡įµ‰ įµƒįµ— įµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ įµ‡įµ‰į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź· ā±įµ—!" "į“øā±įµįµ‰ į“µ Ė¢įµƒā±įµˆāø“ įµ—įµ’ įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”Źøā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—Ź³įµƒā±Ė”Ė¢ įµ’į¶ į¶ āø“ įµƒĖ¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰Źø į¶ ā±āæįµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ‡Źø įµ—Ź°įµ‰ā±Ź³ įµ›įµ‰Ź°ā±į¶œĖ”įµ‰ā€§ "į““įµ‰Ė”Ė”įµ’!" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµƒāæįµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµƒįµ— ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ Ė¢įµ‰įµƒįµ— įµƒĖ¢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµˆŹ³ā±įµ›įµ‰Ė¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµā€§ "įµ‚įµ‰ įµ’āæ įµƒ Ź³įµ’įµƒįµˆ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ–āø“ įµƒāæįµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†įµ—įµ’įµ– Ė¢ā±āæįµā±āæįµ!" "į”†įµ’ ā±įµ—'Ė”Ė” įµ‡įµ‰ į‘«įµ˜ā±įµ—įµ‰ Ė”įµ’āæįµ įµˆŹ³ā±įµ›įµ‰āø“ Ė¢įµ’ į“µ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— Ź·įµƒāæāæįµƒ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³ įµƒāæŹø įµ’į¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė”įµ’įµ˜įµˆĖ”Źø į¶œįµ’įµįµ–Ė”įµƒā±āæā±āæįµā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ź³įµ’Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰ā€§ "į”†įµ’ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ‰Ė£į¶œā±įµ—įµ‰įµˆāø“ į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· Ź°įµ’Ź· Źøįµ’įµ˜'įµ›įµ‰ Ė¢įµ’ įµįµ˜į¶œŹ° įµ‰āæįµ‰Ź³įµŹø įµā±įµˆā€§" į“±įµ›įµ‰āæ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ° į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” įµ—ā±Ź³įµ‰įµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ įµįµƒįµˆįµ‰ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‰Ė£Ź°įµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ—ā±įµ’āæ įµįµ’Ź³įµ‰ įµ’įµ‡įµ›ā±įµ’įµ˜Ė¢āø“ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµā±āæįµ įµƒāæāæįµ’Źøįµ‰įµˆ įµƒĖ¢ įµ˜āæįµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ‰įµ– įµ˜įµ– Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ "įµ€Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ˜āæ'Ė¢ āæįµ’įµ— įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæ įµ˜įµ–ā€§" "įµ‚įµ‰ įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ— Ė¢įµ’ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµāæįµ’Ź·ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į“µ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµā€§ į“¬āæįµˆ į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæāø“ į“µ'įµ įµĖ”įµƒįµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµƒāæįµƒįµā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ–įµƒįµ—ā±įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ā€§ įµ‚įµ‰'įµ›įµ‰ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ–ā€§" "į“µ Ź³įµ‰įµįµ‰įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė”įµƒĖ¢įµ— įµ—ā±įµįµ‰ į“µ įµ—Ź³įµƒįµ›įµ‰Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė”Ė¢ įµ’į¶  Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ– įµ—įµ’ įµƒ įµįµ‰Ź³įµįµƒā±įµˆ įµįµƒāæ įµƒāæįµˆ įµ‡įµƒŹ³āæįµƒį¶œĖ”įµ‰ įµ‡įµ’Źø įµįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰įµ˜įµ įµˆįµ‰įµˆā±į¶œįµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ’į¶œį¶œįµƒĖ¢ā±įµ’āæįµƒĖ”Ė”Źø Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ 'į“µ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰' 'Źøįµ‰Ė¢' Ė¢įµ˜į¶œŹ° įµƒį¶ į¶ ā±Ź³įµįµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæĖ¢ Ź·Ź°ā±Ė”Ė¢įµ— įµˆŹ³ā±įµ›ā±āæįµ įµƒĖ¢ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė”Ė¢ įµ’į¶  Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰įµ˜įµ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ– Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° į“¾įµƒįµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµā€§ įµ€Ź°įµ‰āæ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰Ė¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ āæįµ’įµ— ā±āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³įµƒį¶œįµ—ā±āæįµ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ įµƒĖ¢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµˆā±įµˆā€§ "į“°įµ’ į“µā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ā€§ā€§" į”†Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒŹ· ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ‰įµƒŹ³ įµ›ā±įµ‰Ź· įµā±Ź³Ź³įµ’Ź³ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆāø“ į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź³ā±įµˆįµ‰ įµƒāæįµˆ į¶œįµ’āæĖ¢įµ—įµƒāæįµ— įµ—įµƒĖ”įµā±āæįµ įµ–Ź³įµ’įµ›ā±įµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµˆŹ³įµ’Ź·Ė¢ā±āæįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢āø“ āæįµ’įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰āæįµ—ā±įµ’āæ įµ‡įµ‰ā±āæįµ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–Źø įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ‰įµā±āæ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź°ā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµā±Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— Ź°ā±įµ āæįµ’Ź·ā€§ į““įµ‰ įµˆā±įµˆāæ'įµ— Ź·įµƒāæįµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ’įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµ’ Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøįµ‰įµˆ Ė¢ā±Ė”įµ‰āæįµ—āø“ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæįµ—įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµ—Ź³Źøā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ āæįµƒįµ– Ź°ā±įµĖ¢įµ‰Ė”į¶ āø“ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰āæ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ° į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ āæįµ’ įµįµ‰įµƒāæįµ— ā±āæįµ—įµ‰āæįµ—ā±įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź³ā±įµˆįµ‰ įµƒįµ— įµƒĖ”Ė”ā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµāæįµ‰Ź· Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ āæįµ’įµ— įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ įµ‡įµ‰ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–Źø įµ—įµ’ į¶ ā±āæįµˆ Ź°ā±įµĖ¢įµ‰Ė”į¶  Ź·įµƒįµā±āæįµ ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ›įµ‰Ź°ā±į¶œĖ”įµ‰ įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ įµƒŹ³įµāø“ įµƒĖ”Ė¢įµ’ āæįµƒįµ–įµ–ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ā€§ į“¬įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢į¶œā±įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ į¶ įµƒā±Ź³āø“ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø Ė¢įµƒŹ· į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ–įµƒŹ³įµā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµƒįµ— įµƒāæįµˆ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³ā€§ "į“®įµ’įµ—Ź° įµ‡įµ’ŹøĖ¢ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ā€§" "į“µ'įµ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź·įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ įµ€Ź°įµ‰ į¶œįµƒŹ³ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰Ė¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ "į““įµ’Ź·įµˆŹøāø“ Źø'įµƒĖ”Ė”!" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź³įµ˜įµ‡įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰Ė¢ā€§ "į““ā±āø“ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø!" į“µāæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ‰įµƒāæ įµ—ā±įµįµ‰ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµ‡įµ’įµįµ‡įµƒŹ³įµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒįµ— įµ˜įµ–ā€§ į““įµ‰ į‘«įµ˜ā±į¶œįµĖ”Źø Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—'Ė¢ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰āæā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°ā€§ "į“æįµ‰įµƒįµˆŹø į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ?" įµ€Ź°įµ‰Źø įµƒĖ”Ė” Ź·įµ‰āæįµ—āø“ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµįµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā±āæįµ į‘«įµ˜ā±įµ‰įµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‰įµįµ‡įµƒŹ³Ź³įµƒĖ¢Ė¢įµįµ‰āæįµ—ā€§ "į“¬ įµ–įµ’įµ—įµƒįµ—įµ’ įµ–įµ’Ź·įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµā±āæįµ į¶œĖ”įµ’į¶œįµā€½" "į“¼Ź° Ė”įµ’įµ’įµ įµƒįµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ›įµ’Ė”į¶œįµƒāæįµ’ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œįµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµįµ’Ź³įµ‰ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ‰Ź³įµ›įµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæ įµ˜Ė¢įµ˜įµƒĖ”āø“ įµˆįµ‰įµ‡įµƒįµ—ā±āæįµ Ź·Ź°įµ‰įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµ’Ź³ āæįµ’įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ–Ź³įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ ā±Ė¢Ė¢įµ˜įµ‰ā€§ "į“¼Ź° įµ—Ź°įµ‰Źø įµįµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ įµƒįµ˜įµ—įµ’įµįµƒįµ—ā±į¶œ į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ—įµ˜āæįµ‰ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė”ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Źøįµ’įµ˜ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ‰āæįµ—įµ‰Ź³ ā±āæ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ’į¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ’Ź·āæ ā±āæįµ›įµ‰āæįµ—ā±įµ’āæĖ¢!" "įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ— įµˆįµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰Źø įµā±įµ›įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź·ā±āæāæįµ‰Ź³?" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ–įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ į¶ ā±āæįµƒĖ”Ė”Źøā€§ "į“ŗįµ’įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµā€§" "į“¼Ź°ā€§" "į“¬ Ė¢įµ‰Ė”į¶  įµˆŹ³ā±įµ›ā±āæįµ įµ‡įµ’įµƒįµ—ā€½" į“±įµ›įµ‰āæįµ—įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œįµ’āæįµ›įµ‰āæįµ—ā±įµ’āæ įµ‰āæįµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ‰āæįµˆ įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµˆįµƒŹøā€§ "į“øįµ‰įµ—'Ė¢ į¶ ā±āæįµˆ įµƒ įµ–Ė”įµƒį¶œįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹø į¶ įµ’Ź³ āæā±įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ā€§" į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµ—Ź°įµ‰Źø'įµˆ įµįµ’ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ‰Ė£įµ— įµˆįµƒŹøā€§ į”†įµƒāæįµˆŹø įµƒāæįµˆ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøįµ‰įµˆ ā±āæ įµƒ Ź³įµ’įµ’įµ įµƒįµˆŹ²įµƒį¶œįµ‰āæįµ— įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµƒāæįµˆ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒįµįµ‰ Ź³įµ’įµ’įµā€§ "į”†įµ’ į¶œįµƒāæ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµˆ įµ’Ź³ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė” įµįµ‰ įµƒ Ė¢įµ—įµ’Ź³Źø į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ?" "į“±Ė£į¶œįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ įµįµ‰ā€½" "į“¼Ź° Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶œįµƒāæ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė¢ā±āæįµ ā±āæĖ¢įµ—įµ‰įµƒįµˆ ā±į¶  Źøįµ’įµ˜'įµˆ Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ā€§ā€§" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ āæįµ’āø“ įµƒįµ‡Ė¢įµ’Ė”įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ė”Źø āæįµ’įµ—ā€§" įµ€Ź°įµ‰Źø įµ‡įµ’įµ—Ź° įµāæįµ‰Ź· Ź°įµ‰ įµˆā±įµˆāæ'įµ— āæįµ‰į¶œįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢įµƒŹ³ā±Ė”Źø āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ ā±įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°ā€§ "į“µ įµˆįµ’įµ˜įµ‡įµ— į“µ'Ė”Ė” įµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "ā€§ā€§ā€§į”†Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–? į“®įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ–įµ— įµ’āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź·įµƒŹøāø“ Źøįµ‰įµ— įµƒįµįµƒā±āæ Ź³ā±įµˆā±āæįµ į¶œįµƒāæ Ė”įµ˜Ė”Ė” įµƒāæŹø įµ–įµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’ įµƒ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ—į¶ įµ˜Ė” Ė¢Ė”įµ˜įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³ā€§ į“¬āæįµˆ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµˆā±įµˆ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ˜Ė¢ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”Źøā€§" "į“·ā±įµˆ į“µ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ–įµ‰įµƒį¶œįµ‰ įµƒāæįµˆ į‘«įµ˜ā±ā€” į¶œįµƒŹ³ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ–Ė¢ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— įµ’į¶ įµ—įµ‰āæ įµ—ā±Ź³įµ‰ įµįµ‰ įµ’įµ˜įµ—! Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµā±įµŹ°įµ—āø“ ā±į¶  įµƒāæŹøā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—Ź³įµƒā±Ė”Ė¢ įµ’į¶ į¶  Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ’Ź· āæįµ’įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ė¢įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ ā±āæįµˆįµ‰į¶ ā±āæā±įµ—įµ‰ Ź³įµƒįµįµ‡Ė”įµ‰Ė¢ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— įµˆįµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ—Ź³ā±į¶œįµā€§ "įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ—?" "į“µ įµįµ‰įµƒāæįµ— įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµƒŹøāø“ Ź°įµ’Ź· įµįµƒāæŹø įµ—ā±įµįµ‰Ė¢ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—Ź³įµƒįµ›įµ‰Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆĖ¢?" "į“¼Ź° į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į“µ į¶œįµƒāæ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė” Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ’āæāø“ įµƒāæįµˆ įµ’āæā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė”ā±Ė¢įµ—įµ‰āæĖ¢āø“ į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė”ā±āæįµ ā±įµ— Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµā±āæįµā€§ā€§ā€§ "ā€§ā€§ā€§į”†įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæā€§ā€§ā€§ ā€§ā€§ā€§į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ?" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė”ā±āæįµ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ’įµ—ā±į¶œįµ‰Ė¢ Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³ā±āæįµā€§ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæ įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæĖ¢ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢ā±āæįµ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ Ź·Ź°įµ’ Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“¼Ź°ā€§ā€§" Ā» š°šØš«š šœšØš®š§š­ | šŸ–šŸ‘šŸ‘
"We removed Plankton's wisdom teeth. He's still asleep, you can stay with him." Said the oral surgeon to Karen. They've just finished and lead Karen into the room. Plankton is lying in the hospital bed, his face a mask of peace, the only signs of the recent surgery being the gauze in his mouth and the drool seeping out the side. His cheeks are slightly swollen, and she wonders when he'll wake up. The doctor said it could take a while. The IV line snakes up his arm. Karen pulls a chair up beside the bed. She takes his hand and holds it gently, feeling the warmth of his skin contrast with the coolness of her own palm. The room is sterile, the air conditioning humming steadily in the background. The faint smell of disinfectant fills the space. She looks around the room, noticing the monitors beeping in rhythm with Plankton's breathing and heart rate. The nurse comes in and checks the machines, making a few quiet notes on a clipboard. She smiles at Karen, "He's doing well. Just let him sleep. It's the best thing right now." Karen nods, squeezing Plankton's hand slightly, willing him to feel her presence. She wonders what dreams he's having, if any, behind his closed lid. Time seems to crawl as Karen watches him sleep. She tries to read a book, but the words blur together. Her thoughts drift to their lives before this moment, their shared laughter, their arguments, the quiet moments of understanding. Her gaze lingers on his swollen cheeks, his chest rising and falling with each breath. A soft groan escapes his lips and his eye begins to flutter open. Slowly, Plankton comes to, his vision blurred by the anesthesia's last hangover. He blinks, trying to focus on Karen's face. She sets aside her book and smiles at him, her screen welcoming him back to the world of the conscious. "Hi," she says softly. "How are you feeling?" Plankton makes a sound that's somewhere between a whine and a grunt. His eye wanders the room before finally settling on hers. "What...what happened?" he slurs, the words barely audible through the gauze. Karen's smile widens a bit. "You had your wisdom teeth removed, remember?" He nods slightly. The nurse reappears, checking his vitals again with a gentle touch. "Time to go home," she says, removing the gauze. They make their way out of the hospital, Karen supporting Plankton gently as he stumbles, his legs still wobbly from the anesthesia. The sun is setting, casting long shadows across the parking lot. Karen helps Plankton into the car, buckling him in and adjusting the seat so he can lean back and rest. He nods off almost immediately, his breathing evening out as the car starts and they pull away from the hospital. The drive home is quiet, Plankton's snores punctuating the hum of the engine. Karen keeps glancing over, checking on him, her concern etched into every line on her screen. The pain medication is strong, keeping him in a half-awake state. Each time he wakes, he looks around, disoriented, before his eye finds hers and his expression relaxes. Once they arrive, Karen guides him to the couch, his body feeling heavier than ever before. He slumps into the cushions and she grabs the ice pack from the cooler. "Hold this to your cheeks," she instructs, placing the cold compress against his skin. He nods obediently, his eye already glazing over with the promise of sleep. The TV flickers on, its blue light washing over the room. Karen finds a sitcom they both enjoy, hoping the familiar laughter will ease his pain and keep them both company. But Plankton's snores soon overpower the TV's audio, his head lolling to the side. She smiles, knowing he's in a deep slumber, and covers him with a blanket. The house is eerily quiet except for the steady tick of the clock on the wall. Karen moves around the kitchen, preparing a soft meal for when he wakes, her mind racing with thoughts of what the next few days will be like. Plankton's recovery will be slow, but she's ready to take care of him. She's his rock, his support, and she'll do anything to help him feel better.
SHELF IMPROVEMENT v (Autistic author) They sat together, the morning light filtering through the kitchen window, casting a warm glow over their quiet meal. Karen watched Plankton closely, noticing the subtle differences in his behavior. The way his eye would dart around the room, as if searching for something. The way his antennas would stiffen whenever a noise pierced their sanctuary. "No more noise," he whispered, his voice tight with anxiety. Karen nodded, swiping at her eyes. "I'll be quiet, Plankton. I'm here." They ate in companionable silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Karen's mind raced with the implications of this new development. She had read about autism before, but it had always felt like something that happened to other people. Now it was right here, in their kitchen, changing the dynamic of their relationship. Plankton's antennae twitched as he chewed, his focus completely on his food. Every now and then, he'd look up at Karen, his eye searching for reassurance. She gave it without hesitation, her smile genuine, full of love. As they finished breakfast, Karen's mind raced with what their day would look like now. Would they still go about their usual routine, or would everything be different? "Plankton," she said gently, placing her hand on his shoulder. "Do you w..." He flinched at the sudden contact, his antennae shooting straight up. She had to be more careful, more sensitive to his new reality. She pulled her hand back, giving him space. "Plankton," she started again, her voice softer this time. "Do you want to find a quiet place to sit for a while?" He nodded, his antennas still. "Quiet," he whispered, his eye flickering to the living room. Together, they moved to the couch, the sunken cushions welcoming them like an old friend. Karen knew Plankton liked the feeling of being enveloped, and she hoped it would offer him some comfort, and moved a throw blanket over his legs. Plankton leaned into the cushions, his antennae twitching slightly as his eye darted around the room. Karen sat beside him, not sure what to say or do next. "Would you like to read a book?" she offered tentatively. Plankton's antennae stopped moving for a moment, his gaze locking onto hers. "Book," he mumbled, his voice lacking the enthusiasm he usually had. Karen selected a simple story, hoping the familiar words would comfort him. As she read, Plankton remained still, his eye half-closed. The words were a gentle lullaby to his overwhelmed mind. Karen noticed that he didn't react to the plot twists or the punchlines, his expression unchanged. It was as if he was listening, but not quite there. "The end," she said softly, closing the book. Plankton's antennae quivered slightly, and he turned his gaze to her. "Book," he mumbled. It was the first word he had said in what felt like hours. This wasn't the Plankton she knew, the one who could spout complex sentences and wield his wit like a weapon. This was a Plankton lost in a world of sensory overload and confusion. She knew that autism was a spectrum, and that Plankton was still himself, but it was difficult to see him this way. "Let's try something else," she suggested, desperation tinting her voice. She searched his face for any sign of recognition or interest. Plankton nodded, his antennas drooping slightly. "Okay," he murmured, his eye unfocused. "How about we play a game?" she suggested.
š°šØš«šš¬: šŸ“šŸ•šŸŽ ā€œPlankton can you at least come out and do the dishes?ā€ Karen says. Her husband Plankton has been working at his desk, trying to plan and scheme. She brought him his meals for the past two days. He stayed up all night! ā€œHoney?ā€ No response. So she decided to go check on him. She goes to peek through the door. Plankton sat at his desk, slumped over, fast asleep. She saw his head nodded to the side, resting on his arm. A soft snore echoed in the silence. She noticed he was drooling a bit from his open mouth onto a stack of crumpled papers. Karen approached him. "Plankton," she cooed, placing her hand on his shoulder. He didn't budge. Karen gently shook him, but his snores grew louder. ā€œCā€™mon, sweetie, time to wake up.ā€ She whispered, but his sleep was unyielding. With a gentle tug on the shoulder, she managed to pull his body upright, a line of drool still connecting his mouth to the paper. "Come on, Plankton," she said more firmly, this time her hand on his cheek, her thumb wiping away the drool, head lolling backward with a snort. ā€œPlankton, darling, please come to bed. You have been working so hard. Letā€™s get some rest,ā€ she urged with a smile. But Plankton was too deeply asleep to hear her soft voice. His eye remained closed. With a sigh, Karen decided to get him up out of this chair herself. She took his arm and began to lift his weight from the chair. Plankton's body resisted, his head falling to her side with a dull thud. Karen chuckled, his snoring now vibrating. She managed to get him out of the chair. "Just a few steps, love," she murmured, but Plankton's snores grew like a crescendo in an orchestra. His limp body leaned into her like a ragdoll with no bones. She hoists him up on her shoulder, his arm dangling loosely, his snores growing rhythmic like a lullaby in a cartoon. The room was a mess, papers scattered like tiny white waves across the ocean of their living room. She stepped over them carefully, not wanting to wake his slumbering form. His office chair screeched as she pushed it aside with her foot, the sound like nails on a chalkboard in the quiet of the night. Plankton's arm slid off Karen's shoulder. She giggled nervously, his snoring now a symphony of sounds. She readjusted her grip, his head lolling against her. "Almost there," she whispered, her cheeks flushed with a mix of love and exasperation. The bedroom door creaked open like the entrance to a secret passage. Plankton's snores were a gentle soundtrack to the silent dance of her struggle. The bed looked like a mountain from here. She took a deep breath, bracing herself for the climb. With his arm slung over her neck, his body limp, she began the ascent. Step by step, she inched closer. As she reached the bed, he slipped again, this time his head lolling back to hang over the edge of the mattress. ā€œOh no, you donā€™t!ā€ she exclaimed, his weight making her stumble. With a laugh that was half exhaustion, half endearment, she tugged him up and laid him down gently. Karen watched his chest rise and fall in deep sleep. The room was dimly lit by the moon, his snores a soothing white noise in the quiet.
SPONGEBOB OVERLOAD 1/2 (By NEUROFABULOUS) The morning light peeked through the blinds, painting stripes on the bedroom floor. Karen stirred in her sleep, sitting up. Her husband, Plankton, slept peacefully beside her, his arms wrapped around a pillow. Karen looked over at him, his face calm and serene. The digital alarm clock read 7:00 AM. She carefully slid out of bed, trying not to disturb his slumber. "Karen," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. She paused, half in and half out of the bed. Did he wake? But Plankton's snores grew softly, his breathing even. She sighed with relief. Their son Chip, a lanky teenager, was already up. Karen could hear his footsteps thundering down the hallway, his energy palpable even through the closed bedroom door. He burst into the room, a tornado of teenage angst and excitement. "Mom! Dad!" he shouted. "It's the day!" Karen winced at his volume. Plankton stirred, his eye slitting open. "What is it?" he asked, his voice groggy. "The science fair!" Chip exclaimed, his screen flushed with excitement. Plankton's eye shot open and he sat up instantly, his mind racing. The patty heist. Today was the day he had been meticulously planning for weeks. He had overheard Mr. Krabs, his rival at the Krabby Patty, bragging about their restaurant's dominance over the competition. Plankton had to have it. "Chip, buddy," he said, his voice a mix of sleep and urgency. "I will try to make it, but canā€™t guarantee it. But Karen, I mean ā€˜Momā€™ can.." Karen's eyes widened, but she nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. Her husbandā€™s obsession with Krabby Patties had taken over again. "I'll be there for you, buddy," she assured Chip, trying to mask her own disappointment. Plankton threw the covers off, swinging his tiny legs over the side of the bed. His eye was sharp with focus, his mind already racing with the complexities of his heist. "I'll make it quick," he told Karen, kissing her screen. Plankton tiptoed, his heart pounding. The office door was closed, but unlocked. He eased it open, his eye darting around the room, searching for any signs of movement. Mr. Krabs and SpongeBob were deep in conversation, their backs to the door. Plankton took a deep breath and slipped in, his tiny frame barely making a sound. "Halt!" Mr. Krabs spun around, his beady eyes locking onto Plankton. His face grew red with anger. "What do ye think yer doing here?" Plankton froze, his heart thumping in his chest. "I... I... was just looking for a... a... " He searched for a plausible lie, but his mind was a whirlwind of panic. Mr. Krabs' glower deepened. "Don't lie to me, ye tiny scoundrel! I know what yer after, and ye'll not get it!" Mr. Krabs lunged forward, brandishing a heavy spatula. Plankton squeaked in alarm, trying to dodge the blow. But his reflexes weren't quick enough. The metal spatula connected with his head with a sickening crack, sending him crashing to the floor. The room spun around Plankton as darkness closed in. The last thing he heard was SpongeBob's startled, "Mr. Krabs!" before the world went silent. Mr. Krabs looked down at Plankton's crumpled form, his expression a stormy mix of anger and triumph. He turned to his trusty fry cook. "SpongeBob," he barked. "Take this...this... tiny troublemaker out of me office.." Sponge Bob looked at Mr. Krabs, then at Plankton, his face a mask of confusion and concern. He gently scooped Plankton up with one spongy arm, his eyes filled with concern for the unconscious villain. The weight of the situation hit him, and his steps were heavy as he carried his friend out of the office. He could feel the tension in the room as Mr. Krabs watched them go, his glower never leaving Plankton's form. Sponge Bob's mind raced with questions and worry. He had known Plankton for a long time, despite their rivalry over the Krabby Patty formula. They had shared laughs and schemes in the past, but this... He couldn't believe his boss would stoop so low as to attempt to hurt Plankton. As he stepped into the hallway, Sponge Bob quickly scanned for any prying eyes. The corridor was empty, the usual bustle of the Krabby Patty silenced by the early morning hour. Carefully, he navigated through the kitchen, trying not to jostle him. "What have you done?" Sponge Bob whispered to the unconscious Plankton, his voice tight with concern. He couldn't help but feel a pang of anger at his friend's usual foolishness, but his primary thought was to get him to safety. He carefully maneuvered Plankton's limp body past the kitchen appliances. The sizzle of the frying oil and the faint scent of sea salt filled the air, but Sponge Bob's thoughts were elsewhere. With a heavy heart, he carried Plankton's limp form down the narrow alley between the Krabby Patty and the Chum Bucket. The morning was still cool, the sun not yet high enough to warm the concrete. The journey was quick, but it felt like an eternity to Sponge Bob. Each step was precise, each breath measured. He didn't want to cause his friend any more harm. He reached the Chum Bucket, the neon lights flickering weakly in the early morning. With a quick glance around to ensure no one was watching, he slipped inside, the smell of stale chum and machinery assaulting his nostrils. "Karen!" he called out softly, his voice echoing in the small space. "Karen, it's Sponge Bob; I need your help!" Karen rushed to the front of the Chum Bucket, her eyes widening at the sight of her husband's lifeless body. "What happened?" she asked, her voice trembling. Sponge Bob gently laid Plankton down on their couch, his eyes filled with remorse. "He... he tried to steal the Krabby Patty formula again," he stammered. "Mr. Krabs... he hit him." Karen's screen paled as she took in the sight of her injured husband. She quickly moved to his side, feeling for a pulse. It was there, still present. "Oh, Plankton," she whispered, her voice shaking with emotion. Sponge Bob watched, his eyes brimming with apology. "I didn't know what to do," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "Mr. Krabs... he just lost it." Karen's eyes were cold and hard. "Thank you for bringing him home, Sponge Bob," she said, her words clipped. ā€œItā€™s not your fault..ā€ Her voice trailed off as she turned her attention to Plankton. She gently shook his shoulder. "Wake up, Plankton," she whispered. He didn't move. Her eyes searched his face, looking for any sign of consciousness. "Wake up," she said, a bit louder this time, her voice laced with desperation. The silence was deafening. The room felt like it was closing in on them, the air thick with the scent of concern and fear. Karen's voice grew desperate. "Plankton, wake up!" she shouted, patting his cheek gently. There was no response. Panic began to creep into her voice. "Come on, you can do it," she urged, shaking him slightly. "You've got to wake up." Plankton's body remained motionless, his single eye closed tight. Sponge Bob felt the panic swell inside him like a wave crashing against the shore. His heart raced as he watched Karen's desperate efforts to revive her husband. "Maybe we should call a doctor," he suggested, his voice quivering. Karen's eyes snapped to his, a mix of fear and determination. "No," she decided firmly. "We can't involve anyone else. Not yet." The two of them stood silently for a moment, the only sound the ticking of a clock hanging on the wall. They waited, every second seemingly stretching into an eternity. Each tick was a silent plea for Plankton to regain consciousness. Karen's hand hovered over her husband's forehead, feeling for any sign of life. Sponge Bob looked on, his usually cheerful expression now etched with worry. They waited, each second stretching into an eternity, as the morning sun began to creep into the Chum Bucket, casting a pale light over the disheveled scene. The only sounds were the soft whir of the refrigerator and the distant calls of seagulls. Then, a twitch from one of his antennas. It was so slight that Sponge Bob almost missed it. But Karen's gaze was trained on Plankton, and she noticed immediately. Her eyes lit up with hope. "Plankton?" she whispered, her hand moving to his cheek, her voice barely audible. There was another twitch, this time in his brow. Karen's heart leaped in her chest. "Sponge Bob, I think he's coming to." Sponge Bob leaned in closer, his eyes fixed on Plankton's face. "Plankton," he whispered, his voice full of hope. "Can you hear us?" Plankton's eye cracked open, battling against the brightness of the morning. His vision was blurry, and the world spun around him. He moaned softly, his head throbbing with pain. "What happened?" he managed to croak, his voice hoarse and weak. Karen's eyes filled with relief. "You're awake!" she exclaimed, squeezing his hand. "You got hurt at the Krabby Patty."
SPONGEBOB OVERLOAD 2/2 (By NEUROFABULOUS) Plankton's memory was a jumble of images and sounds, but he recaled the confrontation with Mr. Krabs, the spatula, and the pain. He sat up slowly, his head spinning. The pain was intense, but his mind was racing even faster. Plankton looked around the room, his eye trying to make sense of the scene. The Chum Bucket was a mess, his usual order thrown into chaos. Karen's face was a blur of concern, and Sponge Bob hovered close by, his expression filled with a mix of fear and pity. Plankton's mind raced, his thoughts scattered like sand in a storm. He felt a deep disconnect from the world around him, as if he was watching a play in which he was a reluctant participant. His head throbbed, but not just from the blow. It was the pressure of his own thoughts, his brain working overtime to process what had just occurred. Karen noticed the confusion in his expression and squeezed his hand reassuringly. "You had an accident, sweetie," she said softly. "It's okay. You're home now." Plankton's eye darted around the room, his mind struggling to understand the sudden shift in his reality. The noise was overwhelming, each sound a needle pricking his sensitive nerves. "Karen," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "What's happening?" Her gaze softened. "You got hurt, Plankton," she explained gently. "But the science fair," he mumbled, his thoughts jumbled. Karen's expression grew even more concerned. "The science fair can wait, Plankton," she soothed. But Plankton's mind was stuck in a loop, repeating her words. "The science fair can wait Plankton," he echoed, his voice frail and distant. Karen's eyes grew wet with worry. "Yes, dear," she said, stroking his arm. "Your wellbeing is more important." Plankton's eye narrowed as he repeated her words, his voice a mix of stubbornness and determination. "Wellbeing is important," he murmured, his thoughts racing. The words echoed in his head, a maddening loop. "The science fair can wait, Plankton," he whispered to himself, his voice taking on a rhythmic pattern. "Can wait, can wait..." Sponge Bob watched, his heart heavy with concern. He had never seen his friend like this, his usual confidence and scheming reduced to repetitive mumbles. "Plankton," he ventured cautiously, placing a spongy hand on his shoulder. Plankton's eye snapped to his, the loop breaking for a brief moment. "Sponge Bob," he murmured, his voice still weak. Sponge Bob's heart leaped with hope. "Yes, Plankton, I'm here," he said gently. But Plankton's gaze was distant, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. "Wellbeing is important," he murmured again, the words coming out in a staccato rhythm, his mind locked in the grip of echolalia. Karen's heart clenched with fear. This wasn't just disorientation from his injury. This was something more. "Sponge Bob," she whispered urgently. "I think he's in shock." Sponge Bob nodded, his face a mask of concern. "I'll get some water," he said, rushing to the sink. He filled a glass and hurried back, careful not to spill a drop. Plankton's eye followed the glass, his gaze unfocused. He began to rock back and forth slightly. Karen noticed the change in his behavior, her concern deepening. "Here, drink some water," she urged, offering the glass to his shaking hand. Plankton took it without a word, his motions mechanical. He brought the glass to his lips, but his hand trembled so badly that water sloshed out, spilling down. The moment the cool liquid hit the floor, a strange look passed over his face. It was as if he had seen a ghost, his single eye going wide with alarm. "The water," he stammered, his voice shaking. Karen's heart sank as she watched her husband's distress. "It's okay, Plankton," she soothed. "It's just water..." But Plankton's eye were glued to the spilled water, his entire body trembling. "It's... it's not right," he muttered, his voice filled with a childlike fear. Karen looked confused, the spilled water seemingly a minor issue. ā€œPlankā€¦ā€ ā€œItā€™s not right!ā€ Planktonā€™s voice was urgent now, his trembling hand gesturing at the spill. His mind was a whirlwind of disturbing thoughts, each more distressing than the last. Sponge Bob and Karen exchanged worried glances. ā€œWhat do you mean, Plankton?ā€ Sponge Bob asked, kneeling beside the couch, his eyes full of concern. Plankton's breathing grew rapid, his chest heaving. "The... the... water," he stuttered, pointing at the puddle. "It's too... too... much!" Karen's gaze flitted to the floor, then back to her husband. "It's okay," she soothed, her voice quaking with fear. "It's just a little spill." But Plankton's agitation only grew. He flung the glass aside, the remaining water splattering against the wall. "No!" he shouted, his voice high and desperate. "Too much!" Karen and Sponge Bob watched in horror as Plankton collapsed into a sobbing mess, his tiny body wracked with tremors. His hands fluttered in his face, his breath coming in quick, sharp gasps. The room grew claustrophobic, the air thick with his panic. "It's okay," Karen whispered, her voice shaking. "It's just water, Plankton." But his anguished cries only grew louder. Sponge Bob's heart ached as he watched his friend fall apart before his eyes. Plankton's behavior was unlike anything he had ever seen, his usual cunning replaced with a raw, overwhelming fear. The room grew smaller as Plankton's sobs filled the space, his body convulsing with the intensity of his breakdown. Karen looked at Sponge Bob, her expression a mix of despair and determination. They both knew they had to calm him down, but how? Sponge Bob took a deep breath, trying to think. "Plankton," he said softly, his voice a gentle coax. "Look at me, buddy. It's just a spill. It's okay." Plankton's cries grew louder, his body shaking uncontrollably. Karen wrapped her arms around him, trying to soothe the storm raging inside his mind. "Shh, it's okay," she murmured, her voice barely audible over his cries. Sponge Bob's heart was in his throat as he watched his friend's breakdown. Plankton was not his usual self. The usually scheming, sneaky scientist was reduced to a quivering mess, his sobs echoing off the walls of the tiny Chum Bucket. His face was a mask of fear and confusion, his single eye wide with panic. "Plankton, please," Karen begged, her voice trembling. "You're scaring me." She scans his brain. The results were not what she expected. The blow from Mr. Krabs had caused more damage than she could have imagined. The injury had altered his brain chemistry in a way that was both profound and irreversible. Plankton had developed a rare condition called acquired autism, a disorder that could occur after a severe head trauma. It was a cruel twist of fate for a man whose life had been consumed by the desire for the Krabby Patty formula. The realization hit Karen like a tidal wave, knocking the wind out of her. Her eyes filled with tears as she whispered the diagnosis to Sponge Bob and Plankton. His expression mirrored her shock and sadness. Sponge Bob sat silent for a moment, his usually cheerful face contorted with sympathy and concern. "What do we do?" he asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper. ā€œCan you clean the mess?ā€ Karen asks him. He nodded solemnly, his movements slow and deliberate as he stood up to mop the spilled water. As he worked, he couldn't help but feel a deep sorrow for his friend. Plankton had always been the troublemaker, the one who pushed boundaries. But now, his world was shattered. The silence in the room was only broken by Plankton's sobs and the swish of the mop. Sponge Bob's heart felt heavy as he cleaned up the water, his thoughts racing. He couldn't believe what he had just heard. His best friend, his rival, his... his family. Plankton had always been there, through thick and thin, and now he was... different. And yet, thatā€™s ok.
PATRICK PLANKTON 1/4 (NEURODIVERGENT AUTHOR) Patrick went in the Chum Bucket where Plankton lives with Karen. "Welcome to the Chum Bucket Patrick," Karen called out. Patrick waved back, eyes lighting up at the sight of the various contraptions and inventions that lined the walls. He always found Plankton's fascinating, a stark contrast to the bright and bustling SpongeBob's pineapple house. The Chum Bucket was like a treasure trove of mysteries waiting to be uncovered, and Patrick loved a good mystery. He wandered further into the lab, his footsteps echoing off the metal floors, each step revealing more of Plankton's ingenious creations. Suddenly he spotted a tiny figure hunched over a book on a couch. It was Plankton, his single eyeball glued to the pages, oblivious to the world around him. The book's title, "101 Ways to Steal the Krabby Patty Secret Formula," was barely visible under a thick layer of dust. "Hey, Plankton!" Patrick bellowed, his voice booming like a foghorn in the small, cluttered space. The sudden noise caused Plankton to jump, sending his book flying into the air. "What are you reading?" Karen, who had been quietly watching the scene unfold from her desk, couldn't help but notice that Plankton had not moved a muscle since the book flew from his grasp. His body remained rigid, his eyeball unblinking. Concern crept into her voice as she called out to him, "Plankton, are you ok?" The tiny villain didn't respond, his expression frozen in a silent scream. Patrick looked around, puzzled. "Is he playing a game?" he asked, his tone hinting at the innocent curiosity that often got him into trouble. Karen recognized immediately went to the couch and sat by Plankton, Patrick not knowing what's happening. Karen's gaze fell upon Plankton's unblinking eye and she knew instantly what was wrong. He was in a state of sensory overload. She had seen it happen before, though Patrick hasn't. She gently touched his shoulder, trying to coax him back to reality. "Plankton, sweetiep," she cooed. Patrick's puzzled expression grew more concerned as he took in Plankton's unresponsive state. "What happened to him, Karen?" he asked, his voice quieter now, a hint of worry in his tone. "It's his sensory shutdown, Patrick," Karen explained softly, stroking Plankton's arm gently. "It's like his brain got too full of thoughts and had to take a little break. It's ok, he'll be fine." She knew this was something he'd have to come out of on his own. She had been there for him countless times before, each instance more terrifying than the last, but she had learned patience was key. Patrick, still not fully grasping the situation, knelt beside the couch. He leaned in closer to Plankton nearly touching the little plankton's face. "Hey buddy you ok?" he asked, his voice now a gentle whisper. Karen put a hand on Patrick's arm, gently guiding him back. "Just give him some space, Patrick," she instructed. "He'll come around. This happens when he's really stressed or overwhelmed." Patrick nodded slowly, his eyes still glued to his friend. He didn't fully understand, but he knew that Karen knew what she was talking about. He stepped back, allowing Karen to continue her soothing whispers to Plankton. The room grew quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of a clock that had long ago lost track of time and the soft hum of machines in the background. The tension in the air was palpable, as if it too was holding its breath, waiting for Plankton to snap out of his frozen state. "You can do it, Plankton," she encouraged. "Just breathe." Plankton's body slowly relaxed, and his eye blinked, finally coming back into focus. He looked around, bewildered, as if he had just woken from a particularly vivid nightmare. "Karen?" he croaked, his voice weak and trembling. "I'm here, Plankton," she said, her hand still resting on his arm. "You had another shutdown, but it's over now." His eye narrowed on Patrick, who was now standing awkwardly by the couch. "What?" Plankton snapped. Patrick's eyes widened. "I-I just want to see what was wrong," he stuttered. "Well, nothing's wrong with me!" Plankton spat pushing himself up from the couch. "But you were just..." Patrick started to protest. "I said there's nothing wrong!" Patrick took a step back. "But..." "Just leave me alone!" Plankton shouted, echoing off the cold metal walls. Patrick's smile faded, and he looked down. He hadn't meant to upset his friend, but he couldn't help but feel confused and hurt by Plankton's sudden outburst. "I-I'm sorry, Plankton," he murmured. "I didn't mean to... I just..." "You just what?" Plankton cut him off, antennae quivering with irritation. "You just don't know to mind your business do you?" "But I just..." "I said leave me alone!" Plankton barked again, his tiny frame shaking with anger. Patrick took another step back, his eyes brimming with confusion. "Plankton..." "What part of 'leave me alone' don't you understand?" Plankton retorted. Patrick's eyes searched the room, desperate to find something to say or do that would fix the situation. The air grew thick with the tension of Plankton's frustration and Patrick's fear of losing a friendship he had worked hard to maintain despite their many differences. "I just..." he began again, his voice trailing off as he tried to find the right words. "What is it?" Plankton snarled, impatience growing with each passing second. Patrick took a deep breath, trying to compose his thoughts. "I just wanted to make sure you were ok because I don't know what's wrong with you," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "Wrong with me?" Plankton's voice grew louder, his tiny fists clenching at his sides. "You think there's something wrong with me?!" Patrick took another step back, his eyes never leaving Plankton's furious gaze. "Well, you know you were just sitting there, not moving..." "It's none of your business!" Plankton yelled, his antennae quivering with rage. "What's it to you anyway?" Karen, who had been watching the exchange with a growing sense of unease, knew that she had to intervene. She could see the hurt in Patrick's eyes and the turmoil within Plankton's, and she knew that their friendship was hanging by a thread. Carefully, she stood up from her chair and approached the two, her movements deliberate and calming. "Plankton, honey, let's not get too worked up," she said placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Patrick didn't mean any harm. He's just worried about you." Patrick nodded emphatically, his hands raised in a gesture of peace. "Yeah, buddy, I just want to help." But Plankton's anger didn't subside. "You don't get it do you? I don't need your help, or your pity. I just want you to leave me alone!" Karen's gaze softened as she looked at her husband. "Patrick, I know you mean well, but sometimes Plankton needs his space." Patrick's eyes darted from Karen to Plankton, his confusion now mixed with a hint of sadness. "But, I thought..." Karen stepped between them, her eyes filled with understanding. "Patrick, sometimes Plankton just needs a moment." She turned to Plankton, her voice firm but gentle. "And Plankton, you know Patrick only wants to be there for you." Plankton's eye narrowed, but he didn't argue. He just nodded curtly, embracing her hand. "Ok," Patrick murmured, his voice heavy with disappointment. "Look, Patrick," Karen said, her voice measured and soothing, "Plankton's got a condition." Karen turns to Plankton as Patrick comes back by them. "Plankton, may you explain to Patrick?" Plankton let out a heavy sigh, his tiny shoulders rising and falling dramatically. Patrick's expression grew more concerned, his pink star-shaped body inching closer to the couple. "Plankton, don't be scared.." "I'm not scared!" Plankton barked, his antennae shooting straight up. "I just don't need you poking in to my business!" Patrick's eyes grew wide, and he took a tentative step back. "But..." "But nothing!" Plankton spat, curling inward to Karen. "I don't need your help, I don't need your pity, and I certainly don't need you treating me like some sort of lab experiment!" Ignoring the barb, Patrick took a step closer, his tentacles reaching out to pat Plankton's shoulder. It was a gesture of comfort he'd seen SpongeBob use countless times, and it had always worked to soothe his frayed nerves. But as soon as his hand made contact, Plankton flinched violently, as if he'd been scalded. "Don't touch me!" he yelled, shoving Patrick's hand away. Patrick's eyes went wide, and he took a hasty step back, his tentacles retreating into his body. "I'm sorry, Plankton," he stammered, his voice full of genuine remorse. "I didn't mean to..."
WISDOM WITH TEETH 1/2 Karen glanced at the clock, its digital display reading 7:58 AM. "Alright, Plankton, it's time to get up. The dentist's appointment is at 8:30," she says. Groaning, Plankton pulls the covers over his head. "Do we have to go right now?" he mumbles. "I'm not even hungry for breakfast." Karen rolls her eyes and smiles. "No, honey, you're not supposed to eat before the surgery. Come on." The drive to the dental office is filled with tension. The scent of antiseptic greets them as they walk in. Finally, the nurse calls his name, and his heart skips a beat. Karen squeezes his hand reassuringly as they follow her down the hallway. The chair in the operating room is a monstrous contraption that looms over him like a predator ready to devour him. The nurse tells him to sit, and he does, reluctantly. The doctor enters the room. He explains the procedure in detail. The nurse wraps a blood pressure cuff around his arm, and he feels the squeeze. "Everything looks good," she says, smiling. "Now, let's get you all set up." The anesthesiologist arrives, wheeling in a cart filled with syringes and tubes. "Ok Plankton," the doctor says calmly. "This is just to help you relax." Plankton's eye widens, but the room quickly starts to blur. Karen kisses him on the forehead as if from far away. The anesthetic takes hold, and Plankton feels himself slipping into a deep sleep, his fear momentarily fading to the background. The last thing he hears is the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor, and then silence. Karen watches her husband from the chair beside him, his chest rising and falling evenly. The doctor and his team spring into action, their movements swift and precise. The nurse notices her tension and offers her a magazine, but she can't tear her eyes away from Plankton's still face, his mouth now open and vulnerable. The whirring of the drill starts up, and she clenches her fists in her lap. She tries to focus on his breathing, until finally, she hears the doctor say, "Alright, we're all done." Relief floods through her, and she exhales deeply. The nurse gently guides Plankton into the recovery room, his face now swollen and his mouth packed with cotton. Karen takes his hand and squeezes it. The room is cool and dim, designed to soothe patients coming out of anesthesia. The doctor enters, his mask now removed, and gives them a thumbs up. "It went well. No complications," he says, and Karen's shoulders drop in relief. She leans in and whispers, "You did so well, honey," though he's still too asleep to hear. The nurse explains that he'll be groggy for a while and that the numbness will wear off. Karen nods, taking in the doctor's instructions about pain medication and diet restrictions. Plankton's snores fill the quiet space, a testament to his deep sleep. She watches his chest rise and fall, the rhythm comforting and steady. The beeping of the monitors creates a backdrop to the scene, a gentle reminder that he's ok. She smooths his antennae with affection. Karen's mind wanders to the day ahead. The errands they'll need to run, the meals she'll have to prep that won't upset his tender mouth. She'll have to be extra careful with him, making sure he doesn't accidentally bite his cheek or tongue. The thought makes her smile, knowing he'll be extra cranky with the pain. But she's ready for it, ready to be his rock through the recovery. The nurse checks Plankton's vitals, her eyes flickering to the monitor before giving Karen an encouraging nod. "He's doing great." Karen nods, her gaze never leaving him. As Plankton starts to stir, his eye blinking open, the world coming back into focus, he looks at Karen with a dazed expression. "Wheh am I?" he slurs, his voice muffled by the cotton in his mouth. Karen laughs softly, her voice soothing like a lullaby. "You're at the dentist, sweetie. You just had your wisdom teeth taken out. It's all over now." He tries to sit up, but the nurse gently presses him back down. "Take it easy," she says. "You're still pretty out of it." Plankton's eye darts around the recovery room, looking for anything familiar. Karen's face is a welcome sight. He reaches for her hand, his own feeling like it's made of rubber. "Whewe awe we?" he asks again, his mind foggy with confusion. The nurse laughs kindly. "You're still a little loopy from the anesthesia," she explains. "You're at the dentist's office. Do you remember the surgery?" Plankton nods slightly, the memory of the needle piercing his skin coming back in a rush. "Ow...teef," he mumbles, his hand moving to his mouth. Karen squeezes his hand, her smile filled with a mix of relief and amusement. "Don't worry, you're ok," she says, speaking slowly and clearly. "You're going to be groggy for a bit, but I'm here with you." The nurse starts to remove the cotton, and Plankton winces at the sudden coldness. "I'm fwothless," he murmurs, his voice still thick with the anesthesia. He tries to sit up again, but his body feels like it's made of jelly. The nurse places an ice pack on his cheek, and the coolness spreads through him like a wave. "You're fine, Mr. Plankton," she says. "Your wife will take you home soon." Karen watches with a blend of love and amusement as he blinks rapidly, his eyes trying to clear the fog. "Whath happened tho me?" he asks, his voice cracking. "You had surgery, remember?" she says, stroking his forehead. He nods, but his gaze is still faraway, lost in the haze of the drugs. "I wanth ice wath," he says, pouting like a child who's lost his favorite toy. Karen laughs. "Here, honey," she says, holding the cup to him. He sips slowly, the cold water soothing his dry throat. He clutches the cup with both hands, his grip weak but determined. "Whewe am I?" he asks again, his voice a whisper. Karen smiles. "You're in the recovery room," she repeats. "They just took out your wisdom teeth." Plankton nods, his eye half-closed. He looks like a little boy who's just woken up from a nap, unsure of where he is or what's happening. He tries to sit up once more, his body moving in slow motion. "Whewe's my bwanket?" he mumbles. "You don't have a blanket, but you have me," Karen says, her voice gentle. The nurse returns with a set of instructions. "Now, remember, no hot food or drinks for the next few days, ok?" the nurse instructs, her tone motherly. He nods, his eye drooping. "No soup either," Karen adds, smiling at the nurse's nod. "Only soft things, like mashed potatoes and pudding." The nurse hands him a cup of ice chips. "Here you go," she says, placing them in his hand. He looks at her with a mix of gratitude and confusion. "Ice wath?" he repeats, his fingers fumbling to bring the cup to his mouth. The cold sensation jolts him back to reality, and he crunches on them with gusto, dropping a few onto his chest. Karen quickly wipes them off with a napkin, trying not to laugh at his childlike antics. The nurse leaves them with a final smile and a promise to check back soon. Plankton looks around the room again, his eye wide and uncertain. "Whath's thith?" he asks, pointing at the IV in his hand. "It's your pain medication, Plankton," Karen explains, her voice soft and soothing. "It's to help you feel better." He nods, his eye half-closed, and snuggles against her shoulder. "Tank you, Kahen," he mumbles, his speech still slurred. "You're welcome," she whispers, stroking his hair. "You're going to be ok." The room spins slightly around him, and he feels his eyelid growing heavy. With the coldness of the recovery room and the warmth of Karen beside him, Plankton slips back into a doze, his breathing deepening. The nurse returns, checking his vitals and giving Karen a knowing smile. "It's normal for him to be a bit out of it. The anesthesia can take a while to wear off. He'll be more lucid in a bit." Plankton's eye flutters open, and he looks around the room again, drool forming at the corner of his mouth as he tries to articulate. "Whewe's...my...bwanket?" he asks, his voice a slurred mess. Karen chuckles with love and pity. "You don't need a blanket," she says, wiping the drool away with a tissue. "You're right here with me." He looks down at the ice chips in his hand, and then back up at Karen, his expression puzzled. "Mashed potatoes?" he repeats, his voice hopeful. "Yes, mashed potatoes," she confirms, laughing lightly. "And maybe some Jell-O for dessert." The mention of food seems to perk him up, and his eye brightens slightly. But the drowsiness wins, and he lets his head loll back onto the chair, his breathing deepening. Karen watches him with a mixture of love and concern. The sight of him, so vulnerable and childlike, tugs at her heartstrings. She can't help but wonder what kind of day this will be, caring for him like this. But she's ready for it, ready to be the strong one.
WISDOM WITH TEETH 2/2 The nurse returns with a wheelchair. "Alright, Mr. Plankton," she says with a smile. "Let's get you up and moving." He looks at her with a dazed expression, his mouth hanging open slightly as he drools onto his chest. "Whath's the maddah?" he asks, his words jumbled. Karen tries to hide her smile as she gently wipes his mouth with a tissue. "You're just groggy, sweetie. The anesthesia's wearing off," she explains, taking his hand. "Let's get you into the chair." With her help, Plankton manages to stand, his legs shaky beneath him. The nurse places the wheelchair behind him, and he plops down with a sigh of relief, the chair's cushions enveloping his frail frame. His drool hangs from his mouth like a tiny waterfall, and she can't help but lean in and kiss him gently on the forehead. He looks up at Karen with the wide, wondering eye of a toddler discovering the world for the first time. "Whath's...thath?" he asks, his gaze fixed on the wheelchair. Karen laughs lightly, her hand still steadying his arm. "It's for you to sit in so you don't have to walk all the way to the car." He nods slowly, the action causing his antennae to wobble. With a gentle push from the nurse, the wheelchair begins to move, and Plankton looks like a lost child in an unfamiliar playground. His drool forms a small puddle in his lap, and Karen graciously hands him another napkin. The corridor outside the recovery room is a blur of white walls and sterile equipment, but the warmth of Karen's hand on his shoulder keeps him anchored. "Whath's...thath?" he asks again, his gaze fixed on the ceiling lights as they pass above him. They look like stars, twinkling in an alien sky. Karen smiles patiently, pointing out each one. "They're just lights, Plankton. We're in the hallway now." His eye follows the nurse's hand as she opens the door to the waiting area. She can see the fear and confusion in his gaze, but she knows it's just the drugs. A young couple with a toddler looks over as they pass by. The little girl giggles, pointing at his mouth. "Mommy, why is he drooling?" she asks innocently. The mother blushes and pulls her daughter away, muttering an apology to Karen. Plankton's cheeks redden, and he tries to wipe his mouth discreetly with the back of his hand. "It's ok," Karen whispers, her voice a gentle breeze. "You're just a little out of it." He nods, his gaze still mesmerized by the lights. "Whath's thath?" he asks again, pointing at a framed poster on the wall. Karen leans in to look. "It's a picture of a happy family," she says, her voice a balm to his confusion. His antennae twitch, and he nods again, the motion setting off a fresh wave of drool. The nurse wheels him out to the car, and Karen helps him into the passenger seat, his body moving like a ragdoll. "Buckle up, Plankton," she says, and he fumbles with the seatbelt, his hands slipping over the buckle. She fastens it for him, his cheek pressed against the cool leather. "Whewe's we going?" he slurs, his voice laced with sleep. "Home," she says. His mouth hangs open slightly, a string of drool connecting his bottom lip to his chin. "Whath's happening?" he mumbles, his head lolling to the side. "You're ok, honey. We're just driving home." She keeps her voice low, hoping to keep the outside world at bay. The car jolts over a bump, and Plankton's eye snaps open. "Ow," he whines, his hand flying to his mouth. The cotton has shifted, and the pain is sharp. Karen quickly reaches over and readjusts it, her touch gentle. "You're ok," she whispers. "Whath's this?" he slurs, his hand fumbling with the seatbelt. "It's keeping you safe," she says, her voice steady and calm. "Just hold on, ok?" He nods, his eyelid drooping almost immediately. "Whath's...whath's..." he mumbles before falling asleep. Then his head nods forward, jerking back up as he started to doze off. He wakes with a snort, the cotton still lodged in his mouth. Karen laughs softly, reaching over to remove it. "Almost there, sweetie," she says. His eye is glassy, and he nods, his head lolling again. The car hits another bump, and his eye flies open again, wide with panic. "Whe... whath...whath's happening?" he asks, his voice high pitched. "It's ok," Karen repeats, keeping her tone calm and soothing. "We're just driving home. Try to relax." Plankton's eye closes, and for a brief moment, the car is silent except for the purr of the engine. But then he's jolted awake again, his head snapping back with a start. "Whewe awe we?" he asks, his voice slurred. "Almost home, sweetie," Karen says, her voice steady. He nods, his head falling back onto the headrest. The car's movement rocks him like a cradle, and his eye closes with a snore. But the jostle of a turn wakes him up with a start. "Whath's happening?" he mumbles, his eye unfocused. The world outside the window is a blur of colors and shapes. Karen smiles, taking his hand in hers. "Just a turn. We're almost there." Another snore escapes his throat, and his head lolls to the side again. Karen gently shakes him awake. "We're home," she says, her voice a beacon in the fog. He blinks, his vision swimming with sleep. "Whe...whe...whath's that?" he asks, his voice barely a murmur as the car slows to a stop. "Whe...whath's going on?" he asks again. His eye is heavy, and his words are a jumble. With a sigh, she unbuckles his seatbelt and helps him out of the car, his legs still wobbly. The cool breeze slaps his face, and he winces. "Home," he murmurs, his eye half-closed. Karen guides him to the front door, his steps labored. The house is quiet, save for the distant hum of the refrigerator. Inside, she helps him to the couch, where he flops down like a ragdoll, his body heavy with exhaustion. "Whe...whe...whath's that?" he asks again, his head lolling to the side. Karen chuckles softly. "It's our living room, Plankton," she says, placing a pillow under his head, but Plankton barely registers. "Whath's that?" he asks again, his gaze wandering to the TV. It's off, but in his drug-induced haze, it's a source of fascination. Karen sits down beside him, his body a dead weight against the couch cushions. She takes his hand in hers, her thumb tracing circles on his palm. "It's just the TV, honey. You don't need to worry about it." He nods, his head still lolling to the side. "Whe...whath awe we washing?" His question hangs in the air, and she laughs softly. "We're not watching anything. It's off." The TV seems to beckon to him, and he tries to sit up, his body protesting. "Whe...whath's on?" he slurs, his antennae waving sluggishly. "It's not on, Plankton," Karen says, her voice a warm embrace. "Why don't you just rest?" She tucks the throw blanket around his shoulders and reclines the sofa. His eyelid flickers, the struggle between sleep and curiosity evident. The room starts to spin, and Plankton's antennae wave erratically. "I'm... so tiwed," he mumbles, his words a gentle protest. Karen nods, her smile understood. "Sleep, sweetie. I'll be here when you wake up." He nods, his eyelid fluttering closed, and his breathing becomes deep and rhythmic. Karen watches him for a moment, his chest rising and falling with the comfort of a sleeping babe's. Then she gently slides the blanket over him, his snores the only sound piercing the quiet. The room dims as the afternoon sun moves behind the curtains, casting a soft glow across the living room. Plankton's hand, still clutching Karen's, slips to the floor with a thump, and his snores grow louder. Karen chuckles, reaching for it to place it gently on his chest. His breathing is slow and even, his chest rising and falling beneath the blanket. Karen sits for a moment, watching him sleep, her mind racing with all the things she needs to do: prepare his meals, make sure he takes his medicine on time, keep an eye on his swelling. But for now, she's content to just sit and watch him, his features relaxed and peaceful in slumber.
SHELF IMPROVEMENT ii (Autistic author) His eyelid fluttered, and his antennae twitched slightly. He groaned, and she felt his hand move in hers, giving a weak squeeze. "Karen?" he managed to murmur, his voice raspy and distant. Her eyes filled with tears of joy, and she leaned in closer. "Yes, it's me, I'm here," she said, her voice choked. Plankton's single eye slowly opened, blinking a few times as he tried to focus. "What... happened?" he croaked. Karen couldn't hold back her smile. "You fell," she said, her voice still shaky with emotion. "But you're okay, you're okay now." Plankton's gaze swept the room, taking in the wreckage of the shelf. His face contorted in pain, and he winced. "Ow," he muttered, touching his head. "You hit it pretty hard," Karen said. "But you're awake, and that's all that matters." Plankton groaned again, trying to sit up. Karen quickly put a hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him back down. "Take it easy," she said, her voice soothing. "You need to rest." But as she studied his face, she noticed his antennae twitching nervously. "Plankton, are you okay?" she asked, concern lacing her words. His behavior was unusual, even for him. His antennae quivered more erratically than before, and he began to rock back and forth on the couch. "The shelf," he murmured, his voice distant. "Shelf broken." Karen ached for his distress. She had never seen Plankton like this. "What's going on?" she asked, her voice filled with worry. "Why are you acting like this?" His antennae continued to quiver, and he rocked faster. "The shelf," he repeated, his eye dilating with panic. Karen's eyes widened with understanding. "Is it because of the shelf?" she asked, her voice gentle. Plankton nodded, his rocking growing more pronounced. "It's... it's gone," he stuttered, his single eye darting around the room. "Everything's... different." His voice was filled with a mix of fear and confusion. "It's okay," she said, her tone calm and reassuring. "The shelf broke, but we can fix it. We'll get it back the way it was. We'll fix it," she repeated, her voice soothing. "Everything will be just how you like it." Plankton nodded as he stopped rocking, and looked up at her. "Thanking Karen," he whispered, his voice still trembling. Her eyes searched his, seeing the fear slowly recede like the tide. "It's okay, Plankton," she said, smoothing his antennae gently. "Let's get you some water." As she rose to get the water, Plankton's panic grew. "No, no," he stammered, his hand gripping her arm tightly. "Can't... can't leave." Karen froze. She had never seen Plankton like this before. "Plankton," she said, sitting back down next to him, "just breathe." He nodded, his grip on her arm loosening. He took a deep, shaky breath, and his antennae began to still. "It's okay," she said again, her voice a gentle lullaby. "Everything's going to be okay." But Plankton's clearly in distress. Karen wondered if the fall had caused some kind of concussion, or perhaps released some deep-seated anxiety. She had read about these sudden behavioral changes before, but never in the context of Plankton's usually stable demeanor. "Let's just sit here for a while," she suggested. She placed a hand on his shoulder. Plankton nodded against her touch, his body still trembling. He wrapped his arms around his legs, drawing them tight to his chest. Karen's screen filled with concern. This was not the Plankton she knew. His usual confidence and sharpness were replaced by a child- like vulnerability. "It's okay," she repeated, stroking his back in a soothing motion. "You're safe here." Plankton's trembling subsided slightly. He looked at Karen, his eye wide and searching. "It's okay," she whispered, her hand still on his back. "You're safe." But her mind was whirling. Was this a symptom of something more serious than a concussion? Plankton's rocking slowed down, and he finally leaned back into the couch cushions. Karen could see the effort it was taking for him to maintain composure. He was always so independent, so in control. To see him like this was... unnerving. "Karen," he whispered, his voice still tremulous, "Karen, Karen hug?" She lurched at his vulnerability. Plankton was not one to ask for comfort, but his current state was clearly overwhelming him. Without a second thought, she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close. His body was rigid, but gradually, it began to relax into her embrace. Karen felt his breathing even out as he clung to her. "It's okay," she said again, her voice a soft murmur. "You're okay."
SHELF IMPROVEMENT iii (Autistic author) As the minutes ticked by, Plankton's trembling subsided. He looked up at her, his antennae still twitching slightly. "Sorry," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "Plankton sorry Karen." This wasn't like him. Plankton had his quirks, sure, but this was something else entirely. It was as if the fall had shaken something loose in his mind, revealing a part of him she had never seen before. Her arms tightened around his slight frame, and she pressed her screen to his forehead. "Don't be sorry," she whispered. "You're scared, and that's okay." Plankton nodded, his single eye squeezing shut as if to hold in his fear. He leaned into her embrace, his body finally going limp. Karen felt his wetness on her neck, and realized he was crying. "It's okay," she whispered again, her voice the only sound in the silent room. "You're safe with me." Plankton's antennae stilled against her, and she felt his breathing grow calmer. The quiet was unusual for their home, but in this moment, it was a welcome balm. Her mind raced, trying to recall any signs she might have missed, any indication that Plankton was suffering from something deeper than the physical trauma of the fall. Was this a sudden onset of a condition? Or had it been there all along, masked by his quirks and his usual bravado? "Karen," Plankton murmured again, his eye squeezed shut. "Karen Plankton." "It's okay," she soothed. "You're okay." But the silence grew louder, and she knew it was more than just the quiet of their usual bickering. This was a new Plankton, one she wasn't sure how to reach. His repetition of her name was like a mantra, a lifeline to the world he knew. Karen held him closer, her own eyes now brimming with tears. They had been through so much together, and she had always been his anchor, the one constant in his life. But now, she felt adrift, uncertain of how to navigate these uncharted waters. Plankton's grip around her tightened, his breath hitching in sobs. His muttered repeating of her name grew louder, almost frantic. "Karen, Karen, Karen..." It was like he was stuck in a loop, his mind unable to comprehend the sudden change around him. "Shh," she soothed, stroking his back. "It's okay, we're here, together." Plankton's repetition of her name grew more frantic. "Karen, Karen, Karen," he chanted, his voice rising in pitch. "It's okay, Plankton," she said, her voice steady despite her internal turmoil. "Everything's going to be okay." But his chanting continued, growing louder and more desperate. She knew she couldn't just sit here forever, she had to do something. But what? Her mind raced, thinking of all the times Plankton had fixed her when she was broken. Now it was her turn. She had to find a way to reach him. "Plankton," she whispered, her voice steady despite the tremor in her chest. "Look at me." She gently lifted his chin so he was forced to meet her screen. "You're okay, we're together." His eye searched hers, desperation clear in its depths. The chanting of her name grew softer, but didn't cease. Karen's mind raced, trying to think of anything that could help him snap out of this state. "Remember the chum?" she said, her voice trembling slightly. "The time we had a picnic and the seagulls came?" Plankton's chanting paused for a moment, and his eye flickered with recognition. It was a memory from their early days, a moment of shared joy amidst their usual bickering. "Chum," he murmured, his antennae twitching slightly. "Seagulls." Karen's screen lit up with hope. It was a start, a crack in the facade of his fear. "Yes, the seagulls," she said, smiling through her tears. "Remember how we laughed when they stole our sandwiches?" Plankton's antennae twitched again, and a tiny smile graced his lips. "Seagulls," he repeated, his voice a little less shaky. Encouraged, Karen pressed on. "And remember how we chased them together?" Plankton's smile grew slightly, and his antennae moved a bit more naturally. "Chased," he agreed, his voice still wobbly but with a hint of his usual spirit. Karen felt a wave of relief wash over her. He was remembering, engaging with her. "Yes, we chased them, and we got the chum back," she said, trying to keep the conversation going. Plankton's antennae moved slightly, and he nodded, his eye focusing more clearly on her. "Chum," he murmured, his voice stronger now. "Good chum." Karen took a deep, shaky breath, fighting the tears that threatened to fall. She had to keep him grounded, keep him with her. "Yes," she said, her voice determined, "good chum." Plankton's antennae stilled, and he took a deep, ragged breath. "Karen," he said, his voice a little stronger. "Chum." Karen's eyes searched his, seeing the flicker of the man she knew. "Yes, Plankton, chum." The room remained silent, except for the sound of Plankton's deepening breaths. The word "chum" seemed to have a calming effect on his agitated state. He repeated it to himself, his antennae finally stilling. Karen watched him, relief and sadness mingling within her. This was a side of Plankton she had never seen before, a raw vulnerability that made her ache. He was like a lost child, seeking comfort in familiar words. "Chum," he murmured once more, his eye shutting. Karen nodded. "Yes, chum," she said, her voice soothing. Plankton's body relaxed in her arms, his breathing evening out. For a moment, the room remained still, save for the steady rhythm of his breath. But then, his antennae began to move again, not with fear this time, but with something else. It was almost as if his mind was racing, trying to process the world around him. Karen felt his grip on her loosen, his body shifting slightly in the couch cushions. "Plankton?" she asked, her voice tentative. He didn't respond, but his eye fluttered open, his gaze focused on a spot on the wall. "Looks like he's in a trance," Karen thought aloud, her voice barely above a whisper. "What's going on with you?" Plankton's antennae twitched rapidly, as if trying to capture invisible signals. His face was a mask of concentration, his body tense and poised like he was ready to flee. Karen felt a cold wave of understanding wash over her. This wasn't just fear or confusion, it was something deeper. She scanned his brain, and then she saw the results. "Oh, Plankton," she breathed. He had developed autism. The fall had triggered something within his brain, irreversible damage to. She felt a mix of shock and sorrow, but also a fierce determination to support him. "Autism. You're autistic now." He looked at her, his eye blinking in understanding. "Autism," he echoed. "Different." Karen nodded. "Yes, but you're still my Plankton." Plankton's expression was a jumble of emotions. Recognition, fear, confusion, and a tiny spark of hope. "Different," he repeated. "But... same?" Karen nodded, squeezing his hand. "Different, but still my Plankton." She swiped at her tears, determined to be strong for him. "We'll get through this, I promise." Plankton looked at her with a mix of relief and fear. "Karen... love." Karen felt love and pain. "I love you, Plankton," she whispered, her voice shaking. "We'll get through this together." Plankton's antennae stopped twitching for a moment, and he squeezed her hand. "Together," he repeated, his voice small but firm. Karen nodded, swiping at her tears. "We'll face this together, I promise. Now, it's late; let's get to sleep.." She cleaned up the remnants of the shelf.
SHELF IMPROVEMENT iv (Autistic author) The next morning, Karen awoke with the sun, her mind still heavy with the weight of the previous night's discovery. Plankton slept peacefully beside her, his breathing even and deep. For a moment, she allowed herself to hope that was just a bad dream, a fleeting nightmare that would disappear. But when she looked over at him, she knew it was all too real. Her eyes took in the familiar lines of his face, the way his antennae twitched even in sleep. They had faced challenges before, and they would face this one too. Gently, she slipped from the bed, not wanting to wake him. She knew he needed his rest. In the kitchen, she started to make his breakfast smoothie. She had read about autism, knew it could manifest in different ways, but she had never thought it would touch their lives so suddenly, so profoundly. The blender whirred to life, slicing through the fruit and yogurt. The smell of strawberries and bananas filled the room, a stark contrast to the heaviness of her thoughts. As she poured the smoothie into a glass, her mind raced with questions. How would this change their relationship? What did this mean for Plankton's life? What could she do to help him? The sudden sound of footsteps on the floor snapped her out of her thoughts. Plankton. She turned around to see him standing in the doorway, his expression tentative. His eye searched hers, and she forced a smile, hoping to reassure him. "Breakfast," she said, holding out the smoothie. "Your favorite." Plankton's antennae twitched, and he took a step forward, his eye locking onto the glass. "Smoothie," he murmured. Karen clenched at his response, so unlike his usual greeting. "Yes, a strawberry-banana smoothie." Her voice was filled with hope, trying to keep their morning routine as normal as possible. He took the glass from her, his grip careful, his movements precise. He took a sip. Karen watched him. "How does it taste?" she asked, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice. Plankton paused, his eye blinking thoughtfully. "Good," he said finally, his voice still subdued. He took another sip, his expression unreadable. Karen's smile grew wider, genuine this time. "I'm so glad. Why don't you sit down?" She gestured to the kitchen table. "I'll get you some toast." Plankton nodded slowly, his movements deliberate. He sat at the table, his gaze fixed on the smoothie. Karen felt the weight of his silence as she busied herself with the toaster. But the pop of the bread springing up snapped his attention to her. "Too much noise," he mumbled, flinching at the sound. Karen sank. She had forgotten how sensitive his hearing might become. She quickly turned off the toaster and approached the table. "I'm sorry," she said softly, placing the plate of toast before him. "Did the toaster bother you?" Plankton nodded, his antennas quivering slightly. "Noise," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Karen felt a pang of guilt. "I'll be more careful," she promised, placing a gentle hand on his back. She watched as he took a deep breath, visibly trying to regain his composure. They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the new normal pressing down on them like a thick fog. Karen wanted to fill the air with words, to reassure him and herself, but she knew that sometimes silence was the best comfort. As Plankton took a bite of toast, she observed his every move, looking for any signs of distress. His antennae were still, his eye focused on his food. It was as if the world had narrowed to just the two of them and their quiet breakfast. But then, she heard Plankton's words. "Breakfast," he murmured, his antennae twitching. "Did the toaster bother you." It took Karen a second to realize that Plankton was actually responding to his own thoughts. She watched as he paused, his antennae twitching again. "Noise," he said, his voice echoing in the silent room. Was he talking to himself? Or was this a new part of his autism, a way of processing information? "No," she said gently, sitting down beside him. "The toaster is okay now. It's quiet." Plankton nodded, his antennas stilling. He chewed slowly, his gaze flickering to Karen before returning to the bread. "Karen," he said after a moment, his voice clearer now. "The toaster okay says it's quiet, Karen said no is okay now." He was parroting her words, but with a slight delay. It was as if he was trying to make sense of them, to process the conversation in his own time. "Yes, Plankton," she replied. "The toaster is quiet now." Plankton nodded again, his antennae still. He took another bite of toast, chewing slowly. Then, out of the blue, he spoke again, his voice stronger this time. "Karen loves Plankton?" "Yes, Plankton, I do," she replied, her voice steady. "Karen loves you very much." Plankton's antennae twitched once before going still. He took another sip of his smoothie, his face a canvas of contemplation. "Plankton loves Karen," he murmured, almost to himself. It was as if he was reassuring himself of their bond. Karen felt a warmth spread through her. This was a new aspect of his autism, but it was also a sign that he was trying to understand his feelings, to make sense of the world around him. "Yes," she said, squeezing his hand. "And Karen loves Plankton right back." Plankton nodded, his gaze returning to his food. Karen could see the wheels turning in his mind, trying to comprehend the change. He took another sip of his smoothie, his antennae twitching slightly as he swallowed. "Different," he said again. "But same love." Despite the confusion, he had managed to articulate his feelings with a simplicity that was both heartbreaking and beautiful. She squeezed his hand, her screen shimmering with unshed tears. "Yes, Plankton," she said, her voice thick with love. "Same love, no matter what." Plankton's gaze shifted to her, his eye focusing on her damp screen. His antennae stood straight up, and he frowned slightly. "Tears," he said, his voice concerned. "Karen sad?" "No, Plankton," she said softly. "These are happy tears." But she knew that might not make sense to him, so she tried to explain further. "They're because I'm feeling a lot of love for you right now, and my body..." "Love makes Karen sad?" he interrupted. Karen sighed, knowing that explaining emotions to a suddenly autistic Plankton was going to be tough. "No, not sad," she corrected. "They're just tears that come when I'm really happy or overwhelmed with love. It's a good thing, I promise." Plankton's antennae twitched as he processed this information. "Good tears," he murmured. "Karen love making good tears." Karen couldn't help but smile, despite the heaviness of the situation. His childlike innocence was a beacon of light in the darkness. "Yes," she nodded, her voice steady. "Good tears," she said again, her thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped. "Now, let's eat our breakfast, okay?"
PATRICK PLANKTON 3/4 (NEURODIVERGENT AUTHOR) "Here," he said, awkwardly offering a tentacle to help Plankton to his feet. "Let me help you." But Plankton slapped his hand away, his shivering growing more intense. "No," he whispered, his voice barely audible. His body was a wreck of tremors, his tiny frame visibly struggling to hold itself upright. Patrick looked at Karen, his eyes pleading for guidance. Karen nodded gently, understanding the unspoken question. "Just give him some space," she whispered back. The tension in the room was palpable as Patrick took a step back, his tentacles retracting into his body. Plankton's shivering grew worse, his tiny frame seemingly shrinking before their eyes. He wrapped his arms around himself, his legs giving out beneath him. Before Karen could even react, Patrick's instincts took over. He lunged forward, catching Plankton in his strong, star-shaped embrace, preventing him from hitting the cold metal floor. The impact was jarring, but Patrick's concern for his friend outweighed any discomfort he might have felt. "Whoa, buddy," he murmured, his tentacles embracing Plankton's shoulders. "You ok?" Karen watched the scene unfold with a mix of surprise and admiration for the starfish's intuitive care. "P-Patrick," Plankton stuttered, his body still convulsing slightly. Patrick's eyes searched Plankton's face for any sign of pain or discomfort, his tentacles tightening around his friend's shaking body. "It's ok," he murmured, his voice soothing despite the fear that was knotting his insides. "You just had a little episode, but you're ok now." Plankton's body stiffened, his antennae sticking straight out in alarm. "What are you doing?" he hissed, his voice a mix of anger and fear. "Just trying to help," Patrick said, his eyes filled with genuine concern. "You're shaking, and I don't want you to fall." Plankton's antennae drooped, the fight draining from him. "I..." he murmured, wanting to escape Patrick's grasp. But Patrick held firm. "You lean on Karen, yet it's ok to lean on someone else too." Plankton's eye searched the room, desperate to find a way out of this embarrassing situation. "I-I don't need..." But his protests were cut short by a wave of dizziness that washed over him. His legs buckled. "Let me go," he whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and fear. Patrick's tentacles tightened around Plankton slightly, but he didn't let go. "You need to relax," he said softly. "Just breathe." Plankton's shivering grew worse, his teeth chattering like a typewriter on overdrive. "Can't... can't breathe," he managed to get out. Karen stepped in, her eyes filled with a mix of concern and understanding. "Plankton," she said, her voice calm and even, "you need to relax. You're safe." "But he's..." Plankton's protests were cut off by another tremor that rippled through his body. "I know, buddy," Patrick said gently. "But sometimes we all need a little help, even if we don't want to admit it." "Get. Off. Me!" he spat, his voice filled with a desperation that made Patrick's heart ache. But Patrick didn't move. He just held Plankton closer. "You're safe. I just don't want you to..." Plankton's tremors grew more violent, and his eye rolled back into his head again. His tiny body convulsed in Patrick's arms, his antennae flailing wildly. "Patrick, let go!" Karen's voice was sharp with fear. "You're making it worse!" Patrick's tentacles loosened their grip, and Plankton slumped back onto the bed, his body still quivering uncontrollably. Karen's robotic hands moved with surprising gentleness as she tucked him in, scanning his form for any sign of injury. "It's okay," she whispered, her voice a soothing hum. "You're safe now." Patrick hovered nearby, his heart racing. He didn't know what to say or do to make things right. The sight of his friend in such distress was more than he could bear. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his tentacles wringing in his hands. "I didn't mean to..." But Plankton's shivering had stopped, his body going slack. His antennae had dropped to his side, and his single eye was closed. Karen checked his pulse again, her expression unreadable. "He's okay," she said finally, her voice a mix of relief and exhaustion. "Just needs to rest." Patrick hovered by the bedside, feeling helpless. "What can I do?" he asked, his tentacles twitching with the need to help in some way. Karen looked up at him, her expression a mix of gratitude and weariness. "Just be here," she murmured. "And maybe... maybe don't touch him again." Patrick nodded solemnly, his tentacles drooping in defeat. "Okay," he murmured. "I'll just stay." He watched as Karen continued to monitor Plankton's condition, her mechanical movements a stark contrast to the tender way she treated her husband. The silence in the room was heavy with unspoken words and fear. "I had no idea," Patrick whispered, his gaze never leaving Plankton's still form. "It's not something he talks about," Karen said gently. "But you should know. Plankton's episodes are often triggered by sudden movements, loud noises, or physical contact." Patrick nodded, his gaze still on Plankton. "I didn't mean to scare him," he said softly. Karen's eyes met his, filled with understanding. "I know, Patrick," she said. "But you have to understand, Plankton's condition makes him sensitive to certain things." Patrick nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving Plankton's face. "What exactly are triggers?" he asked, his voice a low murmur. "Well," Karen began, her voice taking on the tone of a teacher explaining a complex concept, "triggers are basically anything that sets off Plankton's condition. They can be anything from a sudden sound to someone touching him without warning. It's like his brain gets overstimulated and shuts down to protect itself." Patrick listened intently, his eyes never leaving Plankton's still form. "So, I shouldn't..." Karen interrupted gently, "you shouldn't surprise him, especially with physical contact." Patrick nodded, his tentacles stilling as he took in the gravity of the situation. He had never thought about how his actions could affect someone in such a profound way. "How can I help then?" he asked, his voice small. "Just be there," Karen said, her hand patting his shoulder. "Talk to him, keep things calm. And if he starts to get overwhelmed, just let him be. Sometimes, that's all he needs." Patrick nodded, taking in her words. He knew he wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but he could do this. Be there for his friend without smothering him. He could be that rock that Plankton could lean on without crushing him. "Okay," he murmured, "I can do that." Karen turned her attention back to Plankton, her robotic eyes scanning his body for any signs of improvement. "He's resting now," she said, her voice a soft whisper. "But he might be irritable when he wakes up." Patrick nodded, his gaze never leaving his friend. "What can I do to make sure he doesn't get to upset?" he asked, his tentacles twitching with anxiety. "Look for signs," Karen said. "If his antennae start to twitch, or he seems distant it might be time to give him some space." Patrick nodded, his eyes searching Plankton for any signs of distress. He didn't want to cause his friend any more pain, especially after seeing him like this. "What else?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Look at his breathing," Karen instructed, her gaze focused on Plankton's chest rising and falling in slow, shallow movements. "If it gets rapid or erratic, he's likely overwhelmed." Patrick nodded, watching intently as Plankton's chest moved with each breath. "Ok" he murmured, "I'll keep an eye on that." Karen's gaze softened, looking up at the starfish. "It's more than just that, Patrick," she said gently. "It's about understanding him, knowing what sets him off." Patrick nodded, his eyes focused on Plankton. "So, what are the signs?" Karen paused, considering her words carefully. "Well, it's like reading a book," she began. "You have to pay attention to the little things, the subtle cues that tell you how he's feeling." "Subtle cues?" he repeated, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Yes," Karen nodded. "Like how he reacts when you touch him. Sometimes, it can be soothing. Other times, it can be overwhelming." She paused, her eyes scanning Plankton's form for any signs of distress. "It's all about reading his cues." Patrick leaned in closer, his tentacles stilling. "How do know if it's helping or hurting, or what type of touching?" "It's different for everyone with his condition," Karen explained, still on Plankton's sleeping form. "But for Plankton, it's usually about pressure." Patrick's eyes widened. "What do you mean?" Karen demonstrated with her robotic arm, applying gentle pressure to Patrick's shoulder. "Like this," she whispered. "Soft, comforting touches can help him feel grounded." Patrick tentatively reached out with a tentacle, mimicking the light touch. He watched as Plankton's sleeping body tensed for a moment before relaxing slightly. "Is that ok?" he asked, his voice barely above a murmur. "Just keep it gentle," Karen reminded him, her eyes still on her husband. "And pay attention to his reactions."
PATRICK PLANKTON 4/4 (NEURODIVERGENT AUTHOR) Patrick nodded, his tentacle hovering above Plankton's shoulder. He was about to touch him again when Karen spoke up. "Remember, Patrick," she said, her voice a soft hum, "it's all about his comfort. If he seems tense or pulls away, you know to ease off." Patrick nodded, his tentacle poised in the air ready to offer comfort without causing more distress. "Okay," he murmured his eyes never leaving Plankton's peaceful, if slightly troubled, face. "Soft and gentle.." "Yes," Karen said. "And if he flinches or seems more uncomfortable, I know to stop immediately." Patrick nodded solemnly retreating. "I don't wanna worsen," he whispered. "You won't," Karen assured him. "Just remember, Plankton's condition isn't your fault. And he's lucky to have a friend like you who cares enough to learn." Patrick nodded, his tentacles stilling as he absorbed the information. He looked down at his massive starfish body, feeling clumsy and awkward next to Plankton's frail frame. "How do I know if I'm touching him the right way?" he asked, his voice tentative. "Just watch for his reactions," Karen instructed, her robotic eyes flickering as she observed Plankton's peaceful expression. "If he relaxes, you're doing it right. If not, you're doing too much." Patrick nodded, his tentacles hovering anxiously. "But how do I show him interest and care, without touching?" Karen considered his question, her robotic brain processing. "Words can be powerful, too," she said finally. "Ask him about his day, what he's been working on. Show genuine interest in his life." Patrick nodded, his tentacles retracting slightly. "I can do that," he murmured. "Plankton enjoys talking about his inventions," Karen began. "He finds solace in the predictability of science and engineering. It's his way of making sense of the world." Patrick nodded, his gaze thoughtful. "So, I should ask him about his latest gizmo?" "Exactly," Karen said with a small smile. "And listen, really listen to what he has to say. It's his way of sharing his world with you." Patrick nodded, his eyes reflecting his determination to be a better friend. "Instead of physical affection, what else might he like to show I care?" he asked eager to learn more. "Plankton's quite fond of his pet, Spot," Karen said, her voice a mix of fondness and amusement. "You could offer to help play with Spot, or even bring a little treat for him." Patrick's eyes lit up at the mention of the tiny amoeba puppy. "Really?" he asked, his tentacles unfurling slightly. "Yes," Karen said with a smile, "Spot is a source of great comfort to him, they enjoy each other." She paused, considering. Patrick's tentacles began to twitch with excitement. "Could you get Spot?" he asked, his voice hopeful. "Maybe having Spot here would help him feel better when he wakes up." Karen's smile grew. "That's a wonderful idea, Patrick," she said, and glided out of the room, to get Spot. Plankton's antennae twitched, and his eye began to flutter open. "Wha..." Karen returned with Spot in tow, the little amoeba wagging its tail. She placed the small creature gently on the bed with Plankton. "Look who's here to see you," she said, voice a gentle coo. Plankton's antennae perked up at the sight of his little amoeba bounced over. Patrick watched as the tiny creature brought a rare smile to Plankton's face. "Hey, bud," Plankton murmured. Spot in Plankton's arms, licking his face with its tiny, slimy tongue. Plankton giggled. "Good boy," he murmured, his antennae twitching with delight. The sight of Spot's excitement seemed to ease some of the tension in his body. Patrick watched from the side, his tentacles twitching with the desire to join in the moment of levity. He knew he had to tread carefully, but he also knew Plankton's smile was worth it. "How about we play a game? Spot can come too." he suggested, voice soft and tentative. Karen nodded, her smile genuine. "That's a great idea. Plankton loves a good trivia game." Patrick's eyes lit up. "I know just the thing!" He dashed out of the room and returned with a battered old board game titled "Bikini Bottom Brainiac Challenge." "This is perfect," Karen said, her voice filled with relief. She knew how much Plankton enjoyed a good intellectual showdown. Patrick set up the game with shaky tentacles, and Plankton's antennae twitched with curiosity and eagerness. "What's the rules?" Plankton asked, his voice still a little raspy from his episode. He's still holding Spot. "Simple," Patrick said, his tentacles steady as he unfolded the board. "We take turns answering trivia questions. If you get one right, you move forward. If not you go back." Plankton's antennae wiggled with excitement. "I've got this," he declared, his competitive spirit briefly overriding his exhaustion. "Let's start with an easy one," Karen suggested, her robotic voice filled with a motherly concern. Patrick nodded, picking up a card. "Alright, Plankton," he began, his tone light, "who invented the telephone?" Plankton's antennae shot up. "Alexander Clam Bell," he said with a smug smile, and Spot barked in excitement. Karen chuckled. "Correct," she said, moving his game piece forward. "Patrick's question." Plankton pulled a card from the pile, his tentacles shaking slightly. "Okay," he said, "who was the first sea creature to walk on land?" Patrick thought for a moment, his tentacles tapping the side of his head. "I know this one," he exclaimed. "It was..." He paused, trying to remember the name from one of Mr. Krabs' many history lessons. "Gilligan!" Karen's robotic laugh filled the room. "I'm afraid not, Patrick. It was actually the first amphibian, not a sea creature, who walked on land." Plankton rolled his eye. "It's okay, Patrick. It was a good guess," he said, his tone kinder than the usual sarcasm. Patrick chuckled, feeling a bit silly. "Alright, I'll work on my history," he said, moving his piece back. "Your turn, Karen." The game continued, the tension in the room slowly dissipating with each question and laugh. Plankton's eye lit up with each answer he knew, his antennae waving with excitement. The simple act of playing together brought a sense of normalcy to the situation. Karen's questions were more science-based, which Plankton devoured. "What is the chemical composition of seawater?" she asked, her robotic eyes gleaming with challenge. "Easy," Plankton said, his voice growing stronger with each word. "It's mostly sodium chloride with traces of other salts and minerals." Patrick watched as Plankton's confidence grew with every correct answer, his antennae standing tall. The game was a balm to his friend's frazzled nerves, a gentle reminder of the Plankton he knew before the meltdown. "Your turn," he said. Karen's question was about the ocean's currents, and Plankton felt a twinge of excitement. "Oh, I know this one," he exclaimed. "It's all about the Coriolis Effect is what makes the water spin in different directions in the northern and southern hemispheres!" Patrick nodded, his tentacles twirling with enthusiasm. "Wow, Plankton, you're really good at this!" But as he went to roll the dice, his excitement got the better of him. The dice slipped from his grasp, bouncing straight Plankton's open eye. Plankton yelped in pain. Patrick's tentacles froze mid-air, his eyes wide with horror. "Oh no!" he exclaimed, reaching out to help his friend. But Plankton was already recoiling, his antennae flailing as he clutched his eye. "Ow!!" Patrick's heart sank. "I'm so sorry!" he exclaimed, reaching out to comfort his friend. But Plankton was already on the defensive, arms swiping at the air as if trying to swat away the pain, his eye watering. Patrick's tentacles retreated immediately, the gravity of his mistake weighing heavy on him. "I didn't mean to," he said, his voice tight with regret. "I'm sorry, Plankton." Plankton's eye watered, and he blinked rapidly, trying to clear the pain. Karen's eyes went wide with alarm, and she was at his side in an instant. "Plankton?" Plankton rubs his eye with his tiny hand. "Just... just give me a moment." Patrick gets a small bag of ice with a cool cloth. "Here," he says, holding it out tentatively. "Cold might help Plankton.." Plankton's eye is still red and watery, but he takes the ice pack. "Thanks," he mumbles placing the cool compress on his eye. After a few moments, he lets out a sigh. "It's ok," he says, his voice a mix of pain and annoyance. "It may bruise." Patrick looks at him with a mix of relief and guilt. "Are you sure you're ok?" he asks, his tentacles hovering. "Yes!" Plankton exclaimed, antennae shooting up. He winced as he tried to open the eye fully, but the pain was too much. "But I can handle it," he said through gritted teeth. Plankton took a deep breath, the silence in the room thick with the sting of pain. He knew he had to say something, to apologize for how he treated Patrick. "Look," he began, gruff but sincere. "Sorry if I've been a bit... much.." Patrick's tentacles twitched with emotion. "It's ok, Plankton," he said, his voice thick. "I just didn't know how to help." "You're trying," Plankton said, antennae dropping slightly. "And that's more than anyone else has ever done, other than Karen and Spot of course." Plankton's antennae twitched, his voice a little softer than usual. "You're just to... to enthusiastic for me most times." Patrick nodded. "I'll be more careful," he murmured. Karen looked at him with a mix of gratitude and pity. "Patrick, it's not your fault," she said. "Plankton's condition is complex, and even I struggle to sometimes. Plankton's not like everyone else. He needs his space, his quiet and his routines." Patrick nodded, his tentacles drooping slightly. "I'll do better," he said, earnest.
DO YOU TRUST ME pt. 7 š– š—Žš—š—š—ˆš—‹'š—Œ š–£š—‚š—Œš–¼š—…š–ŗš—‚š—†š–¾š—‹ š–­š—ˆš—š–¾ š˜ š˜§š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„ š˜øš˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜¢ š˜Øš˜°š˜°š˜„ š˜°š˜¶š˜µš˜­š˜¦š˜µ. š˜'š˜® š˜°š˜Æ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜šš˜±š˜¦š˜¤š˜µš˜³š˜¶š˜® š˜®š˜ŗš˜“š˜¦š˜­š˜§. š˜ š˜¦š˜Æš˜«š˜°š˜ŗ š˜øš˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜§š˜¢š˜Æš˜§š˜Ŗš˜¤ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜¤š˜­š˜¶š˜„š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜®š˜ŗ š˜§š˜¢š˜·š˜°š˜¶š˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜¦ š˜¤š˜©š˜¢š˜³š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜¦š˜³š˜“ š˜¢š˜Æš˜„ š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦š˜µš˜Ŗš˜®š˜¦š˜“ š˜'š˜­š˜­ š˜¢š˜„š˜„ š˜®š˜ŗ š˜°š˜øš˜Æ š˜§š˜¦š˜¢š˜³š˜“ š˜Ŗš˜Æ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜“š˜µš˜°š˜³š˜Ŗš˜¦š˜“. š˜šš˜° š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦ š˜„š˜¢š˜³š˜¬š˜¦š˜³ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜µš˜¦š˜Æš˜µ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜©š˜µ š˜µš˜³š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜Øš˜¦š˜³ š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦ š˜±š˜¦š˜°š˜±š˜­š˜¦, š˜¢š˜¶š˜µš˜Ŗš˜“š˜® š˜Ŗš˜®š˜±š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜“ š˜¦š˜·š˜¦š˜³š˜ŗ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„š˜Ŗš˜·š˜Ŗš˜„š˜¶š˜¢š˜­ š˜„š˜Ŗš˜§š˜§š˜¦š˜³š˜¦š˜Æš˜µš˜­š˜ŗ. š˜žš˜¦ š˜¢š˜³š˜¦ š˜Æš˜°š˜µ š˜¢ š˜®š˜°š˜Æš˜°š˜­š˜Ŗš˜µš˜©, š˜¢š˜Æš˜„ š˜¦š˜·š˜¦š˜³š˜ŗ š˜±š˜¦š˜³š˜“š˜°š˜Æ š˜©š˜¢š˜“ š˜µš˜©š˜¦š˜Ŗš˜³ š˜°š˜øš˜Æ š˜·š˜¢š˜­š˜Ŗš˜„ š˜“š˜µš˜°š˜³š˜ŗ. š˜ š˜°š˜¶ š˜®š˜¢š˜ŗ š˜§š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜§š˜°š˜³š˜®š˜¢š˜µš˜Ŗš˜·š˜¦ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜µš˜¦š˜Æš˜µ š˜°š˜Æ š˜©š˜°š˜ø š˜°š˜Æš˜¦ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜©š˜µ š˜£š˜¦ š˜¢š˜§š˜§š˜¦š˜¤š˜µš˜¦š˜„ š˜£š˜ŗ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜Ŗš˜°š˜Æš˜“ š˜°š˜§ š˜°š˜µš˜©š˜¦š˜³š˜“. š˜ š˜„š˜° š˜Æš˜°š˜µ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜„š˜°š˜Æš˜¦ š˜¢š˜£š˜­š˜¦š˜Ŗš˜“š˜µ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜¤š˜³š˜°š˜¢š˜Øš˜Øš˜³š˜¦š˜“š˜“š˜Ŗš˜°š˜Æš˜“. š˜›š˜©š˜¢š˜Æš˜¬ š˜ŗš˜°š˜¶. ( emojicombos.com/neurofabulous ) "Daddy, I'm sorry," Chip whimpers, his eyes wide with fear. He's never felt so lost, so small. Plankton's breaths come in quick, sharp bursts, his body a tangle of frustration and pain. Plankton's antennae thrash in the air, his eye wild and unpredictable. "You don't know what you're talking about!" he yells, his voice bouncing off the walls of the room. He turns away from his son, his body language screaming 'don't touch'. Chip's eyes are pools of pain, his hand hovering awkwardly. "But Daddy," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just t---" "Don't you dare!" Plankton's antennae whip around wildly, his eye flashing with a mixture of anger and fear. Chip yanked his hand away but doing so, he accidentally brushes against Plankton's arm in the process. The explosion of emotion is instant. Plankton recoils, his body jerking away as if burned. He sweeps his arm across the nightstand, sending books flying. Karen knew she needs to intervene. "Chip, go to your room," she says firmly, her voice cutting through the storm of emotions. Chip's eyes are wide with shock, his body trembling as he backs away from the bed, tears streaming down his face. "But Mom," he protests, his voice choked with emotion. "I didn't meā€”" "I know, Chip," Karen says, her tone brooking no argument. Plankton's antennae are a blur of movement, his breathing erratic. "Your dad needs space." Chip nods and makes his way to his room, his legs wobbly. As he closes the door, Karen sighs, her eyes sad as she turns back to Plankton. Karen knew to tread carefully. Plankton is panting, his antennae twitching rapidly. He's upset, more than she's seen in a long time. "Plankton," she says softly, approaching the bed. "Hey, I'm here." His antennae quiver, and she knows she's treading on thin ice when he kicks the blanket off his bed with a snarl. Karen's heart breaks seeing the pain in his eye. He sweeps his arm across the dresser, sending a cascade of items crashing to the floor. The room echoes with his rage, each crash a declaration of his frustration. Karen swallows the lump in her throat, knowing she has to be the calm in this storm. Plankton's breaths come in quick, sharp bursts, his antennae still quivering. He turns away from her, his back to the wall, his body tight with tension. Karen approaches slowly, her eyes on his, watching for any sign of his mood shifting. "Let it out," she whispers, her hands outstretched but not touching. "You're safe here." Plankton's body convulses with anger, and he throws another object across the room. It hits the wall with a thud, leaving a small crack. His antennae quiver with each ragged breath he takes. Karen knows they're on the edge. With trembling hands, she picks up his pillow from the floor, carefully moving closer. "You don't have to keep it in," she says softly, extending the pillow towards him. "You can hit this." Her voice is a soothing balm to the chaos. Plankton's antennae stop their frantic dance for a moment, his eye flickering with something akin to hope. He takes the pillow, his fists tightening around it. With a roar, he brings the pillow down onto the bed, his strength surprising even Karen. The sound is muffled, but the fury in the gesture is clear. He hits it again, and again, each blow a silent scream of pain and anger. Karen watches, her heart breaking with each hit, her eyes never leaving his. She knows this is his fear and frustration manifesting in the only way his overwhelmed mind knows how. "Let it out, Plankton," she whispers, moving closer, her voice steady. "You're safe here." Plankton's body shakes as he slams the pillow into the mattress, his antennae quivering with each impact. Karen remains still. She knows this storm of emotion isn't directed at her, but at the invisible barriers that have caged him in for so long. He throws the pillow again, his face contorted with rage. The cotton explodes into a cloud of feathers, but it's not enough. He needs more. He turns, his antennae a blur of emotion, and sees the closet door. With a snarl, he charges towards it, throwing it open. The sound of hangers clattering fills the air as he starts to rip clothes from their hangers, tossing them around the room like confetti in a tornado. Karen watches, her eyes filled with a mix of sadness and fear. This is the what his condition turns him into when the pressure gets too much. Her heart aches for him, trapped in his own mind. She knows she has to be careful; any wrong move could set him off. Plankton's eye darts around the room, searching for something else to unleash his fury upon. His antennae quiver, his body still shaky. Karen moves closer, slowly, her hand reaching out. He turns to her, the anger in his gaze unmistakable. But as he sees her hand, his expression falters. Karen takes a deep breath, her voice steady. "It's okay," she says.
DO YOU TRUST ME pt. 8 š– š—Žš—š—š—ˆš—‹'š—Œ š–£š—‚š—Œš–¼š—…š–ŗš—‚š—†š–¾š—‹ š–­š—ˆš—š–¾ š˜ š˜§š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„ š˜øš˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜¢ š˜Øš˜°š˜°š˜„ š˜°š˜¶š˜µš˜­š˜¦š˜µ. š˜'š˜® š˜°š˜Æ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜šš˜±š˜¦š˜¤š˜µš˜³š˜¶š˜® š˜®š˜ŗš˜“š˜¦š˜­š˜§. š˜ š˜¦š˜Æš˜«š˜°š˜ŗ š˜øš˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜§š˜¢š˜Æš˜§š˜Ŗš˜¤ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜¤š˜­š˜¶š˜„š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜®š˜ŗ š˜§š˜¢š˜·š˜°š˜¶š˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜¦ š˜¤š˜©š˜¢š˜³š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜¦š˜³š˜“ š˜¢š˜Æš˜„ š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦š˜µš˜Ŗš˜®š˜¦š˜“ š˜'š˜­š˜­ š˜¢š˜„š˜„ š˜®š˜ŗ š˜°š˜øš˜Æ š˜§š˜¦š˜¢š˜³š˜“ š˜Ŗš˜Æ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜“š˜µš˜°š˜³š˜Ŗš˜¦š˜“. š˜šš˜° š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦ š˜„š˜¢š˜³š˜¬š˜¦š˜³ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜µš˜¦š˜Æš˜µ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜©š˜µ š˜µš˜³š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜Øš˜¦š˜³ š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦ š˜±š˜¦š˜°š˜±š˜­š˜¦, š˜¢š˜¶š˜µš˜Ŗš˜“š˜® š˜Ŗš˜®š˜±š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜“ š˜¦š˜·š˜¦š˜³š˜ŗ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„š˜Ŗš˜·š˜Ŗš˜„š˜¶š˜¢š˜­ š˜„š˜Ŗš˜§š˜§š˜¦š˜³š˜¦š˜Æš˜µš˜­š˜ŗ. š˜žš˜¦ š˜¢š˜³š˜¦ š˜Æš˜°š˜µ š˜¢ š˜®š˜°š˜Æš˜°š˜­š˜Ŗš˜µš˜©, š˜¢š˜Æš˜„ š˜¦š˜·š˜¦š˜³š˜ŗ š˜±š˜¦š˜³š˜“š˜°š˜Æ š˜©š˜¢š˜“ š˜µš˜©š˜¦š˜Ŗš˜³ š˜°š˜øš˜Æ š˜·š˜¢š˜­š˜Ŗš˜„ š˜“š˜µš˜°š˜³š˜ŗ. š˜ š˜°š˜¶ š˜®š˜¢š˜ŗ š˜§š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜§š˜°š˜³š˜®š˜¢š˜µš˜Ŗš˜·š˜¦ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜µš˜¦š˜Æš˜µ š˜°š˜Æ š˜©š˜°š˜ø š˜°š˜Æš˜¦ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜©š˜µ š˜£š˜¦ š˜¢š˜§š˜§š˜¦š˜¤š˜µš˜¦š˜„ š˜£š˜ŗ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜Ŗš˜°š˜Æš˜“ š˜°š˜§ š˜°š˜µš˜©š˜¦š˜³š˜“. š˜ š˜„š˜° š˜Æš˜°š˜µ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜„š˜°š˜Æš˜¦ š˜¢š˜£š˜­š˜¦š˜Ŗš˜“š˜µ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜¤š˜³š˜°š˜¢š˜Øš˜Øš˜³š˜¦š˜“š˜“š˜Ŗš˜°š˜Æš˜“. š˜›š˜©š˜¢š˜Æš˜¬ š˜ŗš˜°š˜¶. ( emojicombos.com/neurofabulous ) "Let it out. You're safe." Karen's hand hovers, a silent offer of support. Plankton's antennas twitch, his eye flitting between her and the chaos he's created. With a sudden jerk, he throws the pillow aside, the feathers fluttering to the ground like a defeated battle flag. He turns to her, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. "I hate this," he whispers, his voice filled with despair. "I hate that I can'tā€”" He doesn't finish the sentence. Instead, he starts to shake, his body convulsing with the force of his emotions. Karen knows he's about to have seizure convulsions. With swiftness borne of practiced experience, she moves to catch him. "Plankton, it's okay," she coos, her voice a lifeline in the storm. "Let's sit down." Gently, she guides him to the bed, her eyes never leaving his. His body spasms once, twice, before settling into a tremble. The room is still, the only sound his ragged breathing and the occasional quiver of his antennae. Karen's heart is racing, but her hands are steady as she takes his. "Breathe with me," she says, her voice a soft rhythm. "In, and out." Plankton's eye locks on hers, his pupil dilating as he focuses on her words. He takes a deep breath, his body shuddering with the effort. "Good," Karen whispers, her thumbs gently stroking his wrists. "Again." The tremors slowly ease, his breathing evening out. "It's okay, Plankton," she says, her voice a lullaby. "You're okay." His antennae twitch, his body relaxes. For a moment, there's only the sound of their breaths mingling in the quiet. Then, with a sigh, Plankton slumps against her, his body limp with exhaustion. Karen wraps her arms around him, her heart aching. "I'm here," she whispers. "I'm not going anywhere." Plankton's antennae quiver slightly, and he nods, his eye closing. Karen can feel the tension leaving his body, the storm of emotions retreating. His breathing slows, his antennae falling still. For a few moments, the only sound in the room is their synchronized breathing. Then, with a shudder, Plankton starts to cry. Karen holds him tighter, rocking him gently as he sobs into her shoulder. His tiny body shakes with the force of his pain, his antennas drooping. "I'm sorry," Plankton whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "I didn't mean to scare you." His words are muffled by his tears, his antennae twitching with each tremble. Karen strokes his back, her eyes filled with understanding. "It's okay," she soothes, her voice a balm to his soul. "You're overwhelmed." She's seen this before, the sudden storms of feeling that his autism can unleash. Plankton's sobs come in waves, his body jerking with each one. Karen knows these moments are like earthquakes for him, shaking him to his core. "You didn't mean it," she whispers, her voice a constant in the chaos. "You just need a moment." He nods against her, his antennae still drooping. "I'm sorry," he says again, his voice tiny. Karen's heart clenches. She wishes she could take away his pain, but she knows that's not how it works. Instead, she simply holds him, her arms a steady embrace in the tempest. "It's okay," she repeats, her voice a lullaby. "I'm here." Plankton's crying slows to a hiccup, and he pulls back, his antennae drooping. He wipes his eye, his face a mask of regret. "I'm sorry," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean toā€”" "You don't have to apologize," Karen cuts him off, her eyes soft with compassion. "You can't help how you feel." She knows the guilt he's feeling, the weight of his own frustrations. She rocks him gently, her hand rubbing his back in slow circles. Plankton's breaths deepen as he relaxes into her embrace. His antennae, which had been quivering start to settle. The tension eases from his body, and his muscles loosen. Karen's soothing love and gentle touch are a balm to his frayed nerves. He leans into her, his head on her shoulder, his antennae brushing against her. Karen presses a kiss to his forehead, her hand continuing to stroke his back. "It's okay," she whispers. "You're safe." Plankton's body responds, his antennae dropping slightly. He sighs, his body going slack against her. She can feel the last of the tension drain out of him, and his breathing evens out. Her voice is a soft lullaby in the quiet, a steady beat to match the rhythm of his breaths. "Just relax," she says, her words a gentle command. "Let it all go." And he does, his muscles unclenching, his mind drifting. "Thanks.." Plankton says sleepily in her embrace. Plankton's body goes lax, his eye closing fully as he surrenders to the comfort of Karen's embrace. She knows He's fallen into a deep sleep when he starts to snore gently, his antennae still resting on her shoulder. Karen holds him closer, her hand continuing a soothing pattern on his back, each stroke a silent promise. Plankton's antennae rest gently against her, his body curled into her side. The room is quiet, save for his soft snores. Her hand moves in gentle circles on his back, the motion soothing to them both. She can feel the tension slowly draining from his body, his antennae finally still. The soft light from the moon filters in through the window, casting a pale glow on his features. In sleep, Plankton looks peaceful, the furrow in his brow smoothed away. Karen kisses his forehead. His snores deepen, a testament to his trust in her. Her hand strokes his antennae, now limp with sleep. He's just her Plankton, her partner, her love. Her gentle touch seems to soothe his slumber, a reminder of the sanctuary their bond provides.
DO YOU TRUST ME pt. 9 š– š—Žš—š—š—ˆš—‹'š—Œ š–£š—‚š—Œš–¼š—…š–ŗš—‚š—†š–¾š—‹ š–­š—ˆš—š–¾ š˜ š˜§š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„ š˜øš˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜¢ š˜Øš˜°š˜°š˜„ š˜°š˜¶š˜µš˜­š˜¦š˜µ. š˜'š˜® š˜°š˜Æ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜šš˜±š˜¦š˜¤š˜µš˜³š˜¶š˜® š˜®š˜ŗš˜“š˜¦š˜­š˜§. š˜ š˜¦š˜Æš˜«š˜°š˜ŗ š˜øš˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜§š˜¢š˜Æš˜§š˜Ŗš˜¤ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜¤š˜­š˜¶š˜„š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜®š˜ŗ š˜§š˜¢š˜·š˜°š˜¶š˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜¦ š˜¤š˜©š˜¢š˜³š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜¦š˜³š˜“ š˜¢š˜Æš˜„ š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦š˜µš˜Ŗš˜®š˜¦š˜“ š˜'š˜­š˜­ š˜¢š˜„š˜„ š˜®š˜ŗ š˜°š˜øš˜Æ š˜§š˜¦š˜¢š˜³š˜“ š˜Ŗš˜Æ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜“š˜µš˜°š˜³š˜Ŗš˜¦š˜“. š˜šš˜° š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦ š˜„š˜¢š˜³š˜¬š˜¦š˜³ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜µš˜¦š˜Æš˜µ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜©š˜µ š˜µš˜³š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜Øš˜¦š˜³ š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦ š˜±š˜¦š˜°š˜±š˜­š˜¦, š˜¢š˜¶š˜µš˜Ŗš˜“š˜® š˜Ŗš˜®š˜±š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜“ š˜¦š˜·š˜¦š˜³š˜ŗ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„š˜Ŗš˜·š˜Ŗš˜„š˜¶š˜¢š˜­ š˜„š˜Ŗš˜§š˜§š˜¦š˜³š˜¦š˜Æš˜µš˜­š˜ŗ. š˜žš˜¦ š˜¢š˜³š˜¦ š˜Æš˜°š˜µ š˜¢ š˜®š˜°š˜Æš˜°š˜­š˜Ŗš˜µš˜©, š˜¢š˜Æš˜„ š˜¦š˜·š˜¦š˜³š˜ŗ š˜±š˜¦š˜³š˜“š˜°š˜Æ š˜©š˜¢š˜“ š˜µš˜©š˜¦š˜Ŗš˜³ š˜°š˜øš˜Æ š˜·š˜¢š˜­š˜Ŗš˜„ š˜“š˜µš˜°š˜³š˜ŗ. š˜ š˜°š˜¶ š˜®š˜¢š˜ŗ š˜§š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜§š˜°š˜³š˜®š˜¢š˜µš˜Ŗš˜·š˜¦ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜µš˜¦š˜Æš˜µ š˜°š˜Æ š˜©š˜°š˜ø š˜°š˜Æš˜¦ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜©š˜µ š˜£š˜¦ š˜¢š˜§š˜§š˜¦š˜¤š˜µš˜¦š˜„ š˜£š˜ŗ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜Ŗš˜°š˜Æš˜“ š˜°š˜§ š˜°š˜µš˜©š˜¦š˜³š˜“. š˜ š˜„š˜° š˜Æš˜°š˜µ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜„š˜°š˜Æš˜¦ š˜¢š˜£š˜­š˜¦š˜Ŗš˜“š˜µ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜¤š˜³š˜°š˜¢š˜Øš˜Øš˜³š˜¦š˜“š˜“š˜Ŗš˜°š˜Æš˜“. š˜›š˜©š˜¢š˜Æš˜¬ š˜ŗš˜°š˜¶. ( emojicombos.com/neurofabulous ) The door opens quietly, and Chip peeks in, his eyes swollen with tears. Karen looks up, her eyes questioning. He stands there, his body quivering with emotion, his heart aching to join them. Karen nods, a silent permission. With tentative steps, Chip approaches the bed, his eyes on his father. Plankton's snores are deep and even, his body relaxed against Karen's. Chip's hand shakes slightly as he reaches out. His touch is feather-light, his fingertips brushing against Plankton's antennae. They quiver under his touch, but Plankton doesn't wake. Karen looks up at him, her eyes filled with love and understanding. She nods once, and Chip climbs onto the bed. He sits there, his body rigid with nerves, his heart racing. He wants to make it right, to show his father that he cares, that he's not just a kid playing doctor. Karen watches him, her eyes filled with a mix of pride and sadness. She knows this is hard for Chip, that he desperately wants to help. Chip's hand hovers over his father's antennae, his fingers trembling. He's seen his mom do this a hundred times, the gentle stroking that seems to calm Plankton like nothing else can. He takes a deep breath and touches them, lightly. Karen's smile reassures Chip. "It's okay," she whispers, her hand on his shoulder. "He's sleeping." Plankton's antennae twitch at Chip's touch, but his sleep remains undisturbed. Encouraged, Chip starts to mirror Karen's movements, his strokes becoming more confident. The tension in his body starts to melt away as he focuses on his dad's peaceful state. Karen watches her son's hands with a mix of pride and sadness. She knows he just wants to connect, to understand, but autism is complex. And she knows Chip is learning that. "Remember, Chip," she whispers, "he's sensitive to touch." Chip nods, his eyes never leaving his father. He's afraid of doing it wrong, but the sight of Plankton sleeping peacefully gives him courage. His strokes are soft, his movements careful. Plankton's antennae quiver slightly, but his snores remain steady. Chip's breaths ease, and he feels a warmth spread through him. This small moment of connection feels like a victory. Karen's hand squeezes his shoulder, and he glances up at her, his eyes shimmering with hope. "Keep going," she whispers, and he does, his touch becoming more rhythmic. Plankton's body shifts slightly, his antennae nuzzling into Chip's touch. It's a small thing, but it feels monumental to Chip. He looks at his mom, her face a mix of love and sorrow. She nods, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. This is what family is, supporting each other through the storms of life. The room is a cocoon of quiet, the only sound the comforting soft snores of Plankton. Chip's fingers dance over the antennae, his eyes never leaving his father's face. Karen watches them, her heart swelling with love. In this moment, Chip understands what Karen had tried to explain earlier. Plankton's autism isn't a problem to solve; it's part of who he is, a challenge that makes their bond even more precious. He strokes his dad's antennae with newfound respect and patience. Karen's eyes never leave them, her heart swelling with pride. "It's getting late," she says softly. "You should get some sleep too." Chip nods, his gaze still locked on his father. He doesn't want to leave him, but he knows he has to. With a final stroke of Plankton's antennae, he slides off the bed, his legs shaky. "You did good, sweetie," she whispers, her eyes glistening. He looks back at her, his face a question. "But I made him so mad," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. Karen takes his hand, squeezing it gently. "You meant well," she says, her tone firm but kind. "And you learned from it. This is part of loving someone with autism, Chip. Sometimes you'll make mistakes, but what's important is that you keep trying." With a nod, Chip wipes his nose with the back of his hand and heads for his room, his heart heavy but hopeful. Karen watches him go, her eyes following his retreating back. Then, she turns her attention back to Plankton, still sleeping in her arms. Gently, she shifts his body, adjusting the pillows under his head. His antennae twitch slightly at the movement, but he doesn't stir. She pulls the blanket up to his chin, smoothing it down over his shoulders. His skin is warm against her fingertips, a comforting sign that he's comfortable.
DO YOU TRUST ME pt. 10 š– š—Žš—š—š—ˆš—‹'š—Œ š–£š—‚š—Œš–¼š—…š–ŗš—‚š—†š–¾š—‹ š–­š—ˆš—š–¾ š˜ š˜§š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„ š˜øš˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜¢ š˜Øš˜°š˜°š˜„ š˜°š˜¶š˜µš˜­š˜¦š˜µ. š˜'š˜® š˜°š˜Æ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜šš˜±š˜¦š˜¤š˜µš˜³š˜¶š˜® š˜®š˜ŗš˜“š˜¦š˜­š˜§. š˜ š˜¦š˜Æš˜«š˜°š˜ŗ š˜øš˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜§š˜¢š˜Æš˜§š˜Ŗš˜¤ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜¤š˜­š˜¶š˜„š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜®š˜ŗ š˜§š˜¢š˜·š˜°š˜¶š˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜¦ š˜¤š˜©š˜¢š˜³š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜¦š˜³š˜“ š˜¢š˜Æš˜„ š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦š˜µš˜Ŗš˜®š˜¦š˜“ š˜'š˜­š˜­ š˜¢š˜„š˜„ š˜®š˜ŗ š˜°š˜øš˜Æ š˜§š˜¦š˜¢š˜³š˜“ š˜Ŗš˜Æ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜“š˜µš˜°š˜³š˜Ŗš˜¦š˜“. š˜šš˜° š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦ š˜„š˜¢š˜³š˜¬š˜¦š˜³ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜µš˜¦š˜Æš˜µ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜©š˜µ š˜µš˜³š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜Øš˜¦š˜³ š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦ š˜±š˜¦š˜°š˜±š˜­š˜¦, š˜¢š˜¶š˜µš˜Ŗš˜“š˜® š˜Ŗš˜®š˜±š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜“ š˜¦š˜·š˜¦š˜³š˜ŗ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„š˜Ŗš˜·š˜Ŗš˜„š˜¶š˜¢š˜­ š˜„š˜Ŗš˜§š˜§š˜¦š˜³š˜¦š˜Æš˜µš˜­š˜ŗ. š˜žš˜¦ š˜¢š˜³š˜¦ š˜Æš˜°š˜µ š˜¢ š˜®š˜°š˜Æš˜°š˜­š˜Ŗš˜µš˜©, š˜¢š˜Æš˜„ š˜¦š˜·š˜¦š˜³š˜ŗ š˜±š˜¦š˜³š˜“š˜°š˜Æ š˜©š˜¢š˜“ š˜µš˜©š˜¦š˜Ŗš˜³ š˜°š˜øš˜Æ š˜·š˜¢š˜­š˜Ŗš˜„ š˜“š˜µš˜°š˜³š˜ŗ. š˜ š˜°š˜¶ š˜®š˜¢š˜ŗ š˜§š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜§š˜°š˜³š˜®š˜¢š˜µš˜Ŗš˜·š˜¦ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜µš˜¦š˜Æš˜µ š˜°š˜Æ š˜©š˜°š˜ø š˜°š˜Æš˜¦ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜©š˜µ š˜£š˜¦ š˜¢š˜§š˜§š˜¦š˜¤š˜µš˜¦š˜„ š˜£š˜ŗ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜Ŗš˜°š˜Æš˜“ š˜°š˜§ š˜°š˜µš˜©š˜¦š˜³š˜“. š˜ š˜„š˜° š˜Æš˜°š˜µ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜„š˜°š˜Æš˜¦ š˜¢š˜£š˜­š˜¦š˜Ŗš˜“š˜µ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜¤š˜³š˜°š˜¢š˜Øš˜Øš˜³š˜¦š˜“š˜“š˜Ŗš˜°š˜Æš˜“. š˜›š˜©š˜¢š˜Æš˜¬ š˜ŗš˜°š˜¶. ( emojicombos.com/neurofabulous ) The next morning, Plankton wakes up before Karen. He sits up in bed, his antennae twitching slightly as he takes in the room. His eye darts to Karen, still sleeping peacefully on her bed. He feels a wave of guilt and fear, his antennae drooping. He moves to get out of bed, his body still feeling the aftershocks of the previous night's tremors. He pads over to Chip's bedroom. The door is open a crack, letting in a sliver of sunlight. Plankton hesitates, his antennas twitching. He's not sure if he's ready to face his son yet, but he knows he has to try. He pushes the door open to find Chip sitting up on his bed. Chip's eyes are red-rimmed, his face puffy from crying. He looks at Plankton, his expression a mix of fear and hope. Plankton's heart squeezes at the sight. He moves into the room, his antennae waving awkwardly. "Hey," he says, his voice gruff with sleep. "Hi, Dad," Chip says, his voice small. Plankton sits down on the edge of the bed, his antennae quivering with nerves. He's not good with words, especially not when it comes to feelings. Does he address it, or just pretend yesterday didn't happen? He decides on the latter. "Whatcha doing?" Plankton asks, trying to keep his tone light. Chip looks up, his eyes wet. "Just thinking," he whispers. "About you." Plankton's antennae twitch, his stomach doing a flip. He's not used to this kind of emotional exchange, but he can feel the weight of his son's words. He clears his throat, trying to find a neutral response. "I'm fine," he says, his voice careful. But Chip's eyes tell a different story. "You had a seizure," he says, his voice shaking. "You scared meā€”" Plankton's antennae shoot up, his body tense. "I didn't ask for you to watch," he snaps, his voice sharp. Chip's eyes widen with hurt, and Plankton feels a sting of regret. He didn't mean to be cruel, but his fear of vulnerability turns his words into a shield. "Dadā€”" But Plankton cuts him off. "I've been dealing with this my whole life, and so I don't need you to tell me what to do." His antennas are stiff with anger, his body tight with tension. Chip's eyes fill with tears. "I just wanted to help," he says, his voice trembling. "I didn't know what to do." Plankton's antennae quiver, his eye softening. He's aware of the pain he's causing, but his fear of being seen as weak overpowers his regret. "Chip, don't act like you know everything," Plankton says, his antennae twitching rapidly. "You can't just think you get me. I'd like to see you try to live with this!" His words are a sharp contrast to the gentle stroking of his antennae that Karen had shown him, his voice echoing with frustration. "I bet you wouldn't last a day," he adds, his body stiff with the weight of his own experience. Chip's eyes fill with tears, but he holds them back. He wants to be understood, to be a part of his father's world, but it feels like he's always a step behind. "I just want to help," he says again, his voice smaller now. "I don't know how, butā€”" Plankton rolls his eye. "Oh, you think you can just waltz in and solve all my problems?" he says, his tone laced with sarcasm. "You think you're some kind of autism expert now?" His antennae twitch nervously. He's trying to keep his emotions in check, but the fear of being a burden is a beast he's wrestled with for too long. Chip's jaw tightens, his shoulders rising. "I just want to know what you're going through," he says, his voice firm. "Is tha-" Plankton's antennae shoot up, his eye flashing with anger. "You think I need a little boy to figure out my own brain?" he sneers, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Thanks for the offer, Einstein, but I've managed to survive this long without your 'help'." Chip's face falls, his eyes brimming with tears. "Butā€”" "But nothing!" Plankton cuts in, his antennae quivering with agitation. "I don't need your pity, or your 'help'!" His voice is sharp, each word a blade that slices through the air. Chip's eyes shine with unshed tears, but his voice remains steady. "But you're my dad, and I want to understand." Plankton's antennae drop slightly, his sneer softening into a frown. He knows his son means well, but his own fear of being a disappointment makes his skin crawl. "Look, kid," Plankton says, his tone patronizing. "Some things you just can't understand, okay? So go back to playing with your toys and let me handle the big boy stuff." His antennae wave in a dismissive gesture. Chip's eyes narrow, his determination growing. He's not going to let his dad push him away again. "I'm not a kid, and I'm not stupid," Chip says, his voice firm. "I just want to know how to help when you're like this." Plankton's antennae droop slightly at the challenge, his face a mask of irritation. "Oh, I'm sorry," he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I didn't realize you had a PhD in Autism 101. What's the secret, Chip? Tell me, what's the magic word that makes it all go away?" His antennae wave in an exaggerated fashion, his eye rolling dramatically. Chip's cheeks burn with frustration and hurt. "Dad I just wa-" "What?" Plankton says, cutting him off. "You want a gold star for trying to play therapist?" His antennae twitch, a clear sign of his agitation. Chip's eyes fill with a mix of anger and hurt, but he swallows it down. "No, I just want to be there for yo--" "Oh, you think you can just ride in and save the day?" Plankton's tone drips with sarcasm. Chip's cheeks redden, but his resolve holds firm. "No, Dad, I just want to be there for you," he says, his voice steady. Plankton's antennae twitch, his eye narrowing. "What's your expert advice then, Dr. Chip?" his voice heavy with sarcasm. "You're going to tell me to count, or breathe into a paper bag?" He can't help the bitterness that seeps into his words, his fear of being seen as weak by his own son. Chip's jaw clenches, his fists balling at his sides. He wants to scream, to shout that he's not trying to be a hero, just a son who cares. But he knows that would only make things worse, so he takes a deep breath, his voice even. "No, Dad," he says, his tone calm. "But maybe if you'd just tell me what helps you..." Plankton's antennae shoot up, his eye flashing. "Maybe you should just mind your own business," he snaps, his voice cold. "Or you can go cry to your mommy again." The words hang in the air, sharp as knives. Chip's eyes widen, and his cheeks flush with anger. He's had enough of his dad's patronizing tone. "I'm not a baby," he says, his voice steady. "And I can handle this." "Oh, really?" he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "And what exactly do you know about it?" His eye narrows, daring Chip to challenge him. Chip's eyes burn with a mix of anger and sadness. "I know you have seizures that make you scared and upset," he says, his voice measured. "I know Mom is also getting tired of you and your outbursts. But you hurt people, Dad. And it's not fair to us, or to Mom, who you don't know how much she hates being your punching bag!" Without another word, Plankton turns and leaves Chip's bed room. He slams the door behind him.
DO YOU TRUST ME pt. 11 š– š—Žš—š—š—ˆš—‹'š—Œ š–£š—‚š—Œš–¼š—…š–ŗš—‚š—†š–¾š—‹ š–­š—ˆš—š–¾ š˜ š˜§š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„ š˜øš˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜¢ š˜Øš˜°š˜°š˜„ š˜°š˜¶š˜µš˜­š˜¦š˜µ. š˜'š˜® š˜°š˜Æ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜šš˜±š˜¦š˜¤š˜µš˜³š˜¶š˜® š˜®š˜ŗš˜“š˜¦š˜­š˜§. š˜ š˜¦š˜Æš˜«š˜°š˜ŗ š˜øš˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜§š˜¢š˜Æš˜§š˜Ŗš˜¤ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜¤š˜­š˜¶š˜„š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜®š˜ŗ š˜§š˜¢š˜·š˜°š˜¶š˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜¦ š˜¤š˜©š˜¢š˜³š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜¦š˜³š˜“ š˜¢š˜Æš˜„ š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦š˜µš˜Ŗš˜®š˜¦š˜“ š˜'š˜­š˜­ š˜¢š˜„š˜„ š˜®š˜ŗ š˜°š˜øš˜Æ š˜§š˜¦š˜¢š˜³š˜“ š˜Ŗš˜Æ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜“š˜µš˜°š˜³š˜Ŗš˜¦š˜“. š˜šš˜° š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦ š˜„š˜¢š˜³š˜¬š˜¦š˜³ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜µš˜¦š˜Æš˜µ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜©š˜µ š˜µš˜³š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜Øš˜¦š˜³ š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦ š˜±š˜¦š˜°š˜±š˜­š˜¦, š˜¢š˜¶š˜µš˜Ŗš˜“š˜® š˜Ŗš˜®š˜±š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜“ š˜¦š˜·š˜¦š˜³š˜ŗ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„š˜Ŗš˜·š˜Ŗš˜„š˜¶š˜¢š˜­ š˜„š˜Ŗš˜§š˜§š˜¦š˜³š˜¦š˜Æš˜µš˜­š˜ŗ. š˜žš˜¦ š˜¢š˜³š˜¦ š˜Æš˜°š˜µ š˜¢ š˜®š˜°š˜Æš˜°š˜­š˜Ŗš˜µš˜©, š˜¢š˜Æš˜„ š˜¦š˜·š˜¦š˜³š˜ŗ š˜±š˜¦š˜³š˜“š˜°š˜Æ š˜©š˜¢š˜“ š˜µš˜©š˜¦š˜Ŗš˜³ š˜°š˜øš˜Æ š˜·š˜¢š˜­š˜Ŗš˜„ š˜“š˜µš˜°š˜³š˜ŗ. š˜ š˜°š˜¶ š˜®š˜¢š˜ŗ š˜§š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜§š˜°š˜³š˜®š˜¢š˜µš˜Ŗš˜·š˜¦ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜µš˜¦š˜Æš˜µ š˜°š˜Æ š˜©š˜°š˜ø š˜°š˜Æš˜¦ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜©š˜µ š˜£š˜¦ š˜¢š˜§š˜§š˜¦š˜¤š˜µš˜¦š˜„ š˜£š˜ŗ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜Ŗš˜°š˜Æš˜“ š˜°š˜§ š˜°š˜µš˜©š˜¦š˜³š˜“. š˜ š˜„š˜° š˜Æš˜°š˜µ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜„š˜°š˜Æš˜¦ š˜¢š˜£š˜­š˜¦š˜Ŗš˜“š˜µ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜¤š˜³š˜°š˜¢š˜Øš˜Øš˜³š˜¦š˜“š˜“š˜Ŗš˜°š˜Æš˜“. š˜›š˜©š˜¢š˜Æš˜¬ š˜ŗš˜°š˜¶. ( emojicombos.com/neurofabulous ) Karen stirs in her sleep. Her eyes fly open. She sits up, as Plankton comes back into their room. His antennae are drooping, his eye filled with a sadness that makes her stomach clench. "What happened?" she asks. Plankton avoids her gaze, his body language tense. "It's nothing," he mumbles, his voice tight with anger, mostly at the thought of Karen hurting and being tired of him. Karen's heart breaks at the sight of his pain. She knows his condition is a daily battle, one that often leaves them all feeling defeated. "Plankton," she says gently, reaching out. He flinches. "Baby, what's wrong?" Plankton's antennae twitch, his body tense. "Don't," he says, his voice gruff. "I don't want to talk about it." His eye darts around the room, avoiding hers. Karen sighs, her hand dropping to her side. "Okay," she says softly, her voice filled with understanding. She knows his walls are up, his antennae a shield. "But if you ever do, I'm he-" "I said don't!" Plankton snaps, his antennae shooting up. His voice is loud, his fear of burdening Karen turned into anger. Karen's heart clenches at the pain in his voice. She sits up slowly, her movements deliberate. "Okay," she says calmly. "We don't have to talk now. But remember, I'm always here for yo-" Plankton cuts her off, his antennae quivering with anger. "I said I don't want to talk about it!" his voice echoes through the tiny room, bouncing off the walls and filling the air with a tension that feels like a storm. Karen's eyes are filled with a sadness that's almost palpable. She nods once, her hand retreating. "Okay," she says, her voice low. "I'm just here, Plank..." He turns away from her, his back a wall of pain. She can see his shoulders tense, his body a tightly wound spring. "Just leave me alone," he says, his voice a whisper of defeat, unable to bear the thought of possibly hurting her. The room feels smaller, the air thicker. Karen's eyes fill with tears, but she knows better than to push. Plankton's autism isn't a puzzle to solve, but a dance to learn, a delicate balance of space and support. She nods, her heart aching. "Whenever you're ready, I---" "Just leave it, Karen," he says, his voice a mix of anger and sadness. He doesn't look at her, his eye fixed on the floor. His antennae are still, a rare sign of his overwhelming emotion. Karen swallows hard, her hand hovering over his back before retreating. "Okay," she whispers, her voice a balm in the tension. "I'm here when you're re---" But Plankton's antennae shoot up, cutting her off. "Why?" he demands, his eye flashing. "Why do you keep saying that? What do you really think of me?" His voice is sharp, his fear of her pity lacing his words. Karen's eyes widen, surprised by his accusation. "Plankton, what are you talking about?" she asks, her voice gentle. "I love you, just as you are." But he's not listening, his antennae twitching rapidly. He turns to face her, his eye filled with doubt. "But do you really?" he asks, his voice quavering. "Or do you just stay because you feel sorry for me?" Karen's eyes widen, the accusation like a slap to her face. "Plankton, no," she says, her voice trembling. "You know I don'tā€”" He shakes his head, his antennas waving erratically. "No, I don't know," he says, his voice cracking. "You're always so calm, so... so patient with me. And then I justā€”" His words taper off, his antennae drooping as he fights back a sob. Karen reaches out, her hand hovering near his shoulder. "Plankton, sweetie, I love you," she says, her voice soothing. "I love all of you, not just the easy parts." But Plankton's antennae twitch, his doubt a barrier between them. "How can you love this?" he whispers, his voice raw with emotion. "How can you love someone who can't even tell you when they're about toā€”" Karen's eyes fill with tears, but her voice remains steady. "I love all of you, Plankton," she says, her hand still hovering. "The good, the bad, the seizuresā€” it's all part of who you are." Her voice is a lifeline, a gentle reminder that she sees him, not just his condition. Plankton's antennae droop, his eye clouded with doubt. "But it's not fair to you," he whispers, his voice trembling. "I know you're tired, I see it in your screen." Karen's hand hovers, unsure if touch will make it better or worse. "Plankton," she says softly, "you are my everything. I chose to be here, with you. I chose to love you through the seizures, through the tough times." Her words are a gentle caress in the stillness of the room, a promise of unyielding support. But Plankton's antennae wave in doubt, his body a testament to his inner turmoil. "You don't have to," he murmurs, his voice a whisper of pain. "You could leave." Karen's eyes are filled with love and sadness, her hand still hovering, unsure of how to bridge the gap between them. "Leave?" she echoes, her voice gentle. "Why would I ever leave you?" Plankton's antennae twitch, his eye averted. "You wouldn't have to deal with this," he says, his voice barely a whisper. "You could have someone who doesn't make you sad, or scared." His words hang heavy in the air, his fear of driving her away a palpable presence in the room. Karen's hand falls to her lap, her heart aching. "You're not a burden, Plankton," she says, her voice firm with conviction. "You're the reason I wake up every morning, the reason I smile." She pauses, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "Your seizures don't define you, and they don't define us." But Plankton's antennae continue to quiver, his doubt a living entity in the room. "You don't have to say that," he murmurs. "I guess I'll never be whaa-" Plankton chokes back a sob. "What even Chip says you deserve!" Karen's eyes widen, her hand now resting on his shoulder. "Wait, what did Chip say?" Plankton turns away, his antennae drooping. "JUST FORGET IT!" He stomps out of the room, slamming the door behind him, the sound a stark contrast to the quiet sobs that follow. Karen remains still for a moment, her heart racing. Then, with a deep breath, she slides out of bed, her movements deliberate.
DO YOU TRUST ME pt. 17 š– š—Žš—š—š—ˆš—‹'š—Œ š–£š—‚š—Œš–¼š—…š–ŗš—‚š—†š–¾š—‹ š–­š—ˆš—š–¾ š˜ š˜§š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„ š˜øš˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜¢ š˜Øš˜°š˜°š˜„ š˜°š˜¶š˜µš˜­š˜¦š˜µ. š˜'š˜® š˜°š˜Æ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜šš˜±š˜¦š˜¤š˜µš˜³š˜¶š˜® š˜®š˜ŗš˜“š˜¦š˜­š˜§. š˜ š˜¦š˜Æš˜«š˜°š˜ŗ š˜øš˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜§š˜¢š˜Æš˜§š˜Ŗš˜¤ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜¤š˜­š˜¶š˜„š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜®š˜ŗ š˜§š˜¢š˜·š˜°š˜¶š˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜¦ š˜¤š˜©š˜¢š˜³š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜¦š˜³š˜“ š˜¢š˜Æš˜„ š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦š˜µš˜Ŗš˜®š˜¦š˜“ š˜'š˜­š˜­ š˜¢š˜„š˜„ š˜®š˜ŗ š˜°š˜øš˜Æ š˜§š˜¦š˜¢š˜³š˜“ š˜Ŗš˜Æ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜“š˜µš˜°š˜³š˜Ŗš˜¦š˜“. š˜šš˜° š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦ š˜„š˜¢š˜³š˜¬š˜¦š˜³ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜µš˜¦š˜Æš˜µ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜©š˜µ š˜µš˜³š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜Øš˜¦š˜³ š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦ š˜±š˜¦š˜°š˜±š˜­š˜¦, š˜¢š˜¶š˜µš˜Ŗš˜“š˜® š˜Ŗš˜®š˜±š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜“ š˜¦š˜·š˜¦š˜³š˜ŗ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„š˜Ŗš˜·š˜Ŗš˜„š˜¶š˜¢š˜­ š˜„š˜Ŗš˜§š˜§š˜¦š˜³š˜¦š˜Æš˜µš˜­š˜ŗ. š˜žš˜¦ š˜¢š˜³š˜¦ š˜Æš˜°š˜µ š˜¢ š˜®š˜°š˜Æš˜°š˜­š˜Ŗš˜µš˜©, š˜¢š˜Æš˜„ š˜¦š˜·š˜¦š˜³š˜ŗ š˜±š˜¦š˜³š˜“š˜°š˜Æ š˜©š˜¢š˜“ š˜µš˜©š˜¦š˜Ŗš˜³ š˜°š˜øš˜Æ š˜·š˜¢š˜­š˜Ŗš˜„ š˜“š˜µš˜°š˜³š˜ŗ. š˜ š˜°š˜¶ š˜®š˜¢š˜ŗ š˜§š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜§š˜°š˜³š˜®š˜¢š˜µš˜Ŗš˜·š˜¦ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜µš˜¦š˜Æš˜µ š˜°š˜Æ š˜©š˜°š˜ø š˜°š˜Æš˜¦ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜©š˜µ š˜£š˜¦ š˜¢š˜§š˜§š˜¦š˜¤š˜µš˜¦š˜„ š˜£š˜ŗ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜Ŗš˜°š˜Æš˜“ š˜°š˜§ š˜°š˜µš˜©š˜¦š˜³š˜“. š˜ š˜„š˜° š˜Æš˜°š˜µ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜„š˜°š˜Æš˜¦ š˜¢š˜£š˜­š˜¦š˜Ŗš˜“š˜µ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜¤š˜³š˜°š˜¢š˜Øš˜Øš˜³š˜¦š˜“š˜“š˜Ŗš˜°š˜Æš˜“. š˜›š˜©š˜¢š˜Æš˜¬ š˜ŗš˜°š˜¶. ( emojicombos.com/neurofabulous ) The next morning, Karen gets a text from Plankton's dental office for a check up and routine cleaning. So Karen decided to go down stairs to awaken him, and Chip, so they can go. She finds them both asleep by each other still on the couch. Gently, she shakes Plankton's shoulder. "Honey," she says, her voice a soft caress. "You've got a dentist appointment." Plankton's eye snaps open, his antennae twitching. Chip opens his eyes. Plankton sits up with a start, his body stiff from the night on the couch. He looks at Karen, his expression a mix of confusion and dread. "Dentist?" he repeats, his voice cracking. Karen nods, her eyes filled with concern. "It's okay," she says, her voice soothing. "We'll go together, all of us." Karen's eyes are filled with understanding as she helps Plankton to his feet. Chip rises from his spot, his expression a mix of worry and determination. The drive to the dentist's office is quiet, the tension palpable. Once they arrive, they go up to the receptionist desk. The receptionist, a cheery octopus, greets them with a smile. "Good morning, Mr. Plankton," she says. "You're here for your 9 AM appointment, aren't you?" Plankton nods. "Yes," Karen says. "He's with hygienist named Zoe.." But then the receptionist interrupts her. "Oh, Zoe doesn't work here anymore. She's been replaced by a new hygienist, named Jill." Plankton's antennae droop, his face paling. Change was never his friend, especially when it came to routine. "But I've always had her," he whispers, his voice tight with anxiety. Karen's hand squeezes his shoulder, her eyes filled with understanding. "It'll be okay," she murmurs. "We'll make it work. We can tell her about your autistic needs." The waiting room is a cacophony of sounds, the buzz of the fluorescent lights, the hum of the air conditioner, the distant drill, and the muffled chatter of other patients. Plankton starts rocking back and forth. Karen notices the signs of his anxiety building, his antennae twitching with every new sound. She leans over, whispering. "We'll tell them what you need." Chip looks at his dad's stimming. "Why's he rocking?" Chip asks Karen. She whispers back, "It's a way he self-soothes, a common autistic trait. It's his way to deal with restlessness." The new hygienist, Jill, enters the waiting room. "Plankton?" Plankton's antennae shoot up, his body tense. "Yes," Karen says, smiling warmly. "This is my husband, Plankton, and our son, Chip." She nods towards Chip. They stand up and follow Jill. Jill's office is a minefield of sensory stimuli. The bright lights, the smell of antiseptic, and the shiny metal instruments glinting on the tray. Plankton's body tightens with each step closer to the chair. Karen notices, and whispers, "Remember what we talked about, Plankton. You can handle this." He nods, his antennae flicking nervously.
DO YOU TRUST ME pt. 18 š– š—Žš—š—š—ˆš—‹'š—Œ š–£š—‚š—Œš–¼š—…š–ŗš—‚š—†š–¾š—‹ š–­š—ˆš—š–¾ š˜ š˜§š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„ š˜øš˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜¢ š˜Øš˜°š˜°š˜„ š˜°š˜¶š˜µš˜­š˜¦š˜µ. š˜'š˜® š˜°š˜Æ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜šš˜±š˜¦š˜¤š˜µš˜³š˜¶š˜® š˜®š˜ŗš˜“š˜¦š˜­š˜§. š˜ š˜¦š˜Æš˜«š˜°š˜ŗ š˜øš˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜§š˜¢š˜Æš˜§š˜Ŗš˜¤ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜¤š˜­š˜¶š˜„š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜®š˜ŗ š˜§š˜¢š˜·š˜°š˜¶š˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜¦ š˜¤š˜©š˜¢š˜³š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜¦š˜³š˜“ š˜¢š˜Æš˜„ š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦š˜µš˜Ŗš˜®š˜¦š˜“ š˜'š˜­š˜­ š˜¢š˜„š˜„ š˜®š˜ŗ š˜°š˜øš˜Æ š˜§š˜¦š˜¢š˜³š˜“ š˜Ŗš˜Æ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜“š˜µš˜°š˜³š˜Ŗš˜¦š˜“. š˜šš˜° š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦ š˜„š˜¢š˜³š˜¬š˜¦š˜³ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜µš˜¦š˜Æš˜µ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜©š˜µ š˜µš˜³š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜Øš˜¦š˜³ š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦ š˜±š˜¦š˜°š˜±š˜­š˜¦, š˜¢š˜¶š˜µš˜Ŗš˜“š˜® š˜Ŗš˜®š˜±š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜“ š˜¦š˜·š˜¦š˜³š˜ŗ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„š˜Ŗš˜·š˜Ŗš˜„š˜¶š˜¢š˜­ š˜„š˜Ŗš˜§š˜§š˜¦š˜³š˜¦š˜Æš˜µš˜­š˜ŗ. š˜žš˜¦ š˜¢š˜³š˜¦ š˜Æš˜°š˜µ š˜¢ š˜®š˜°š˜Æš˜°š˜­š˜Ŗš˜µš˜©, š˜¢š˜Æš˜„ š˜¦š˜·š˜¦š˜³š˜ŗ š˜±š˜¦š˜³š˜“š˜°š˜Æ š˜©š˜¢š˜“ š˜µš˜©š˜¦š˜Ŗš˜³ š˜°š˜øš˜Æ š˜·š˜¢š˜­š˜Ŗš˜„ š˜“š˜µš˜°š˜³š˜ŗ. š˜ š˜°š˜¶ š˜®š˜¢š˜ŗ š˜§š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜§š˜°š˜³š˜®š˜¢š˜µš˜Ŗš˜·š˜¦ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜µš˜¦š˜Æš˜µ š˜°š˜Æ š˜©š˜°š˜ø š˜°š˜Æš˜¦ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜©š˜µ š˜£š˜¦ š˜¢š˜§š˜§š˜¦š˜¤š˜µš˜¦š˜„ š˜£š˜ŗ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜Ŗš˜°š˜Æš˜“ š˜°š˜§ š˜°š˜µš˜©š˜¦š˜³š˜“. š˜ š˜„š˜° š˜Æš˜°š˜µ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜„š˜°š˜Æš˜¦ š˜¢š˜£š˜­š˜¦š˜Ŗš˜“š˜µ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜¤š˜³š˜°š˜¢š˜Øš˜Øš˜³š˜¦š˜“š˜“š˜Ŗš˜°š˜Æš˜“. š˜›š˜©š˜¢š˜Æš˜¬ š˜ŗš˜°š˜¶. ( emojicombos.com/neurofabulous ) Jill, the new hygienist, is a whirlwind of activity, her movements swift and efficient. But she's not the same. The comfort of familiarity is replaced with the cold embrace of the unknown. Chip watches, his heart racing with his father's. Jill doesn't notice Plankton's growing distress. She's too busy preparing the chair, her eyes flicking over the chart. "Open wide," she says, her voice a sharp command. Plankton's eye flutters, his antennae drooping as she holds up a periodontal probe explorer. Plankton shakes his head. "Ms. Jill, I ha-" But she cuts him off with a wave of her hand. "We're all set. No need to be nervous." Her tone is brisk, dismissive of his fear as she leans in with the sharp probe. But it's not okay. It's not okay at all. Plankton's antennae thrash wildly, his eye wide with panic. "No," he whispers, his voice lost in the buzz of the room. "No, I need... I ca--" Jill's eyes narrow, her hand poised with the probe. "Mr. Plankton, you need to relax," she says, her voice a stern command. Karen steps forward, her voice calm but firm. "Jill, my husband is autistic. He has specific needs during these types of appointments." But Jill, focused on her work, doesn't look up. "We don't have all day," she says, her tone implicitly dismissing Karen's concerns. Yet the sharpness of the probe is painfully unbearable the second it touches Plankton.. Plankton's body jerks back, his voice rising in panic. "No, no, please!" he cries, his antennae thrashing. Karen's eyes narrow, her patience wearing thin. "Jill," she repeats, "my husband has an autistic condition." The words hang in the air, a plea for understanding. Jill's eyes snap up, her hand still gripping the probe. "Autistic?" she scoffs. "You're just trying to get out of the cleaning." Her dismissal is a slap in the face, her ignorance a barrier to the care Plankton desperately needs. "Relax or we'll have to hold you down." Plankton's antennae flatten, his body shaking with fear. "Karen," he whispers, his voice a thread of desperation. "Make i---" But Jill already has the probe in her hand, moving towards his mouth. Plankton's panic spikes, his antennae flailing. "Please," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "I can't handle it." Yet Jill doesn't heed his needs. Her grip is firm as she pries open Plankton's mouth, his eye watering. Chip's fists clench, his heart hammering. He wants to shout, to make her stop, but his throat is tight with his own fear of causing a scene. "Jill, wait," Karen says, her voice firm but calm. "You need to understand, Plankton's autism means he's sensitive to changes in routine and can't handle certain sensory inputs." But Jill's expression is unyielding, her eyes cold. "I don't care about your excuses," she says, her voice sharp. "You're here for a cleaning, and that's what you're getting. If you can't hold still, then we'll need to have your family hold you down or kick them out." Plankton's antennae drop limply, his body trembling. Karen's eyes flash with anger, but she remains composed. "Jill, you're not listening," she says, her voice a tightrope of control. "This isn't about avoiding a cleaning. It's abouā€“" But Plankton's distress reaches a breaking point. His antennae whip around, slapping against the chair in a frantic effort to escape the probe. "No," he whispers, his voice a plea. "I can't..." Karen steps in, her voice firm. "Jill, please," she says, her hand on Plankton's arm. "We need to adjust th-" But Jill's had enough. "If you can't keep still," she snaps, her hand tightening on the probe, "Then I'll do it myself." Plankton's eye widens in terror as she holds his mouth open, the probe poking him too hard. Chip can't stand it anymore. He steps forward, his voice steady despite his fear. "No," he says. But Jill pulls away, her eyes flashing. "This is none of your concern, kid," she sneers. "Now move." So Chip sits back down as Jill prods Plankton's mouth once more. But Plankton's distress only grows. His antennae twitching, his body shaking uncontrollably. "Stop," he whispers, his voice desperate. "Please." Jill's eyes narrow, her grip tightening. "You need to sit still," she says, her voice a harsh reproof. "This won't hurt if you just cooperate." But Plankton can't cooperate. He's lost in a world of sensory overload, the probe in his mouth a burning tormentor he can't escape. Karen's voice is calm but insistent. "Jill, please. We can reschedule with someone more understanding." But Jill waves her off, her eyes never leaving Plankton's terrified gaze. "Interrupt me again and I'll make you sit in the waiting room area." Chip's heart races as he watches his dad's distress. He's torn between protecting him and avoiding confrontation. The probe's cold touch is a violation, a symbol of the world's harshness invading their safe space. Plankton's whimpers turn to sobs, his body rigid with fear as she starts again with the probe, her movements becoming more aggressive. Plankton's antennae are a blur, his voice a garbled mess of pleas and pain. Karen doesn't want to have him unnecessarily suffer, yet she also doesn't want to be sent out. The room seems to close in, the lights too bright, the sounds too loud. Chip feels a knot in his throat, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. He looks to his mom, her face a mask of calm, but he can see the tension in her eyes, the tightness. Plankton's sobs grow louder, his body jerking as Jill continues to ignore his pleas. She only holds on tighter. Her movements become more aggressive, her eyes narrowed with determination. Karen's patience snaps like a taut rubber band. "That's enough," she says, her voice sharp. She moves to stand between Jill and Plankton, blocking the probe. "You're causing him unnecessary pain." Jill's eyes widen, but she doesn't relent. "Ma'am, I'm just trying to do my job. Now let me work. If you stay in here, then hold him down. We're not finished until we get this done." Karen's face is a picture of frustration and concern. "This isn't right," she says, her voice steady. But with a sigh of defeat, Karen sends Chip out into the waiting room as she holds her crying husband down. "I'm sorry, love, we have to get through th-" But Plankton's cries only intensify. The room feels like it's closing in on him, the lights piercing his eye, the smells overwhelming him. He wants to escape, to retreat into a bubble where everything is safe. But the probe is in his mouth, the chair is too cold, and Jill's touch is too rough. Yet Karen holds his limbs tightly. "Open wider," Jill commands, ignoring the tears streaming down Plankton's cheeks. The probe scrapes against his teeth, a grating sound that makes his skin crawl. His antennae are a blur of motion, a silent scream of distress. Karen's voice is firm. "Jill, this isn't working," she says, her eyes never leaving Plankton's. "We need to find another way." But Jill is unmoved. "I've got a schedule to keep," she snaps, her movements growing more forceful. "You're not special." The words hit Plankton like a wave, his heart racing. He tries to speak, to explain, but the probe is in his mouth, silencing his voice. He feels the beginnings of a seizure, the edges of his vision blurring. Jill's eyes flicker with impatience, her movements quickening. Karen's grip on Plankton's arm tightens, her voice a firm plea. "Jill, please, stop. He can't take it." But Jill's voice is cold. "This is standard procedure. I don't have tim-" But Plankton's body seizes, his limbs thrashing wildly. The probe clatters to the floor, Jill's eyes widening with shock. "He's having convulsions," Karen says quickly, her voice sharp. Jill's eyes dart to Karen, then back to Plankton, his body convulsing slightly in the chair. "What?" she asks, confusion marring her features. "He's having an autistic shutdown," Karen explains, her voice calm but urgent. "This happens when he's overwhelmed. Let. Go." Jill's grip finally loosens, her eyes wide with fear.
DO YOU TRUST ME pt. 19 š– š—Žš—š—š—ˆš—‹'š—Œ š–£š—‚š—Œš–¼š—…š–ŗš—‚š—†š–¾š—‹ š–­š—ˆš—š–¾ š˜ š˜§š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„ š˜øš˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜¢ š˜Øš˜°š˜°š˜„ š˜°š˜¶š˜µš˜­š˜¦š˜µ. š˜'š˜® š˜°š˜Æ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜šš˜±š˜¦š˜¤š˜µš˜³š˜¶š˜® š˜®š˜ŗš˜“š˜¦š˜­š˜§. š˜ š˜¦š˜Æš˜«š˜°š˜ŗ š˜øš˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜§š˜¢š˜Æš˜§š˜Ŗš˜¤ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜¤š˜­š˜¶š˜„š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜®š˜ŗ š˜§š˜¢š˜·š˜°š˜¶š˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜¦ š˜¤š˜©š˜¢š˜³š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜¦š˜³š˜“ š˜¢š˜Æš˜„ š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦š˜µš˜Ŗš˜®š˜¦š˜“ š˜'š˜­š˜­ š˜¢š˜„š˜„ š˜®š˜ŗ š˜°š˜øš˜Æ š˜§š˜¦š˜¢š˜³š˜“ š˜Ŗš˜Æ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜“š˜µš˜°š˜³š˜Ŗš˜¦š˜“. š˜šš˜° š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦ š˜„š˜¢š˜³š˜¬š˜¦š˜³ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜µš˜¦š˜Æš˜µ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜©š˜µ š˜µš˜³š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜Øš˜¦š˜³ š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦ š˜±š˜¦š˜°š˜±š˜­š˜¦, š˜¢š˜¶š˜µš˜Ŗš˜“š˜® š˜Ŗš˜®š˜±š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜“ š˜¦š˜·š˜¦š˜³š˜ŗ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„š˜Ŗš˜·š˜Ŗš˜„š˜¶š˜¢š˜­ š˜„š˜Ŗš˜§š˜§š˜¦š˜³š˜¦š˜Æš˜µš˜­š˜ŗ. š˜žš˜¦ š˜¢š˜³š˜¦ š˜Æš˜°š˜µ š˜¢ š˜®š˜°š˜Æš˜°š˜­š˜Ŗš˜µš˜©, š˜¢š˜Æš˜„ š˜¦š˜·š˜¦š˜³š˜ŗ š˜±š˜¦š˜³š˜“š˜°š˜Æ š˜©š˜¢š˜“ š˜µš˜©š˜¦š˜Ŗš˜³ š˜°š˜øš˜Æ š˜·š˜¢š˜­š˜Ŗš˜„ š˜“š˜µš˜°š˜³š˜ŗ. š˜ š˜°š˜¶ š˜®š˜¢š˜ŗ š˜§š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜§š˜°š˜³š˜®š˜¢š˜µš˜Ŗš˜·š˜¦ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜µš˜¦š˜Æš˜µ š˜°š˜Æ š˜©š˜°š˜ø š˜°š˜Æš˜¦ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜©š˜µ š˜£š˜¦ š˜¢š˜§š˜§š˜¦š˜¤š˜µš˜¦š˜„ š˜£š˜ŗ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜Ŗš˜°š˜Æš˜“ š˜°š˜§ š˜°š˜µš˜©š˜¦š˜³š˜“. š˜ š˜„š˜° š˜Æš˜°š˜µ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜„š˜°š˜Æš˜¦ š˜¢š˜£š˜­š˜¦š˜Ŗš˜“š˜µ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜¤š˜³š˜°š˜¢š˜Øš˜Øš˜³š˜¦š˜“š˜“š˜Ŗš˜°š˜Æš˜“. š˜›š˜©š˜¢š˜Æš˜¬ š˜ŗš˜°š˜¶. ( emojicombos.com/neurofabulous ) Plankton's body continues to shake, his breaths quick and shallow. Karen takes over, her hands gentle as she guides him out of the chair, her eyes filled with a mix of anger and sadness. "I'm sorry, ho-" But Plankton also fears Karen now because of her restraining him. He jolts at her approach. "Plank..." Karen's voice trails off, her expression one of pained realization. "I'm sor-" But Plankton's fear of Karen has grown. She's the one who held him down too, who forced him to endure the unbearable. His antennae flatten against his head, his body shaking as he tries to move away from her. "Don't," he whispers, his voice a rasp of fear. "Don't touch me." Karen's eyes fill with sorrow, her hand hovering uncertainly in the space between them. "Plankton, sweetie, it's okay," she says, her voice trembling. "It's just a misunderstanding." But Plankton's terror is too strong, his memories too fresh. He flinches at the sound of her voice, his antennae quivering. "Karen," he whispers, his voice a shaky plea. "Please... don't." His eye is wide with fear, his body stiff with tension. Karen's heart breaks, the pain in his gaze a stark contrast to the warmth she'd felt in his smile just hours before. "It's me," she says, her voice thick with regret. "It's Karen." Yet Plankton's body jerks away from her as if she's a danger to him, his antennae flattened in a protective stance. Karen's eyes fill with sorrow as she takes a step back, her hand dropping to her side. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I di-" But Plankton's fear is a living entity now, a creature that has latched onto him and won't let go. He stumbles backward, his legs shaking as he tries to put distance between them. "No," he whispers, his voice trembling. "You're not my Karen. You're... you're not safe!" Karen's eyes fill with sorrow, her heart aching. She'd never wanted to be a source of fear for Plankton. "Sweetie, I'm right here," she says, her voice a gentle caress. "I'm not going to hurt you." But her words bounce off the invisible barrier his fear has built. Chip watches from the doorway, his own fear mirroring his dad's. He wants to rush in, to make everything right, but he knows that would only make it worse. So he stands, frozen, his fists clenched at his side. The room is a tableau of despair, Plankton's sobs echoing off the cold, sterile walls. Karen's eyes are wet with unshed tears, her hand still reaching out, even though Plankton's retreating from it. "Do yo--" Her voice catches as she sees his fear, a raw emotion that she's never seen directed at her before. "Plankton, baby," she whispers, "it's me. I'm never going to hurt you." But Plankton's eye is wild, his antennae a frantic blur. He stumbles backward, his body colliding with the wall behind him. "No," he cries out, his voice raw with panic. "You're not! You just... You just hurt me!" Karen's hand falls to her side, defeated. The reality of the situation crashes down on her, a cold, hard weight. She's hurt the one person she'd sworn to protect, the one who needs her understanding the most. "I'm so sorry," she whispers, tears sliding down her cheeks. "I didn't mean to..." But Plankton's fear has consumed him, turning him into a creature of pure instinct. He presses his back against the wall, his antennae flat against his head, his body shaking with sobs. "Don't," he whispers, his voice a desperate plea. "Please don't ever do that again." Karen's heart breaks into a thousand pieces, each one sharp and jagged. She can't bear the thought that she's the reason for his fear. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she says, her voice trembling. "I didn't understand. I'll never do anything to scare yo-" But Plankton's sobs only grow louder, his antennae trembling with every intake of breath. "You said it would be okay, even when it wasn't," he whispers, his voice a broken whisper. Karen's eyes fill with regret, her heart heavy with the weight of his pain. "Sorry," she says, her voice thick with unshed tears. "I-I-I-Iā€¦" The room feels like it's shrinking, the air thick with the scent of fear and antiseptic. Karen tries to find the right words, anything to break through the panic that has swallowed her husband. "I didn't know," she whispers, her eyes searching his for understanding. "But now I do, and I'll never let anyone do that to you again." Jill clears her throat. "I'll go get the main dentist." She walks out of the room. The silence is deafening, the echo of Plankton's sobs the only sound. Karen moves slowly toward him, her steps soft and deliberate. "Shh, it's okay," she whispers, her hand outstretched. "I'm here." Plankton's antennae twitch, but he doesn't push her away. Instead, he leans into her, his body seeking the comfort of her touch.
DO YOU TRUST ME pt. 20 š– š—Žš—š—š—ˆš—‹'š—Œ š–£š—‚š—Œš–¼š—…š–ŗš—‚š—†š–¾š—‹ š–­š—ˆš—š–¾ š˜ š˜§š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„ š˜øš˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜¢ š˜Øš˜°š˜°š˜„ š˜°š˜¶š˜µš˜­š˜¦š˜µ. š˜'š˜® š˜°š˜Æ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜šš˜±š˜¦š˜¤š˜µš˜³š˜¶š˜® š˜®š˜ŗš˜“š˜¦š˜­š˜§. š˜ š˜¦š˜Æš˜«š˜°š˜ŗ š˜øš˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜§š˜¢š˜Æš˜§š˜Ŗš˜¤ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜¤š˜­š˜¶š˜„š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜®š˜ŗ š˜§š˜¢š˜·š˜°š˜¶š˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜¦ š˜¤š˜©š˜¢š˜³š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜¦š˜³š˜“ š˜¢š˜Æš˜„ š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦š˜µš˜Ŗš˜®š˜¦š˜“ š˜'š˜­š˜­ š˜¢š˜„š˜„ š˜®š˜ŗ š˜°š˜øš˜Æ š˜§š˜¦š˜¢š˜³š˜“ š˜Ŗš˜Æ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜“š˜µš˜°š˜³š˜Ŗš˜¦š˜“. š˜šš˜° š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦ š˜„š˜¢š˜³š˜¬š˜¦š˜³ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜µš˜¦š˜Æš˜µ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜©š˜µ š˜µš˜³š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜Øš˜¦š˜³ š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦ š˜±š˜¦š˜°š˜±š˜­š˜¦, š˜¢š˜¶š˜µš˜Ŗš˜“š˜® š˜Ŗš˜®š˜±š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜“ š˜¦š˜·š˜¦š˜³š˜ŗ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„š˜Ŗš˜·š˜Ŗš˜„š˜¶š˜¢š˜­ š˜„š˜Ŗš˜§š˜§š˜¦š˜³š˜¦š˜Æš˜µš˜­š˜ŗ. š˜žš˜¦ š˜¢š˜³š˜¦ š˜Æš˜°š˜µ š˜¢ š˜®š˜°š˜Æš˜°š˜­š˜Ŗš˜µš˜©, š˜¢š˜Æš˜„ š˜¦š˜·š˜¦š˜³š˜ŗ š˜±š˜¦š˜³š˜“š˜°š˜Æ š˜©š˜¢š˜“ š˜µš˜©š˜¦š˜Ŗš˜³ š˜°š˜øš˜Æ š˜·š˜¢š˜­š˜Ŗš˜„ š˜“š˜µš˜°š˜³š˜ŗ. š˜ š˜°š˜¶ š˜®š˜¢š˜ŗ š˜§š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜§š˜°š˜³š˜®š˜¢š˜µš˜Ŗš˜·š˜¦ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜µš˜¦š˜Æš˜µ š˜°š˜Æ š˜©š˜°š˜ø š˜°š˜Æš˜¦ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜©š˜µ š˜£š˜¦ š˜¢š˜§š˜§š˜¦š˜¤š˜µš˜¦š˜„ š˜£š˜ŗ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜Ŗš˜°š˜Æš˜“ š˜°š˜§ š˜°š˜µš˜©š˜¦š˜³š˜“. š˜ š˜„š˜° š˜Æš˜°š˜µ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜„š˜°š˜Æš˜¦ š˜¢š˜£š˜­š˜¦š˜Ŗš˜“š˜µ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜¤š˜³š˜°š˜¢š˜Øš˜Øš˜³š˜¦š˜“š˜“š˜Ŗš˜°š˜Æš˜“. š˜›š˜©š˜¢š˜Æš˜¬ š˜ŗš˜°š˜¶. ( emojicombos.com/neurofabulous ) Karen's arms wrap around him, her hands gentle on his back as she whispers words of comfort, her voice a balm to his frayed nerves. "You're safe, baby," she says. "You're safe with me." Plankton's sobs slow, his body relaxing marginally in her embrace. His antennae still thrash, but with less urgency, when Plankton's main dentist comes in. Dr. Musselman, Plankton's main dentist, rushes into the room, his eyes wide with concern at the sight of his patient's distress. Karen quickly explains the situation, her voice tight with emotion. "He's having an autistic shutdown," she says, her hand on Plankton's trembling back. "He's sensitive to sensory overload." He nods. "You can come into my exam room, follow me." The doctor's exam room is dimmer, the air cooler, and the smell less intense. The change in atmosphere is like a gentle caress against Plankton's overstimulated sensors. He lets out a shaky sigh, his antennae unfurling slightly. Dr. Musselman's eyes are kind, his voice a soothing balm. "Hi, Plankton," he says, his tone gentle. "Remember me?" Plankton's gaze flickers to him, his antennae stilling. "You're my other dentist," he whispers, his voice hoarse from the sobbing. The doctor nods, his smile reassuring. "That's right. I know you don't like surprises, so I'm sorry for that, for Jill. But we're going to take it slow, okay?" Plankton nods, his antennae twitching slightly. "We need to finish your cleaning," Karen says, her voice gentle. "But we'll do it with Dr. Musselman. He'll always work here, and can be your dentist instead of Jill from now on!" "Okay," Dr. Musselman says, his voice calm and measured. "We're going to take some x-rays now. It's quick and painless." Plankton's antennae perk up slightly at the mention of painlessness. He nods, his eye searching the doctor's face for any sign of deception. The doctor leads them to a small, enclosed space, the whirring of the x-ray machine a soothing constant. Karen holds Plankton's hand, her grip firm but gentle, as he sits in the chair. The doctor explains the process, his words clear and concise. Plankton nods, his breathing slowing slightly as he tries to comfort himself. The x-ray machine's cold metal touches his jaw, and he jolts. "It's okay," Karen whispers, her hand on his shoulder. "It's just a little picture of your teeth." Plankton's eye closes, his antennae stilling. He nods, his trust in his wife a beacon in the storm of his fear. Dr. Musselman's movements are careful, his voice calm. "Open wide," he says. Plankton's mouth opens slightly, his teeth clenched. The x-ray film slides into place, cold and slightly sticky. He tastes the metal, feels the pressure. But it's not the same as the probe. It's bearable. The machine whirs to life, the sensation of the x-rays a gentle buzz against his skin. His antennae quiver, but he doesn't pull away. Karen's hand squeezes his, a silent promise of support. "Good job," she murmurs, her voice a warm whisper in the cool air. The doctor's voice is steady. "Almost done," he says, his eyes on the machine's readout. Plankton nods, his breaths shallow but even. The fear has receded to a dull throb, a distant echo of the panic that had consumed him. The x-ray machine clicks off, the buzz of its operation silenced. Dr. Musselman gently removes the film, his movements careful not to startle Plankton. "Good boy," he says, his voice a warm caress. Plankton's antennae twitch in response, a tentative sign of trust.
DO YOU TRUST ME pt. 21 š– š—Žš—š—š—ˆš—‹'š—Œ š–£š—‚š—Œš–¼š—…š–ŗš—‚š—†š–¾š—‹ š–­š—ˆš—š–¾ š˜ š˜§š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„ š˜øš˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜¢ š˜Øš˜°š˜°š˜„ š˜°š˜¶š˜µš˜­š˜¦š˜µ. š˜'š˜® š˜°š˜Æ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜šš˜±š˜¦š˜¤š˜µš˜³š˜¶š˜® š˜®š˜ŗš˜“š˜¦š˜­š˜§. š˜ š˜¦š˜Æš˜«š˜°š˜ŗ š˜øš˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜§š˜¢š˜Æš˜§š˜Ŗš˜¤ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜¤š˜­š˜¶š˜„š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜®š˜ŗ š˜§š˜¢š˜·š˜°š˜¶š˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜¦ š˜¤š˜©š˜¢š˜³š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜¦š˜³š˜“ š˜¢š˜Æš˜„ š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦š˜µš˜Ŗš˜®š˜¦š˜“ š˜'š˜­š˜­ š˜¢š˜„š˜„ š˜®š˜ŗ š˜°š˜øš˜Æ š˜§š˜¦š˜¢š˜³š˜“ š˜Ŗš˜Æ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜“š˜µš˜°š˜³š˜Ŗš˜¦š˜“. š˜šš˜° š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦ š˜„š˜¢š˜³š˜¬š˜¦š˜³ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜µš˜¦š˜Æš˜µ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜©š˜µ š˜µš˜³š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜Øš˜¦š˜³ š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦ š˜±š˜¦š˜°š˜±š˜­š˜¦, š˜¢š˜¶š˜µš˜Ŗš˜“š˜® š˜Ŗš˜®š˜±š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜“ š˜¦š˜·š˜¦š˜³š˜ŗ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„š˜Ŗš˜·š˜Ŗš˜„š˜¶š˜¢š˜­ š˜„š˜Ŗš˜§š˜§š˜¦š˜³š˜¦š˜Æš˜µš˜­š˜ŗ. š˜žš˜¦ š˜¢š˜³š˜¦ š˜Æš˜°š˜µ š˜¢ š˜®š˜°š˜Æš˜°š˜­š˜Ŗš˜µš˜©, š˜¢š˜Æš˜„ š˜¦š˜·š˜¦š˜³š˜ŗ š˜±š˜¦š˜³š˜“š˜°š˜Æ š˜©š˜¢š˜“ š˜µš˜©š˜¦š˜Ŗš˜³ š˜°š˜øš˜Æ š˜·š˜¢š˜­š˜Ŗš˜„ š˜“š˜µš˜°š˜³š˜ŗ. š˜ š˜°š˜¶ š˜®š˜¢š˜ŗ š˜§š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜§š˜°š˜³š˜®š˜¢š˜µš˜Ŗš˜·š˜¦ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜µš˜¦š˜Æš˜µ š˜°š˜Æ š˜©š˜°š˜ø š˜°š˜Æš˜¦ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜©š˜µ š˜£š˜¦ š˜¢š˜§š˜§š˜¦š˜¤š˜µš˜¦š˜„ š˜£š˜ŗ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜Ŗš˜°š˜Æš˜“ š˜°š˜§ š˜°š˜µš˜©š˜¦š˜³š˜“. š˜ š˜„š˜° š˜Æš˜°š˜µ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜„š˜°š˜Æš˜¦ š˜¢š˜£š˜­š˜¦š˜Ŗš˜“š˜µ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜¤š˜³š˜°š˜¢š˜Øš˜Øš˜³š˜¦š˜“š˜“š˜Ŗš˜°š˜Æš˜“. š˜›š˜©š˜¢š˜Æš˜¬ š˜ŗš˜°š˜¶. ( emojicombos.com/neurofabulous ) Plankton watches as the doctor holds the film up to the light, his eyes scanning the white and grey image. Plankton's eye follows, trying to make sense of the shapes and shadows that are his teeth. He's seen these before, the ghosts of his mouth laid bare for inspection. But there's something new. The doctor's expression is serious, his voice careful. "Looks like you've got some wisdom teeth who are thinking about moving in!" Plankton's antennae spike with anxiety. "W-what does that mean?" he asks, his voice shaking. Dr. Musselman's expression is reassuring. "It means we need to take them out before they cause any trouble. It's a procedure that can be a bit scary, but we'll make sure you're as comfortable as possib--" But Plankton's fear spirals out of control. "No," he whispers, his antennae drooping. "No more pain." Karen's heart clenches. "They can cause a lot of pain if we don't, sweetie," she says, her voice soothing. "But we'll make sure it's as gentle as possible. Can we just do it today? He hasn't eaten since yesterday, so..." Dr. Musselman nods. "We can schedule it for today," he says, his voice calm. "But let's make sure you're as comfortable as we can first." He gestures to the chair. "Would you like to sit down, Plankton?" Plankton's antennae twitch, his body stiff with fear. But he nods, his movements slow and deliberate as he slides back into the chair. Karen's hand squeezes his, a silent promise of support. "I'll stay with you," she says, her voice a warm whisper. Dr. Musselman nods. "We'll start with a local anesthetic," he says, his tone soothing. "It'll numb the area so you won't feel anything." He says as he grabs a syringe filled with a clear liquid. Plankton's eye widens, his antennae stilling in fear. "Could we try sedation, or?" Dr. Musselman nods, his expression sympathetic. "We can do that," he says. "It'll make the whole process easier." The doctor explains the process, his words measured and calm. Plankton's eye widens at the mention of sleeping through the procedure, his body relaxing slightly. "We'll do both cleaning and extraction all while he's under anesthesia." An anesthesiologist enters, his movements calm and precise. Plankton watches him with a mix of fear and curiosity, his antennae twitching. The smell of the gas fills the air, and Karen's grip on his hand tightens. "It'll just make you sleep," she whispers, trying to soothe his nerves. The mask is cold against his face, the scent of the gas strange. "Breathe," he says. "In and out." Plankton does as he's told, his eye squeezed shut. The world around him starts to fade, the sounds of the dental office growing distant. His chest feels heavy, his breaths slow and deep. "You're doing so well," Karen murmurs, her voice a constant in the swirl of his thoughts. "I'm so proud of you." The anesthesiologist's gloved hand is gentle, his voice soft. "Just a few more breaths," he says. Plankton's body relaxes into the chair, his antennae drooping. The gas fills his lungs, and the world goes hazy around the edges. The coldness of the mask is the last sensation he registers before the darkness claims him. Meanwhile, Karen watches as the anesthetic takes hold. Plankton's hand relaxes in hers, his breaths evening out. She feels the weight of his fear lifting, his body growing slack. She kisses his forehead, whispering words of love and reassurance as the world slips away from him. Finally, he falls asleep, his antennae still as he starts to snore lightly. They clean his teeth before extracting the wisdom teeth, all while Plankton's body lies limp in the chair feeling nothing. Karen holds his hand as they put the last of the dissolving stitches in. The procedure is done, and Plankton is still asleep. Karen's eyes are full of relief and love as she smiles down at him. "It's all over," she whispers. "You did so well, baby." She knows he probably can't hear her yet, though. The doctor nods. "Everything went smoothly," he says, his voice low. "The extractions went well, and he should wake up in a few minutes." Karen's heart skips a beat, her hand tightening around Plankton's. "Thank you," she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for understanding." Dr. Musselman nods, his eyes kind. "We're here to help," he says. "Now let's get him comfortable before he wakes up." The chair is reclined, his mouth clean and his teeth bare of the troublesome wisdom teeth. Drool pools at the corners of his mouth, a testament to his deep slumber and numbness. Karen's mind races with thoughts as they wait for Plankton to come to. She thinks about the seizure and the fear in his eye. It was a stark reminder of his vulnerability, despite his bravado. She makes a mental note to be more understanding, more supportive. The doctor and his assistant carefully insert the gauze pads with tender precision, their movements silent and respectful of his sleep. Plankton's body remains still, his snores unchanged by the intrusion. Karen watches with a mixture of love and anxiety. Her hand is a constant comfort on his, her thumb gently stroking the back of his palm. She's thankful for Dr. Musselman's understanding, his gentle touch. The doctor nods. "He'll wake up in his own time," he says, his eyes on the monitors that track Plankton's vitals. "It's normal for autistic patients to need some extra time to come out of anesthesia." His words hang in the air, a reminder of the unique challenges they face. Karen nods, her eyes never leaving Plankton's still form. The gauze in his mouth is already stained with a faint pink, the blood from his extractions. She reaches for a tissue, gently wiping away the drool that has started to form around his mouth. Her heart clenches as she sees the peaceful expression on his face, free from the fear that had gripped him earlier. The doctor checks the monitors, his gaze flicking between the numbers and Plankton's sleeping form. "He's doing well," he murmurs.
DO YOU TRUST ME pt. 22 š– š—Žš—š—š—ˆš—‹'š—Œ š–£š—‚š—Œš–¼š—…š–ŗš—‚š—†š–¾š—‹ š–­š—ˆš—š–¾ š˜ š˜§š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„ š˜øš˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜¢ š˜Øš˜°š˜°š˜„ š˜°š˜¶š˜µš˜­š˜¦š˜µ. š˜'š˜® š˜°š˜Æ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜šš˜±š˜¦š˜¤š˜µš˜³š˜¶š˜® š˜®š˜ŗš˜“š˜¦š˜­š˜§. š˜ š˜¦š˜Æš˜«š˜°š˜ŗ š˜øš˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜§š˜¢š˜Æš˜§š˜Ŗš˜¤ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜¤š˜­š˜¶š˜„š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜®š˜ŗ š˜§š˜¢š˜·š˜°š˜¶š˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜¦ š˜¤š˜©š˜¢š˜³š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜¦š˜³š˜“ š˜¢š˜Æš˜„ š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦š˜µš˜Ŗš˜®š˜¦š˜“ š˜'š˜­š˜­ š˜¢š˜„š˜„ š˜®š˜ŗ š˜°š˜øš˜Æ š˜§š˜¦š˜¢š˜³š˜“ š˜Ŗš˜Æ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜“š˜µš˜°š˜³š˜Ŗš˜¦š˜“. š˜šš˜° š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦ š˜„š˜¢š˜³š˜¬š˜¦š˜³ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜µš˜¦š˜Æš˜µ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜©š˜µ š˜µš˜³š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜Øš˜¦š˜³ š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦ š˜±š˜¦š˜°š˜±š˜­š˜¦, š˜¢š˜¶š˜µš˜Ŗš˜“š˜® š˜Ŗš˜®š˜±š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜“ š˜¦š˜·š˜¦š˜³š˜ŗ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„š˜Ŗš˜·š˜Ŗš˜„š˜¶š˜¢š˜­ š˜„š˜Ŗš˜§š˜§š˜¦š˜³š˜¦š˜Æš˜µš˜­š˜ŗ. š˜žš˜¦ š˜¢š˜³š˜¦ š˜Æš˜°š˜µ š˜¢ š˜®š˜°š˜Æš˜°š˜­š˜Ŗš˜µš˜©, š˜¢š˜Æš˜„ š˜¦š˜·š˜¦š˜³š˜ŗ š˜±š˜¦š˜³š˜“š˜°š˜Æ š˜©š˜¢š˜“ š˜µš˜©š˜¦š˜Ŗš˜³ š˜°š˜øš˜Æ š˜·š˜¢š˜­š˜Ŗš˜„ š˜“š˜µš˜°š˜³š˜ŗ. š˜ š˜°š˜¶ š˜®š˜¢š˜ŗ š˜§š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜§š˜°š˜³š˜®š˜¢š˜µš˜Ŗš˜·š˜¦ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜µš˜¦š˜Æš˜µ š˜°š˜Æ š˜©š˜°š˜ø š˜°š˜Æš˜¦ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜©š˜µ š˜£š˜¦ š˜¢š˜§š˜§š˜¦š˜¤š˜µš˜¦š˜„ š˜£š˜ŗ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜Ŗš˜°š˜Æš˜“ š˜°š˜§ š˜°š˜µš˜©š˜¦š˜³š˜“. š˜ š˜„š˜° š˜Æš˜°š˜µ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜„š˜°š˜Æš˜¦ š˜¢š˜£š˜­š˜¦š˜Ŗš˜“š˜µ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜¤š˜³š˜°š˜¢š˜Øš˜Øš˜³š˜¦š˜“š˜“š˜Ŗš˜°š˜Æš˜“. š˜›š˜©š˜¢š˜Æš˜¬ š˜ŗš˜°š˜¶. ( emojicombos.com/neurofabulous ) Plankton's mouth moves with his snores, the gauze pads in his mouth muffling the sound, the crimson tinge to the white fabric. His drool pools and runs down the side of his face. Karen watches, her thoughts a tumult of emotion. She's relieved that the procedure went well but torn apart by the knowledge that Plankton's fear was so intense. Her hand remains steadfast on his, her thumb brushing over his skin in gentle circles. The doctor checks his watch, his eyes on Plankton's slack form. "Almost time for him to wake up," he says softly. Karen nods, her heart racing as she braces herself for his reaction. Karen can't help but think about how much he's been through today, and she wonders if he'll ever trust her the same way again. The minutes tick by, each one feeling like an eternity. The only sounds in the room are the steady beeps of the monitors and the soft snores of Plankton's slumber. Karen's hand doesn't stop moving, her thumb tracing comforting patterns on his palm. When Plankton stirs, his antennae twitching slightly, Karen's eyes fill with relief. "Hey, baby," she whispers, her voice a caress. "You're okay." His eye opens slowly, blinking against the light. He looks around, his gaze finally settling on Karen. For a moment, his expression is lost, a swirl of confusion and fear. Then he sees her smile, and the world falls into place. "Huh," he whispers, his voice slurred from the anesthesia. Karen's smile widens. The numbness in his mouth is a strange, disconnected sensation, like his teeth are floating in a sea of cotton. Plankton tries to sit up, his movements clumsy and slow. Karen's hand on his shoulder is firm but gentle, guiding him back down. "Easy, sweetie," she says. The doctor nods, his expression a blend of concern and reassurance. "Just give it a few more minutes," he says. "Let the anesthesia wear off a bit more." Plankton's eye focuses on her, his mind fuzzy. The gauze in his mouth feels like a soggy sponge, absorbing the blood from his teeth. He tries to talk, but his words are muted and garbled. "Ma-" Karen nods, her smile understanding. "I know, baby. It'll be okay." The doctor checks the monitors, his expression calm. "Looks like you're coming out of it," he says. "Just a few more minutes." Karen nods, her hand still on Plankton's. Plankton's body feels strange, his movements sluggish. The numbness of his mouth spreads to his cheeks, his face feeling swollen and alien. He tries to talk. "Ma-Ma-Ma-Ma-" Karen understands his attempt at words. She leans closer, smiling gently. "It's okay, sweetie. You're okay." Her voice is a soothing song, a balm to his fearful soul. His tongue feels like a thick slab of meat, unresponsive and foreign. The drool continues to flow. Plankton's gaze moves from Karen to the doctor, his eye wide and searching. "Wheh...what...whath happen'd?" he mumbles around the gauze, his mouth feeling like it's filled with cotton. His tongue is a dead weight, refusing to form words. Karen's smile is a lifeline in the fog of his confusion. "You had a little procedure," she says, her voice gentle. "The wisdom teeth are out." Plankton's antennae twitch, trying to remember the conversation that had led to this. The fear is a distant memory now, dulled by the anesthesia. His mouth feels strange, unfamiliar. He reaches up to touch his swollen cheek, his hand shaky and clumsy. "Ma-Ma-Ma-Ma--" He tries to form words, his mind still sluggish. Karen's eyes are full of love and concern as she gently takes his hand. "It's okay," she says. "The numbness will go away soon." Plankton nods, his head lolling slightly as his body adjusts to the lack of sensation. His drool pools on the gauze pads, the saliva spilling over onto his chin. He's vaguely aware of the mess he's making, but the fear has been replaced by a dull, heavy weight. The doctor's voice is a comforting murmur in the background, talking to Karen about aftercare and pain management. Karen's hand is still in his, her fingers tight around his own. He tries to squeeze back, but his hand feels floppy and unresponsive. "K-Karen wiww I...?" he slurs, his thoughts still tangled. Her eyes are warm with comfort. "You're going to be fine," she assures him, wiping away a stray drop from the corner of his mouth. "We'll go home soon." He perks up. "Thoon?" The doctor nods. "We'll keep an eye on him for a bit longer," he says. "But you can take him home once he's more awake." Karen nods, her thumb continuing to trace gentle circles on his palm. Plankton's eye is glazed with the remnants of anesthesia, but his antennae twitch with excitement. The room spins around Plankton, the walls a blur. He tries to sit up again, his body fighting against the lingering effects of the drugs. Karen's grip is firm but loving, keeping him anchored to the chair. "Just a bit longer," she soothes. His mouth feels like a cavern, the gauze thick and unyielding. He tries to speak, his tongue a traitor against his will. "Doeth...doeth it huth?" The words come out garbled, a nonsensical string of syllables. Karen nods, her smile understanding. "Your mouth will feel funny for a bit," she explains, her voice a soothing hum. "It's normal, just give it some time." Her thumb keeps moving, a small, reassuring gesture. The doctor's words drift in and out of Plankton's awareness. "You'll have to take it easy for a few days," he's saying. "No crunchy foods, lots of ice for the swelling." Karen nods, her eyes on Plankton's face as she listens. Plankton's tongue is a sluggish weight in his mouth, his teeth a distant memory beneath the cottony numbness. He tries to form a full sentence. "Muh...muh...muh... Yith?" Plankton's voice is a garbled mess, the words sticking to his numb tongue like glue. Karen's heart squeezes in her chest as she tries not to laugh. "What did you say, sweetie?" He sighs, frustrated, his antennae drooping. "I thaid, doth Chip know?" His speech is still slurred, the words coming out like a drunken mumble. Karen nods. "He's waiting outside," she says. "He's been worried about you." The mention of Chip seems to anchor him. His eye brightens, the confusion in it clearing slightly. "Chip," he murmurs. Karen smiles. "Yes, Chip," she repeats, her voice a soft echo. "You remember now?" Plankton's antennae twitch in affirmation. "Muh...mouth." Karen nods, her expression full of understanding. "It's okay," she says. "Your mouth will feel normal again soon." The doctor's voice is a steady stream of instructions, his words a lifeline in Plankton's foggy reality. "Keep the gauze in for an hour, chew gently to keep the blood flowing," he says, his tone calm and soothing. Plankton nods, his eye unfocused. Karen's hand is a comforting weight on his shoulder, her voice a lullaby as she repeats the instructions back to him. "We'll go get some ice cream," she says, her tone hopeful. "Something soft and sweet to help your mouth feel better. Ready to meet Chip out in the lobby?" Plankton nods, his movements jerky and awkward. The numbness in his mouth still lingers, his tongue a dead weight as he tries to speak. "I-I...finks...sho." His voice is a slurred mess, but the meaning is clear. Karen laughs gently, her hands moving to help him sit up. "Let's go, then," she says, her voice filled with relief and love. Plankton's eye widens slightly as he takes in his surroundings, his movements still slow and sluggish. The doctor nods, his expression a mix of pride and sympathy. Her arm is around him, supporting his weight as she helps him stand up.
DO YOU TRUST ME pt. 23 š– š—Žš—š—š—ˆš—‹'š—Œ š–£š—‚š—Œš–¼š—…š–ŗš—‚š—†š–¾š—‹ š–­š—ˆš—š–¾ š˜ š˜§š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„ š˜øš˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜¢ š˜Øš˜°š˜°š˜„ š˜°š˜¶š˜µš˜­š˜¦š˜µ. š˜'š˜® š˜°š˜Æ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜šš˜±š˜¦š˜¤š˜µš˜³š˜¶š˜® š˜®š˜ŗš˜“š˜¦š˜­š˜§. š˜ š˜¦š˜Æš˜«š˜°š˜ŗ š˜øš˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜§š˜¢š˜Æš˜§š˜Ŗš˜¤ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜¤š˜­š˜¶š˜„š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜Ø š˜®š˜ŗ š˜§š˜¢š˜·š˜°š˜¶š˜³š˜Ŗš˜µš˜¦ š˜¤š˜©š˜¢š˜³š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜¦š˜³š˜“ š˜¢š˜Æš˜„ š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦š˜µš˜Ŗš˜®š˜¦š˜“ š˜'š˜­š˜­ š˜¢š˜„š˜„ š˜®š˜ŗ š˜°š˜øš˜Æ š˜§š˜¦š˜¢š˜³š˜“ š˜Ŗš˜Æ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜“š˜µš˜°š˜³š˜Ŗš˜¦š˜“. š˜šš˜° š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦ š˜„š˜¢š˜³š˜¬š˜¦š˜³ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜µš˜¦š˜Æš˜µ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜©š˜µ š˜µš˜³š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜Øš˜¦š˜³ š˜“š˜°š˜®š˜¦ š˜±š˜¦š˜°š˜±š˜­š˜¦, š˜¢š˜¶š˜µš˜Ŗš˜“š˜® š˜Ŗš˜®š˜±š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜“ š˜¦š˜·š˜¦š˜³š˜ŗ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„š˜Ŗš˜·š˜Ŗš˜„š˜¶š˜¢š˜­ š˜„š˜Ŗš˜§š˜§š˜¦š˜³š˜¦š˜Æš˜µš˜­š˜ŗ. š˜žš˜¦ š˜¢š˜³š˜¦ š˜Æš˜°š˜µ š˜¢ š˜®š˜°š˜Æš˜°š˜­š˜Ŗš˜µš˜©, š˜¢š˜Æš˜„ š˜¦š˜·š˜¦š˜³š˜ŗ š˜±š˜¦š˜³š˜“š˜°š˜Æ š˜©š˜¢š˜“ š˜µš˜©š˜¦š˜Ŗš˜³ š˜°š˜øš˜Æ š˜·š˜¢š˜­š˜Ŗš˜„ š˜“š˜µš˜°š˜³š˜ŗ. š˜ š˜°š˜¶ š˜®š˜¢š˜ŗ š˜§š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜„ š˜Ŗš˜Æš˜§š˜°š˜³š˜®š˜¢š˜µš˜Ŗš˜·š˜¦ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜µš˜¦š˜Æš˜µ š˜°š˜Æ š˜©š˜°š˜ø š˜°š˜Æš˜¦ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜Øš˜©š˜µ š˜£š˜¦ š˜¢š˜§š˜§š˜¦š˜¤š˜µš˜¦š˜„ š˜£š˜ŗ š˜µš˜©š˜¦ š˜¢š˜¤š˜µš˜Ŗš˜°š˜Æš˜“ š˜°š˜§ š˜°š˜µš˜©š˜¦š˜³š˜“. š˜ š˜„š˜° š˜Æš˜°š˜µ š˜¤š˜°š˜Æš˜„š˜°š˜Æš˜¦ š˜¢š˜£š˜­š˜¦š˜Ŗš˜“š˜µ š˜®š˜Ŗš˜¤š˜³š˜°š˜¢š˜Øš˜Øš˜³š˜¦š˜“š˜“š˜Ŗš˜°š˜Æš˜“. š˜›š˜©š˜¢š˜Æš˜¬ š˜ŗš˜°š˜¶. ( emojicombos.com/neurofabulous ) Plankton's legs feel like jelly, his movements exaggerated as he tries to follow her lead. His tongue is a clumsy thing in his mouth, his teeth a strange, unfamiliar landscape. "C-Chip," he stammers, his speech still slurred. Karen nods, her smile warm and encouraging. "Let's go," she says, her arm around him. The hallway is a blur of colors and sounds. His antennae twitch, trying to make sense of the world around him. Chip is in the lobby, his eyes wide with worry as he sees them. He rushes forward, his movements cautious. "What happeā€”" But Plankton is a mess of gauze, his words still lost as he interrupts his son. "Hi-Hi-Hi-Hiā€”" He stammers, his voice a slurred mess. Chip's eyes widen with concern, taking in his father's swollen face and the crimson-soaked pads in his mouth. He swallows hard, his voice trembling. "Dad?" Karen steps in, her voice firm but gentle. "He just had his wisdom teeth taken out," she explains. "His mouth is still numb." Chip nods, his eyes never leaving Plankton's face. Plankton tries to smile around the gauze, his antennae waving in an awkward attempt at reassurance. "T-thank you," he slurs, his voice muffled by the pads. Chip's eyes fill with tears at the sight of his father, his heart heavy with a mix of pity and love. They make their way slowly to the car, Karen's supportive arm around Plankton's waist. His legs feel like rubber, his body still fighting the lingering effects of the anesthesia. "M-muh...m-m-mouth," he mumbles, his tongue a sluggish beast in his mouth. Karen laughs softly, her hands guiding him gently. "You'll be okay," she says, her voice a warm embrace. "Let's get you in the back with Chip." She opens the door to the back. Plankton slumps into his seat, the numbness in his mouth spreading to his cheeks. His tongue is a thick, unresponsive slab, refusing to cooperate. Karen buckles him in, her eyes full of love and concern. "Just relax, baby," she whispers. "We'll be home soon." She starts the car, the engine purring to life. Chip sits by him in the seat. The world outside the window is a blur of colors, each one more vivid than the last. Plankton tries to keep his eye open, his antennae twitching with the effort. But the weight of the anesthesia is too much. His eyelid droops, the lid feeling like heavy curtains that refuse to stay up. Karen's voice is gentle. "You okay, sweetie?" she asks, glancing in the rearview mirror. But Plankton's eye is closing, the weight of the anesthesia too great to fight. "J-just tiwed," he mumbles, his speech still thick and slurred. "S-sleep, must shay awake?" Karen's voice is a warm whisper. "It's okay," she says. Plankton's head lolls against the seat, his antennae drooping. "Chip and I are here. We'll watch over yo-" But her words are lost as Plankton's eyelid gives way to the seductive pull of sleep. His breaths deepen, his snores a gentle accompaniment to the hum of the engine. Chip's gaze is filled with concern, his hand tentative as he touches his father's arm. "Dad?" His voice is a soft question, but Plankton doesn't stir. The car sways gently with the road's undulations, a lullaby that Plankton's exhausted body can't resist. Karen's eyes flicker to the mirror, a sigh escaping her lips. She knows the importance of rest for him now, his system still reeling from the surgery and the overwhelming emotions of the day. She keeps driving, her hands steady on the wheel. "It's okay, Chip," she says. "Let him sleep." Chip nods, his expression a mix of relief and worry. He watches his father's chest rise and fall, the steady rhythm of his breathing a testament to the peace he's found in slumber. His hand remains on Plankton's arm, a silent pledge of support. Yet Plankton sleeps on, oblivious to the world outside. The car ride home is quiet, the only sounds the hum of the engine and Plankton's snores. Karen drives with a gentle touch, each bump in the road a reminder of the fragile recovery her husband is experiencing. She glances in the mirror every few minutes, checking on him and Chip. Chip sits next to his father, his hand resting lightly on Plankton's arm. He's torn between watching the scenery fly by and keeping vigil over the man he loves. His heart thuds with every snore, his mind racing with worries and questions. Is he okay? Why can't he stay awake? The car's air conditioning blows gently on Plankton's face, his antennae muscles twitching against the coolness. His eye opens briefly, his gaze unfocused. "Ch-Chip?" His voice is a faint rasp, the remnants of sleep clinging to his words. "I'm right here, Dad," Chip says, his voice filled with concern. Plankton's eyelid flickers, battling the weight of slumber. The world is a swirl of colors and light, his brain struggling to make sense of it all. He tries to sit up, his body stiff from the lingering anesthesia. "Home?" he mumbles. Karen's eyes meet his in the mirror, her smile soft. "Almost, baby," she says, her voice a gentle lull. "Just a little bit longer." Her eyes flick back to the road, her grip on the steering wheel steady. Plankton's eyelid droops again, his head rolling slightly to the side. His antennae twitch with the effort to stay conscious, but the pull of sleep is too much. Chip's grip on his arm tightens, his voice a soft alarm. "Dad, stay with me." Plankton's eye opens a crack, his gaze unfocused. "M-m-m'kay," he mumbles, his speech still slurred. But the fight is lost almost immediately, his eye closing once more. The car sways with the road, a gentle rocking motion that seems to call to him, urging him back to sleep. Each snore is deeper than the last, his body succumbing to the sleep. Karen's eyes remain on the road, her thoughts a silent vigil. Chip's hand moves to his father's shoulder, his touch light but firm. "Wake up, Dad," he whispers, his voice a gentle prod. But Plankton's body resists, his head rolling back into the comfort of the seat. "Dad, wake up," Chip tries again, his tone more insistent this time. Plankton's eye opens a slit, the world swimming into focus briefly before slipping away again. "Wh-whath?" he murmurs, his voice a slurred mess. "Almost home," Karen says, her voice soothing. "Just stay awake a little longer." But the drugs are too powerful, the sedative's grip too tight. His eye closes again, his head falling back onto the headrest with a soft thunk. Chip watches, his heart racing, his hand still gripping his father's shoulder. "Come on, Dad," he whispers, his voice desperate. "Don't go to sleep." Karen's eyes meet his in the mirror, a look of understanding. "It's okay, Chip," she says. "Let him rest." The car pulls into the driveway, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. Plankton's eye flutters open, his gaze unfocused. "Home," he mumbles, his voice barely a whisper. Karen's eyes are filled with gentle concern as she turns off the engine. "Let's get you inside," she says, her voice a comforting balm. Chip's hands are already moving, helping his father unbuckle his seatbelt. Plankton's movements are slow and clumsy, his body still not fully his own. His legs wobble as he tries to stand, his eye glazed with the lingering effects of the anesthesia. "Easy, Dad," Chip says, his voice steady and firm. Karen opens the passenger side door, her arms ready to catch him if he falls. Plankton's sleeping body sags into her embrace. She helps him to his feet, yet Plankton's snores punctuate the air like a soft metronome. Chip rushes around to the other side, his arms slipping under his father's shoulders. "I got you," he says, his voice shaking with the weight of his words. Plankton's body is a dead weight, his snores deep and even. Karen's eyes are filled with a mix of pride and concern as she watches her son take charge. "Let's get you to the couch," she says, guiding them both. The house is quiet, the only sounds their footsteps and Plankton's snores. They manage to get him to the couch, his body slumping into the cushions. Karen pulls the gauze from his mouth, the stains of blood and saliva telling the tale of his journey. His cheeks are swollen and bruised, a testament to the battle his mouth just endured. "Chip, grab some ice," she instructs, her voice calm. "We'll need to keep the swelling down." Chip nods, his movements swift as he disappears into the kitchen. The sound of ice cubes clinking against plastic is a sharp contrast to the quiet snores that fill the room. "Wake up, sweetie," she says, her voice a soft coax. Plankton's antennae twitch, his eye opening slowly. He tries to focus, but the world is a blur of colors and shapes. Karen's face swims into view, her smile a beacon of comfort. "Ice," she says. Chip appears, a bag of crushed ice in his hand. He gently presses it to Plankton's cheek, the coldness a stark contrast to the warmth of his mother's touch. "Tanks," Plankton whispers, his speech still slurred. His hand moves to the bag, his fingers trembling. But this time he doesn't tremble from being overwhelmedā€”it's from the relief of being home, of being safe with his family.
A TOOTHY STORY pt. 3 Moments later, a groan escapes Plankton as he starts to stir, his eye fluttering open. "Hey, how's it going?" Karen asks him. "Mmm?" he mumbles, his voice thick as his eye flutters. "The surgery's over," she tells him, keeping her voice low and soothing. "We're just waiting for you to wake up properly before we go home." "Mmph," is all that comes out. Karen laughs gently, wiping his numb mouth. Plankton's eye blinks. "W-what?" He slurs. "You're okay," she repeats, smoothing his antennae. "You had your wisdom teeth out. They're all gone. You're in recovery." Plankton tries to speak. "Mmh... mmf... m-much?" Karen chuckles. "You'll feel better soon." Plankton's mouth feels like it's filled with wet cotton. He tries to form words, his tongue clumsy against the numbness. "Wh-wha?" Karen laughs gently, her screen sparkling with love and amusement. "You just had surgery." Plankton blinks, trying to focus. "Gah?" he attempts, his voice barely above a whisper. Karen laughs softly, her hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, just take it easy." "Mmph... m-more?" Plankton slurs. Karen's eyes widen with surprise and laughter. "No, honey, all four are out. You're all done." "Mm-hmm?" He tries again, his voice a mere vibration in his throat. The nurse, Nina, smiles at him, her eyes crinkling with kindness. "You're doing great, Mr. Plankton," she says, her voice a gentle melody that seems to soothe his jumbled thoughts. "Just a little while longer and you'll be feeling more like yourself." He nods, his movements sluggish, his antennae flopping slightly. "Mmh... mmf," he mumbles again, his eye searching hers for clarity. Karen nods and smiles, understanding his unspoken question. "You're okay. The surgery went well. We just need to wait for the anesthesia to wear off." Karen leans in closer, her voice a lifeline in the sea of confusion. "You can't eat solids for a few days. But we've got plenty of smoothies and soups at home. You're going to love it." "K-Karen?" He croaks, his voice barely audible. She nods, smiling, her screen still filled with love and concern. "Wh-what... thine?" He slurs, his speech still slurred by the lingering effects of the anesthesia. Karen glances at the clock on the wall. "It's early," she says. "Don't worry about it." Plankton's antennae twitch, his mind grasping for coherence. "M-morning?" He mumbles, his eyes searching the room. The nurse, Nina, nods, her smile reassuring. "Yep, it's morning. The surgery's done. You're all set, Mr. Plankton." "I... I had... had... had surgery?" he asks, his speech still thick. Karen nods, her smile warm. "Yes, you did. Dr. Marlin said it went really well." "W-where's the... the... the...?" His words are slurred, and he can't quite remember what he was trying to ask. "Hmm?" He says, noticing Becky the receptionist. Karen nods. "The dentist took them out. Your mouth will feel a bit funny for a while, but it's all over." Plankton's eye widen in comprehension, and he attempts to smile, drool escaping his numb lips. "Mmph... m-mouth," he says, his voice a pitiful excuse for speech. Karen laughs, her worry melting into relief. "You're okay," she repeats. "Just give it some time. Your mouth will get back to normal soon." "Mmph... mmf... m-morning Becky," Plankton tries to greet the receptionist as she walks by, his voice barely a whisper. She laughs lightly, her cheerfulness a stark contrast to the post-surgery haze that hangs over him. "Good morning, Mr. Plankton. How are you feeling?" Becky's words float around him like bubbles in the sea, each one popping with a burst of understanding as his mind starts to clear. "Mmh... mm... m-morning," he mumbles. He tries to sit up straighter. Karen helps him, her movements quick and sure. "M-mouth..." Plankton's words are still slurred, but he's trying his best to communicate. The nurse, Nina, laughs gently. "Your mouth will feel funny for a bit," she says, "But it'll get better." Karen watches as Plankton's eyes try to focus on her. "Mmf... home?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper. She nods, smiling. "As soon as you're ready to go." He nods, his antennae waving weakly. The nurse, Nina, checks his vitals one more time before nodding to Becky, the receptionist. "Looks like he's coming around," Becky says, scribbling something on a clipboard. "You guys can go once you're ready."
TRUTH AND NAIL i ā€œKaren Planktonā€½ā€ Karen stood up as the receptionist at the dental office called her. Sheā€™s been in the waiting room as her husband Planktonā€™s in surgery. She followed the nurse into a brightly lit room where Plankton lay on his back, his mouth agape, snoring gently. The anesthetic had done its job, leaving him completely oblivious to the world around him. The surgeon looked up from his chair, a smile creasing his mask. "Mrs. Plankton, your husband's wisdom teeth extraction was a success," he said. "You can stay with him as he wakes up." Karen sat by his side, her hand resting gently on his arm. The steady hum of the machines filled the space, punctuated by occasional beeps. The nurse adjusted the IV, ensuring the flow of fluids remained steady. The doctor entered, nodded at Karen, and began to check the surgical sites, but he didn't wake up. The surgeon leaned over, his eyes studying the readouts with care. Satisfied, he turned to Karen, "He'll be coming around in time," he assured her. Her screen never left Plankton's peaceful face, his cheeks slightly puffy, his mouth slack and open. A trickle of drool slid from the corner of his mouth, and Karen couldn't help but chuckle softly, even in the tension of the moment. He'd never let her see him like this if he had a choice. The nurse offered a reassuring smile, "It's normal, dear. The anesthesia can do funny things. Just wait. He'll be back to his usual self by tomorrow." Karen nodded. She leaned in closer to Plankton, his normally stern face was relaxed in sleep, his brow unfurrowed. It was strange to see his sharp features softened, his expression one of peace. The nurse left them, and Karen took the chance to whisper, "You're going to be okay." The nurse had warned her about the disorientation that often came with waking up from surgery. Patients could be confused, even a little babyish, as the world swam back into focus. Some had a tendency to say things they didn't mean or remember later. So, when Plankton's eye flickered open, Karen was ready. "Wha... where am I?" he mumbled, his voice slurred and eye glassy. Karen took his hand, squeezing it gently. "You're in the recovery room, sweetie. You had your wisdom teeth out." The words seemed to float around him, like bubbles in his befuddled brain. "Wisdom teed?" he muttered, blinking slowly. "Wha awe those?" Karen stifled a laugh, her emotions swelling with love and concern. "They're teeth, darling. Don't worry, you won't miss them." Plankton's gaze drifted around the room, taking in the sterile whiteness and the blinking lights above him. "Teef?" he slurred, his mind still groggy. "Wheh take out teef?" Karen gently stroked his hand. "Just the wisdom ones, sweetheart," she whispered, her voice soothing as a lullaby. "They were causing you trouble." "Trubble?" Plankton repeated, his speech slurring more with each syllable. His eye closed again, lid heavy with sleep. "I know it's confusing right now, but you'll understand soon," Karen said, her voice steady and calm. Plankton's eye opened again, a bit wider this time, and he squinted at the light. "M'th... m'th... my mouf feels..." He tried to form the words, but his tongue felt thick and clumsy. "It's normal, darling," Karen said, her voice like a gentle breeze. "The anesthesia can make your mouth feel funny." Plankton's eye drifted to the ceiling, his thoughts racing but his words failing to keep up. "Bright wight," he murmured, his voice distant and lost. "It's okay," Karen said, wiping the drool from his chin with a tissue. "The lights are just to help you wake up." "Wake up?" Plankton repeated, his eye trying to focus on her screen. "Wha happened?" "You had a little surgery," Karen said, her voice soothing and calm. "They took out your wisdom teeth. Remember?" Plankton's eye searched hers, confusion and fear swirling in his gaze. "Sur...surgery?" he managed to say, his voice weak and unsure. "Why?" "Don't worry," Karen soothed, her voice a soft caress. "It was just a little thing. They took out some teeth that were causing you pain." Plankton's eyelid flitted, trying to make sense of the words. "Teef? Pain?" he slurred, his hand reaching up to probe his mouth. "No, no, don't touch," Karen hurried to stop him, her grip firm but gentle. "They're still a bit tender." Plankton's hand fell back to the bed, his mind racing but his body slow to respond. "Tends?" he murmured, the word strange and foreign. "Every ting sho..." His thoughts trailed off, the word "different" eluding him. Karen watched him, her smile a blend of amusement and tenderness. "You're going to be okay," she repeated, her voice a constant in the sea of confusion. "You're just a little out of it." "Ooot of it," Plankton echoed, his voice a faint rumble. He tried to sit up, but the nurse had warned Karen about this too. The sudden movement made him dizzy, and she placed a hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him back down. "Take it easy, sweetie," she cooed. His eye searched hers, like a child lost in a supermarket. "Karen?" he murmured, her name sounding like a question. "I'm here," she assured him, squeezing his hand. "You're in the hospital, Plankton. You're okay." "Hospit...hospit...tal?" he slurred, his eye darting around the room again. "Why?" "You had wisdom teeth, Plankton," Karen said, her tone as soothing as a mother's. "Remember?" "Wis...dome tweed?" Plankton slurred, his mind spinning, his thoughts muddled and slow to form. "Ow?" Karen chuckled gently, her screen sparkling with humor. "It's all right, dear," she cooed. "They just removed your wisdom teeth. You're feeling a bit loopy." Plankton's eyebrow knit trying to piece together the puzzle. "Widom...teef?" he repeated, his voice still slurred but with a hint of recognition. "Yes, sweetie," Karen said, smiling down at him. "You had your wisdom teeth removed. You're going to be fine." Plankton's hand wobbled in the air before it fell to his side, his mind a swirl of fog. "Where...where am I?" his voice was a faint murmur, his eye glazed over. "You're in the hospital," Karen said, her voice steady as a lighthouse beam. "You had surgery, darling. Remember?" Plankton's eye fluttered closed, his head rolling to the side as if the weight of the world was too much. "Sur...gury?" he slurred, the syllables like molasses on his tongue. "Yes, Plankton," Karen said, her voice a lullaby in the stark room. "It's all over. You're safe now." He mumbled incoherently, his words a jumble of letters and sounds that barely formed coherent thoughts. "Wh...wha...was it?" his mind grasped for understanding, his eye half-closed and unfocused. Karen leaned in closer, her voice a lifeline in his foggy sea of confusion. "It was just a surgery, Plankton. To remove your wisdom teeth." "Wis...wis...dome...teef?" he murmured, the words still strange in his mouth. He blinked slowly, trying to recall why he was here. Karen nodded, her smile reassuring. "Yes, they took them out. You're all done." Plankton's eye rolled back in his head, his body going slack again. "Tek...tum...out?" he mumbled, his mind still swimming in the murky waters of unconsciousness. Karen nodded, her hand still on his arm. "They're gone, sweetie. You're okay." But heā€™s fallen asleep again, his snores filling the silent room, his chest rising and falling with each gentle breath. Karen watched him, her love squeezing with a mix of amusement and concern.
į“”į“Ź€į“… į“„į“į“œÉ“į“›: šŸ·.šŸ¶šŸ¼į“‹ At the Neptune Medical Center, Karen parks the car and goes with her husband Plankton into the building after an injury to his antenna. "I still don't see why you didn't press charges against Krabs, Sheldon," Karen sighs, as they walk through the gleaming, sterile corridors of the medical center. "Karen I'm not gonna give him the satisfaction." Plankton's antenna now hangs limp and damaged. The doctor had assured him it was a simple repair job, yet Plankton's nerves were as frayed as the antenna itself. They enter the reception area, the automatic doors whispering shut behind them, as if sealing off the outside world's chaos. The smell of antiseptic fills the air, mingling with the faint scent of fear and hope. The receptionist, a young squid with a friendly smile, looks up from her computer screen. "Mr. Plankton, your appointment is with Dr. Marlin, the antenna specialist," she says, her tentacles typing efficiently. "You can go straight to the third floor, room 304." The elevator ride is silent, save for the rhythmic ding of each passing floor. Karen notices his distant gaze and squeezes his arm reassuringly. "You'll be fine, Sheldon," she whispers. Plankton nods. They arrive at room 304, and Karen opens the door, revealing a state-of-the-art examination room. Dr. Marlin, an octopus with a gleaming scalpel in one tentacle and a clipboard in another, looks up from his notes. "Ah, Mr. Sheldon Plankton, right on time," he says, his eight eyes blinking in unison. "I understand you've had a bit of an injury?" Plankton nods, his voice tight. "Krabs... he... snapped it." Dr. Marlin's tentacles twitch in concern. "Mr. Eugene Krabs, eh? He's had his share of accidents around here." He scribbles something on the clipboard. "Well, let's get you fixed up. I've seen worse, and you're in good hands." The doctor leads Plankton to the examination chair, which is surprisingly comfortable for someone so tiny. He adjusts the chair's height and angles the light to shine on the antenna. Plankton winces as the doctor gently prods the damaged area. "It's definitely snapped," Dr. Marlin says, his voice calm and professional. "But the good news is, it's not to far gone. We can repair it with a simple procedure." "You'll need to be under for this," he explains. "It's nothing to worry about. You'll be out Before you know it." Plankton's heart races as he lies back in the chair, the cold metal pressing against his back. He glances at Karen, who gives him a forced smile, her screen filled with concern. The doctor notices and pats his shoulder reassuringly. "It's just a little sleep," he says. "You'll be back in no time." Karen reaches for his hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. The anesthesiologist, a bluefish with a gentle demeanor, enters the room, pushing a trolley with a variety of bottles and tubes. She introduces herself as Nurse Bella and explains that she'll be administering the anesthesia for the surgery. Plankton swallows hard, eye darting from her to Karen's screen and back again. Karen's gaze follows the anesthesiologist, Nurse Bella, as she meticulously prepares. "Ready? Count as high as you can," she asks, her voice as soft as a lullaby. Plankton nods, his grip on Karen's hand tightening. "One... two... three..." Plankton's voice starts strong, but the medicine's effect begins to take hold. His eyelid grow heavy, and the numbers begin to slur. Karen watches as Plankton's count descends into a whisper. "Five... six... sev..." His tiny hand relaxes in hers, and his body goes slack. She watches the rise and fall of his chest slow as he succumbs to the anesthesia. Karen squeezes his hand one last time. The door to the exam room opens again, and Dr. Marlin's head pokes out. "Everything's gone well," Dr. Marlin says, peering over his mask. "We're to halt anesthesia." "You're okay," Karen whispers, her voice cracking. "You're okay." "He's doing great," the nurse whispers. "You can talk to him if you'd like. Sometimes they can hear you." Karen leans closer, her voice low and soothing. "Hey, Plankton, it's Karen. You're safe now. They've fixed your antenna. No more pain, okay?" Her thoughts are interrupted by a soft groan from the bed. Karen's screen snap to Plankton, who's beginning to stir under the blankets. "Shh," she whispers, stroking his arm. "You're safe." "K...Karen?" His eye opens. "Yes, it's me. You're okay, you're in the hospital. They've fixed your antenna." "Karen... antenna... Krabby Patty... wait, what?" He giggles, the words jumbling together in a way that makes no sense. Plankton's eye widen with childlike excitement. "Oh, right! The antenna!" He tries to touch the bandage but ends up nearly slapping himself in the face with his own arm. "Oops!" He giggles again, the sound echoing through the quiet room. He tries to sit up, but cannot. "Whoa, Nelly!" "Easy," Karen laughs. "I'm the king of the jellyfish prom! They got no flair!" Once in the car, Karen buckles him in with care, double-checking the seatbelt. "Remember, no funny business," she warns. Plankton's eye droop, and his head lolls to the side. "You're going to sleep, aren't you?" she says, her voice a mix of amusement and exhaustion. "M'not sleeping," Plankton mumbles, his eyelid fluttering, his voice fading into a snore. The drive home is peaceful, with Plankton snoring lightly beside her. As they approach their place, she gently shakes him awake. "We're home, Sheldon," she says, her voice gentle. "Can you wake up for me?" Plankton's eye blink open, and he looks around in confusion. "Home?" he mumbles. "Already?" Karen nods with a smirk. "Yeah, you slept through the whole drive. Came out of it just in time." They get out of the car, and Plankton wobbles slightly on his legs, the after-effects of the anesthesia still lingering. Karen wraps an arm around his waist, supporting him as they make their way to the front door. With a chuckle, Karen helps him inside, the warm light of their living room washing over them. Plankton's snores become more pronounced as they move through the hallway. "Come on, you need to get to bed," she says, leading him to their bedroom. The room is cozy, with a large bed that seems to swallow Plankton whole as he collapses into it. Karen carefully pulls the covers up to his chin. "Rest now," she whispers, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead.
Plankton found himself in a sticky situation. In his haste, he collided with a submerged rock, and with a painful snap, one of his antennae broke dangling in half. His computer wife Karen took him to a clinic. The receptionist, a kind octopus named Tentacla, took his information and assured Dr. Dolittlefish would see him shortly. "Plankton?" Dr. Dolittlefish called out, his voice echoing through the room. Plankton walked in, Karen trailing behind. The doctor examined the fractured antenna. Plankton winced, feeling a sharp pain as the doctor prods it gently. Dr. Dolittlefish chuckled, "We'll need to perform a repair, and for that, you'll need a touch of anesthesia. It'll make you feel like you're floating on a cloud.." Plankton's one good antenna perked up with interest. "A magical elixir that will put you into a state of deep relaxation," Dr. Dolittlefish explained, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. "You'll be completely unaware of the surgery. We give you a little dose to make you drowsy. It's like sinking into a warm, bubble bath after a long day of plotting. Trust me, you'll wake up with a fixed antenna and no memories of the procedure. It's like a nap that'll keep you unconscious and pain-free throughout the operation. It's tailored for each patient, so you'll only get what you need." Turning to Karen, who had been quietly observing the exchange, the doctor said, "Karen, if you have any concerns, feel free to ask. Your husband's safety is my top priority. I'll be sure to take into account." Karen sighed, her circuits whirring as she searched for the right words. "Well, Plankton has always had trouble with deep sleep. He's a bit of a light sleeper, you see. Even the slightest disturbance and he's up for the day. It's hard for him to get to sleep." The doctor nodded, scribbling more notes. "I see," he said thoughtfully. "That does add a layer of complexity to the anesthesia. We'll need to be precise with the dosage to ensure he remains asleep throughout the surgery without any complications. We'll use the lightest touch possible and administer the anesthesia in a way that minimizes discomfort." Dr. Dolittlefish turned to Plankton. "Now, when you wake up, it'll be like coming out of a delightful dream. You'll feel a bit groggy, like you've just emerged from a particularly long nap. You might be a tad disoriented, but that's perfectly normal. Your body will be feeling the effects of the medication wearing off, so it's crucial that you rest for a while in our recovery area." Plankton's eye searched Karen', looking for reassurance. She nodded firmly, gripping his tiny hand. "You'll be okay, Plankton. I'll be right here." The doctor nodded. "Karen, you can accompany him into the surgery room. But remember, you'll have to go and stay outside once the actual procedure begins." The next day, Plankton and Karen returned to the clinic, feeling a mix of anxiety and hope. The lobby was filled with various sea creatures, all waiting for their appointments with their own assortment of woes and ailments. "Come on, Plankton," Karen urged, her voice steady. "You've got this." Dr. Dolittlefish took his place at the head of the operating table, a serious look on his face. "Alright, Plankton," he said, his voice steady, "It's time for the anesthesia. This might feel a bit strange, but remember, it's just like drifting off to sleep." With a flick of his fin, he administered the first dose through a small tube connected to a bubble filled with the sedative. The bubble popped, and Plankton felt a warm sensation spread through his body. It started in his toes and traveled up to his antennae, making them feel weightless. His eye grew heavier, and he couldn't help but let out a sigh. The room began to spin gently, the sounds around him becoming muffled, like the distant hum of a lullaby sung by the ocean currents. He felt himself sinking into the chair, the cushions seemingly made of the softest sea foam. "How do you feel?" Dr. Dolittlefish's voice was a comforting murmur. "Woozy," Plankton slurred, his eyelid fluttering. The room was a blur of lights and colors, like a kaleidoscope of bubbles. The pain in his antenna was fading, replaced by a pleasant numbness. Karen squeezed his hand tightly, her grip the only solid thing in his swirling world. She watched him closely, her LED eyes full of worry. "It's ok, Plankton," she murmured. "You're going to be fine." The doctor nodded to her encouragement. "I want you to count backwards from one hundred ok?" Plankton, already feeling the warm embrace of the anesthesia, began his count with a lazy sensation. "One hundred... ninety-nine... ninety-eight..." His voice grew softer with each number, the digits slipping away like grains of sand through his tiny fingers. The world around him grew fuzzy, like a TV show losing signal. The lights above looked like distant stars, their brightness dimming as he descended into the abyss of unconsciousness. "...eighty-four... eighty-three... eighty-two..." His eye now half-closed, the surgery room's noises melding into a symphony of comforting whispers. The gentle sway of the seaweed outside the clinic's windows seemed to be rocking him to sleep. His voice grew more faint, words slurring together. Karen watched him count, her gaze never leaving his face. She could feel his hand loosening in hers, his grip becoming as light as a feather. Each number he uttered was a step closer to the surgery that would hopefully restore his antenna to its former glory. The count grew slower, like a snail on a leisurely stroll across the ocean floor. His voice was a mere murmur, the words barely discernible. Karen could see his tiny chest rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic pattern, his breathing growing deeper and more relaxed with each passing moment. The colors around them bled into one another, creating a dreamlike landscape. The lights above danced like jellyfish in a moonlit lagoon, casting eerie shadows across the gleaming surgical instruments. Plankton's eye fully closed now, his count barely a whisper. Each word was a soft ripple in the vast ocean of sleep that was consuming him. The whirring of the machines and the occasional splash of water seemed to fade into the background, replaced by the steady rhythm of his breathing. Karen watched, her heart swelling with love and fear as she listened to the dwindling numbers. Plankton's voice was now a faint echo, his body going slack. The room was still, save for the hypnotic pulse of the anesthesia bubbles and Plankton's shallow breaths. Karen held her own breath, her screen never leaving his face. His count grew quieter still, each number a soft, barely perceptible sigh. Karen felt the tension in her limbs ease as she watched the lines of worry on Plankton's forehead smooth out. His sleep was finally deep and peaceful, the anesthesia working its magic. "Thirty-four... thirty-three..." His voice was a mere ripple in the vast sea of quiet that filled the room. The last number slipped away, and Plankton's count stopped, his breathing deep and even. Karen felt the weight of his hand in hers, a silent testament to his complete surrender to the anesthesia's embrace. She watched Plankton's chest rise and fall with each steady breath, his body utterly relaxed with his eye sealed shut slightly. The surgery room, once a cacophony of fear and doubt, was now a sanctuary of peace, the only sounds the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor and Plankton's soft snores. The doctor nodded, satisfied with the sedation's effect. "Alright, Karen, he finally fell asleep," he whispered, patting Plankton's shoulder. "Now, we'll proceed with the actual procedure." Karen swallowed hard, nodding her head. She had never seen Plankton so vulnerable, but she knew this was for the best. "I'll be right outside," she said, her voice wavering slightly. She leaned in and kissed Plankton's forehead before letting go. With a final squeeze of his hand, she reluctantly let go and went towards the door. The doctor nodded in understanding, his eyes focused on the delicate task ahead. As the door slid shut with a soft hiss, Karen found herself in the stark, sterile waiting room. The walls were lined with sea-themed art, an attempt to provide comfort in a place filled with uncertainty and anxiety. She hovered over to the plush sea sponge chair, the material reminding her of home. Her tentacles wrapped around the phone, her movements deliberate and precise as she dialed the numbers. The first call was to Spongebob, she knew he would want to know about the accident. The line rang, and she hoped he'd pick up. "Karen?" "Spongebob, it's about Plankton," she began, her voice trembling. "He's had an accident, and he's in surgery now." "Oh no!" Sponge Bob exclaimed, his bubbly enthusiasm dimming. "Can I talk to Plankton during the surgery?" "No, they put Plankton to sleep," Karen explained, her tentacles gripping the phone tightly. "But I'll let him know you called as soon as he wakes up." "Thank you, Karen," SpongeBob said, his voice filled with genuine concern. "Tell him I'm thinking of him." The receptionist, Tentacla, noticed her distress and swam over. "Is everything okay?" she asked, her tentacles poised to offer comfort or assistance. "It's just... I've never seen him like this," Karen admitted, her voice wavering. "So... vulnerable." Tentacla nodded sympathetically, her tentacles reaching out to pat Karen's arm. "It's tough, I know. But Dr. Dolittlefish is the best in the business. Plankton's in good fins."
ANTENNAE i Plankton found himself in a sticky situation. In his haste, he collided with a submerged rock, and with a painful snap, one of his antennae broke dangling in half. His computer wife Karen took him to a clinic. The receptionist, a kind octopus named Tentacla, took his information and assured Dr. Dolittlefish would see him shortly. "Plankton?" Dr. Dolittlefish called out, his voice echoing through the room. Plankton walked in, Karen trailing behind. The doctor examined the fractured antenna. Plankton winced, feeling a sharp pain as the doctor prods it gently. Dr. Dolittlefish chuckled, "We'll need to perform a repair, and for that, you'll need a touch of anesthesia. It'll make you feel like you're floating on a cloud.." Plankton's one good antenna perked up with interest. "A magical elixir that will put you into a state of deep relaxation," Dr. Dolittlefish explained, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. "You'll be completely unaware of the surgery. We give you a little dose to make you drowsy. It's like sinking into a warm, bubble bath after a long day of plotting. Trust me, you'll wake up with a fixed antenna and no memories of the procedure. It's like a nap that'll keep you unconscious and pain-free throughout the operation. It's tailored for each patient, so you'll only get what you need." Turning to Karen, who had been quietly observing the exchange, the doctor said, "Karen, if you have any concerns, feel free to ask. Your husband's safety is my top priority. I'll be sure to take into account." Karen sighed, her circuits whirring as she searched for the right words. "Well, Plankton has always had trouble with deep sleep. He's a bit of a light sleeper, you see. Even the slightest disturbance and he's up for the day. It's hard for him to get to sleep." The doctor nodded, scribbling more notes. "I see," he said thoughtfully. "That does add a layer of complexity to the anesthesia. We'll need to be precise with the dosage to ensure he remains asleep throughout the surgery without any complications. We'll use the lightest touch possible and administer the anesthesia in a way that minimizes discomfort." Dr. Dolittlefish turned to Plankton. "Now, when you wake up, it'll be like coming out of a delightful dream. You'll feel a bit groggy, like you've just emerged from a particularly long nap. You might be a tad disoriented, but that's perfectly normal. Your body will be feeling the effects of the medication wearing off, so it's crucial that you rest for a while in our recovery area." Plankton's eye searched Karen', looking for reassurance. She nodded firmly, gripping his tiny hand. "You'll be okay, Plankton. I'll be right here." The doctor nodded. "Karen, you can accompany him into the surgery room. But remember, you'll have to go and stay outside once the actual procedure begins." The next day, Plankton and Karen returned to the clinic, feeling a mix of anxiety and hope. The lobby was filled with various sea creatures, all waiting for their appointments with their own assortment of woes and ailments. "Come on, Plankton," Karen urged, her voice steady. "You've got this." Dr. Dolittlefish took his place at the head of the operating table, a serious look on his face. "Alright, Plankton," he said, his voice steady, "It's time for the anesthesia. This might feel a bit strange, but remember, it's just like drifting off to sleep." With a flick of his fin, he administered the first dose through a small tube connected to a bubble filled with the sedative. The bubble popped, and Plankton felt a warm sensation spread through his body. It started in his toes and traveled up to his antennae, making them feel weightless. His eye grew heavier, and he couldn't help but let out a sigh. The room began to spin gently, the sounds around him becoming muffled, like the distant hum of a lullaby sung by the ocean currents. He felt himself sinking into the chair, the cushions seemingly made of the softest sea foam. "How do you feel?" Dr. Dolittlefish's voice was a comforting murmur. "Woozy," Plankton slurred, his eyelid fluttering. The room was a blur of lights and colors, like a kaleidoscope of bubbles. The pain in his antenna was fading, replaced by a pleasant numbness. Karen squeezed his hand tightly, her grip the only solid thing in his swirling world. She watched him closely, her LED eyes full of worry. "It's ok, Plankton," she murmured. "You're going to be fine." The doctor nodded to her encouragement. "I want you to count backwards from one hundred ok?" Plankton, already feeling the warm embrace of the anesthesia, began his count with a lazy sensation. "One hundred... ninety-nine... ninety-eight..." His voice grew softer with each number, the digits slipping away like grains of sand through his tiny fingers. The world around him grew fuzzy, like a TV show losing signal. The lights above looked like distant stars, their brightness dimming as he descended into the abyss of unconsciousness. "...eighty-four... eighty-three... eighty-two..." His eye now half-closed, the surgery room's noises melding into a symphony of comforting whispers. The gentle sway of the seaweed outside the clinic's windows seemed to be rocking him to sleep. His voice grew more faint, words slurring together. Karen watched him count, her gaze never leaving his face. She could feel his hand loosening in hers, his grip becoming as light as a feather. Each number he uttered was a step closer to the surgery that would hopefully restore his antenna to its former glory. The count grew slower, like a snail on a leisurely stroll across the ocean floor. His voice was a mere murmur, the words barely discernible. Karen could see his tiny chest rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic pattern, his breathing growing deeper and more relaxed with each passing moment. The colors around them bled into one another, creating a dreamlike landscape. The lights above danced like jellyfish in a moonlit lagoon, casting eerie shadows across the gleaming surgical instruments. Plankton's eye fully closed now, his count barely a whisper. Each word was a soft ripple in the vast ocean of sleep that was consuming him. The whirring of the machines and the occasional splash of water seemed to fade into the background, replaced by the steady rhythm of his breathing. Karen watched, her heart swelling with love and fear as she listened to the dwindling numbers. Plankton's voice was now a faint echo, his body going slack. The room was still, save for the hypnotic pulse of the anesthesia bubbles and Plankton's shallow breaths. Karen held her own breath, her screen never leaving his face. His count grew quieter still, each number a soft, barely perceptible sigh. Karen felt the tension in her limbs ease as she watched the lines of worry on Plankton's forehead smooth out. His sleep was finally deep and peaceful, the anesthesia working its magic. "Thirty-four... thirty-three..." His voice was a mere ripple in the vast sea of quiet that filled the room. The last number slipped away, and Plankton's count stopped, his breathing deep and even. Karen felt the weight of his hand in hers, a silent testament to his complete surrender to the anesthesia's embrace. She watched Plankton's chest rise and fall with each steady breath, his body utterly relaxed with his eye sealed shut slightly. The surgery room, once a cacophony of fear and doubt, was now a sanctuary of peace, the only sounds the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor and Plankton's soft snores. The doctor nodded, satisfied with the sedation's effect. "Alright, Karen, he finally fell asleep," he whispered, patting Plankton's shoulder. "Now, we'll proceed with the actual procedure." Karen swallowed hard, nodding her head. She had never seen Plankton so vulnerable, but she knew this was for the best. "I'll be right outside," she said, her voice wavering slightly. She leaned in and kissed Plankton's forehead before letting go. With a final squeeze of his hand, she reluctantly let go and went towards the door. The doctor nodded in understanding, his eyes focused on the delicate task ahead. As the door slid shut with a soft hiss, Karen found herself in the stark, sterile waiting room. The walls were lined with sea-themed art, an attempt to provide comfort in a place filled with uncertainty and anxiety. She hovered over to the plush sea sponge chair, the material reminding her of home. Her tentacles wrapped around the phone, her movements deliberate and precise as she dialed the numbers. The first call was to Spongebob, she knew he would want to know about the accident. The line rang, and she hoped he'd pick up. "Karen?" "Spongebob, it's about Plankton," she began, her voice trembling. "He's had an accident, and he's in surgery now." "Oh no!" Sponge Bob exclaimed, his bubbly enthusiasm dimming. "Can I talk to Plankton during the surgery?" "No, they put Plankton to sleep," Karen explained, her tentacles gripping the phone tightly. "But I'll let him know you called as soon as he wakes up." "Thank you, Karen," SpongeBob said, his voice filled with genuine concern. "Tell him I'm thinking of him." The receptionist, Tentacla, noticed her distress and swam over. "Is everything okay?" she asked, her tentacles poised to offer comfort or assistance. "It's just... I've never seen him like this," Karen admitted, her voice wavering. "So... vulnerable." Tentacla nodded sympathetically, her tentacles reaching out to pat Karen's arm. "It's tough, I know. But Dr. Dolittlefish is the best in the business. Plankton's in good fins."
Broken 1/2 (Iā€™m a neurodivergent author) "Karen's going to love the surprise," Sandy murmured to herself. Sandy had spent hours the previous night crafting the perfect surprise for her friend, Karen. Itā€™s a game, and she thought about the delight. As Sandy approached, the anticipation grew. She felt her heartrate spike, her hand curling around the doorknob. The door swung open with a gentle creak, and there was Karen. "Sandy!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around her friend in a warm embrace. ā€œCome on in!ā€ They moved into the living room. "Ready for the surprise?" Sandy whispered, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Karen nodded, curiosity piqued. Sandy pulled out the game called "Whimsical Wonders," and it promised an adventure filled with puzzles, riddles, and laughter. She had picked it out especially for Karen, who loved nothing more than a good brain teaser. Plankton, Karen's husband, wanders in. "Sandy made a new game!" Karen says, her voice filled with excitement. "Oh really?" Plankton says. Sandy nods eagerly, setting the game board on the coffee table. "This looks amazing!" Karen says, lighting up. "Let's get started!" Sandy says, her voice brimming with excitement. The two friends eagerly begin setting up the game. As they place the pieces, their laughter fills the air, mingling with the occasional squeal of excitement. Plankton, however, watches from the armchair with a furrowed brow, the cacophony of sounds and the flurry of activity around the game table gradually weighing on him. His senses, heightened by the sudden influx of stimuli, start to overwhelm him. Sandy rolls the dice and her voice cracks with excitement as she announces her first move. "I'll take the unicorn path!" she exclaims, moving her piece with a flourish. The room seems to vibrate with her enthusiasm, the very air charged with it. But amidst the excitement, Plankton's eye starts to glaze over. Karen, caught up in the moment, doesn't notice the change in Plankton's demeanor yet. Sandy, lost in the thrill of setting the stage for their adventure, doesn't pick up on Plankton's distress. "Your turn, Karen!" Sandy suddenly squeals. Karen looks up from her piece and sees Plankton's eye now glazed over, his body completely still. "Plankton?" she asks tentatively, her smile faltering; the sensory overload from the game is becoming too much for Plankton, who grows overwhelmed and unresponsive from his armchair. "You ok?" Sandy says, turning to him, her voice still filled with the energy of the game. But Plankton doesn't respond. His eye remains unfocused, vacant, his body rigid. "What's wrong?" she asks, her smile fading as she notices Plankton's unresponsive state. Karen lowers her voice to a whisper, "It's like he zones out for a bit." Sandy's eyes widen with concern, and she immediately sets down the game piece. "Huh?" Karen nods reassuringly, "He'll be fine in a minute." She gently pats Plankton's hand, her voice calm and soothing. "It happens sometimes when things get too... much for him. This happens sometimes when he's overstimulated." Sandy's heart skips a beat. Plankton's face remained slack, eye staring into the middle distance, unblinking. "It's ok," Karen whispers, voice steady, "Just give him some space." Sandy nods, her excitement replaced with concern. She's never seen Plankton like this before. She watches as Karen gently strokes Plankton's arm. "It's ok," Karen repeats, her voice a gentle lullaby. "These happen when there's too much going on, too much to take in." Sandy nods, eyes never leaving Plankton's frozen form. She feels a twinge of guilt for not realizing sooner that something was amiss. She had been so caught up in excitement of the game, she didn't notice signs of distress. Moving closer to the chair where Plankton sat, she tentatively reaches out a hand to touch his shoulder like the way Karen is doing, but Karen stops her. "Let me," she says gently, never leaving her husband. "I know his triggers." Sandy nods. She withdraws, giving space. "I'm sorry," she says softly. "I didn't know." Karen nods, never leaving Plankton. "It's ok. We manage. It's part of hisā€¦ condition." Sandy watches as Karen's gentle touch seems to bring him back to reality. Plankton blinks. "Plankton?" Karen whispers. Slowly, his gaze refocuses on her. He looks around the room, momentarily disoriented before his eye land on the game spread out on the table. He looks back at Karen, his expression a mix of confusion and embarrassment. "What happened?" he asks, his voice hoarse. "You had a little episode," Karen says, her voice still calm. She helps him to his feet. "But you're ok now." Sandy's eyes dart between the two of them, feeling like an intruder in this intimate moment of care. She clears her throat awkwardly. "Maybe we should... postpone the game?" But as Plankton's gaze locks onto hers, she sees the anger in his eye, raw and unbridled. "You did this," he says accusingly, voice tight with frustration. Sandy takes a step back. "I didn't mean to," she stammers, her hands rising defensively. "You didn't mean to?" Plankton echoes, his voice rising. "You come in, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed with your loud games and expectations, and you don't think about how it might affect me?" Sandy's eyes widen with shock and guilt as she takes another step back. "I-I'm sorry, Plankton," she stammers. "I didn't know it wouldā€”" "Of course you didn't," Plankton interrupts, filled with bitterness. Sandy's heart sinks as she realizes the gravity of the situation. "I didn't mean to overwhelm you," she says, her voice small and apologetic. Karen's grip on Plankton's arm tightens, a silent plea for calm, but the words have been said. The air feels thick with tension, the joyous anticipation of the game forgotten. Sandy's eyes fill with tears, her heart racing. "Plankton, please," she says, her voice shaking. "Itā€™s not my fault. I'd never want to hurt you." "It's what you want, isn't it?" Plankton snaps, pushing away from her. "That's not true," Sandy protests, her own voice rising in defense. "I just wanted to have some fun." Karen's screen darts between them, a silent plea for peace. But Plankton's anger is a storm that can't be quieted so easily. "You think it's fun for me?" he yells, his voice cracking with frustration. "To sit here and watch you live life without a care while I'm stuck in my own head, unable to keep up?" Sandy flinches, his words hitting her like a slap in the face. She never thought about it that way before. "I just wanted to help," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "Help?" Plankton scoffs. "How is bringing this... this... chaos into our lives supposed to help?" He gestures at the game, his hand shaking with anger. Sandy feels the heat rising in her own cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and anger at being misunderstood. "It's not chaos, it's just a game," she says, her voice firm despite the tremor. "To you, maybe," Plankton says, his words laced with venom. "But to me, it's just another thing that's too much to handle. Too loud, colorful, too... everything." Sandy feels her own anger flare up, the hurt of his accusations stinging deep. "You don't know what you're talking about," she says, her voice rising to match his. "Oh, don't I?" Plankton counters, eye flashing. "You think you can just waltz in and ignore my needs because you're so focused on your own fun?" Sandy feels a mix of indignation and regret. "That's not fair," she protests, cracking. "You know I didn't mean toā€”" But Plankton isn't listening. He's in the throes of anger now, voice rising. "Fair?! You have no idea what fair is," he says, eye flashing. "You don't have to deal with the constant bombardment of sounds and lights and emotions!" Sandy's own frustration boils over. "Well maybe if you try to understand, we couldā€”" "Understand?" Plankton cuts her off, his voice now a roar. "How can you possibly understand?" Sandy's eyes flash with indignation. "You're not the only one with problems!" she shoots back. "You think I don't know?" Plankton retorts. "Everyone has their struggles, but you don't get to barge in here and make them about you!" "It wasn't about me!" Sandy exclaims, her voice shaking. "I just wanted to do something nice.." "What about the fact that your 'nice' thing almost sent me into a full-blown seizure?" Sandy's eyes flash with anger now, her hands balled into fists at her sides. "You know what, Plankton? You're right, I don't understand," she says, her voice trembling with emotion. "But maybe if you weren't so focused on being the center of attention with your 'poor me' routine, you could see I'm just trying to be a good friend!" Plankton's eye widen in shock at her outburst as he processes her words. "You think this is about attention?" he says, his voice incredulous. "It's about trying to find a way to exist in a world that's too much for me!" Sandy's eyes fill with tears of frustration as she glares at Plankton. "And what? I'm not allowed to live because it's too much for you?" she yells back, the words cutting through the tension like a hot knife through butter. "I can't help that I'm not BROKEN like You!" Sandy says before realizing it with regret. Karen's pixelated eyes widen in horror. "Sandy," she says, her voice a warning whisper. But too late. The damage is done. A tear traces a path down his cheek. His eye, once full of anger, brims with hurt. He takes a step back. "Broken," he whispers, the word echoing in the tense silence of the room. Plankton's body sags, his anger dissipating like a popped balloon, leaving only pain in its wake. His eye glisten with unshed tears.
Broken 2/2 (Iā€™m a neurodivergent author) Plankton's body sags, anger dissipating. His eye glisten with tears. "Broken," he repeats, his voice barely a whisper, the word a knife to his soul. He shakes his head and turns, unable to face the person who so casually tossed it at him. "Plankton," Karen says, her voice strained, but he's already retreating. Shoulders hunched, Plankton turns and strides out of the room, footsteps heavy and deliberate. The door to the bedroom slams shut behind him, the echo of sobs resonating through. Sandy and Karen are left standing in the living room, the air thick with unspoken words and unshed tears. "I didn't mean it like, I cannot believe I just, Iā€™m sorry," Sandy says, voice shaky. She looks at her friend, her eyes pleading for understanding. "I..." Karen's gaze is steely. "You need to understand," she says firmly, voice trembling with weight. "Plankton was born with a neurodivergent condition." Sandy's eyes widen. "What?" she whispers. Karen nods solemnly. "Plankton's mother was in a car accident when pregnant with him." Sandy's eyes widen in horror. "I had no idea," she whispers. Karen nods, her own eyes brimming with unshed tears. "After, doctors saw Plankton's brain developing differently," she explains, her voice tight with emotion. "He's incredibly sensitive to stimulationā€”sounds, lights; strong emotions, like just now, can overwhelm him." "That's why he gets these... episodes?" Sandy asks. Karen nods, voice barely above a whisper. "It caused damage to the part of his brain that processes stimuli during development," she explains. "It's like his brain's volume knob is stuck on high. Everything's just too much for him sometimes." Sandy's mind races. "So that's why..." "Yes," Karen says, voice heavy. "It's not something he can just turn off, or ignore." Sandy nods slowly, aching for her friend's husband. She had always known Plankton as a bit of an introvert, but never thought it was mostly because of something like this. Karen's sad, but firm. "It's not your fault for not knowing," she says. "But you have to be mindful." Sandy nods, throat tight. "I do," she whispers with regret. Together, they make their way to the bedroom, the game forgotten in the wake of Plankton's pain. Karen's hand is a gentle guide on Sandy's arm as they tiptoe, steeling herself for what might be on the other side. She opens it slowly, the hinges whispering in protest. The bedroom is dim, curtains drawn, and Plankton is there, lying on the bed, his eye closed. The anger and frustration that had etched lines into his face moments ago are now eased by sleep. His chest rises and falls with rhythm of breathing, the only sound in the room. Sandy feels a pang of guilt as she looks at him. She had never meant to cause pain, never intended to make life more difficult. She just wanted to bring a little joy, whimsy into their lives; instead, she had unleashed a storm. Karen's hand tightens around Sandy's arm, a silent reminder of the unspoken bond between them. "Let him rest," Karen murmurs. Sandy nods. "Give him space," Karen says gently. "He needs to recover." Sandy nods, gaze lingering on Plankton's face, features now in sleep. She feels a pang of guilt, knowing she was the cause of distress. They retreat to the living room. Karen sighs heavily, her eyes reflecting a mix of sadness and resignation. "Why didn't you tell?" Karen sighs. "It's not something we talk about," she says softly. "Plankton's been self-conscious about it." "I didn't mean to make things worse," Sandy says with remorse. "I know, yet you have to understand, Plankton's condition is part of him. It's not something that can be fixed with a band-aid; his brain damage is irreversible." "I'll talk to him when he wakes up," she says, her voice a mix of determination and sorrow. "I want to make it right." Karen squeezes her hand, offering a small smile. "Thank you," she whispers. "But let him come to you. He needs time." Sandy feels the weight of her mistake heavily. "Part of Plankton's condition includes mood swings," Karen explains softly. "When overstimulated, it's like a dam breaks. It just floods." Sandy's heart squeezes with understanding and regret. "I didn't know," she whispers, eyes filling with tears. "I never meant toā€”" "It's ok," Karen interrupts gently, her voice soothing. "But it's not just about the game. Plankton's condition makes it hard for him to handle sudden changes or unexpected situations." Sandy nods, the gravity of the situation settling in. "I didn't realize," she says, her voice thick with guilt. "I just..." Karen squeezes her hand. "It's alright," she says, her voice calm and soothing. "You couldn't have known. But now that you do, it's important to stay calm around him." Sandy nods, eyes wide with the realization. "How do I make sure not make things worse?" Karen looks at her with a mix of affection and weariness. "You just need to be patient and understanding," she says. "Let him know you're there for him, without pushing." Sandy nods. Finally, Plankton emerges from the bedroom, eye red-rimmed. He looks at them both, his gaze uncertain, and then to the game. Sandy's heart clenches as she watches him. Plankton's gaze lingers on the game for a moment before he looks at them, his expression unreadable. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to ruin everything." Sandy's heart breaks at his words. "You didn't ruin," she says quickly, filled with compassion. "I should have been more considerate." Plankton looks at her, still guarded. "I just want to be normal but I just can't handle it, like you said Iā€™m broken.." Sandy feels her heart ache at his words, the pain in his voice resonating deep within. She shakes her head, her own eyes now filled with tears. "You're not broken," she says fiercely. "You're just... different. And that's ok. Iā€™m sorry." Karen moves to Plankton's side, wrapping her arms around him in a gentle embrace. "You are more than ok," she whispers. "You're perfect, just the way you are." Sandy watches them, feeling the depth. "I didn't mean it, Plankton," she says, her voice thick with emotion. "You're not broken, you're just... you. I know that now." Plankton nods, his mind a tumult of thoughts. "But it's hard to hear." "I'll be more careful," she promises, her voice sincere. "I don't want to make you feel like that again." "You didn't know," he says, his voice a bit softer now. "But it's important that you do now." "I do know," she says, her voice firm. "And I'll make sure to be more mindful." Karen squeezes Plankton's hand, filled with love and compassion. "We all have moments," she says gently. "What matters is we learn from them." Sandy nods, gaze never leaving Plankton's. "I will," she says solemnly. "I promise." Plankton's expression softens. "Thank you," he murmurs, the first signs of forgiveness seeping into his voice. Karen's gaze shifts to Sandy, filled with a gentle resolve. "Don't be afraid to ask, next time," she says, a quiet command. "Don't assume you know what he can handle. Just talk to us, and we can tell you." Sandy nods, feeling the weight of her friend's words. "I will," she says, voice a solemn promise. "I don't want to make him feel like that again." The three of them stand in the living room, the game pieces on the table a stark reminder of the chaos that had unfolded. Sandy takes a step closer to Plankton, her hand reaching out tentatively. He looks up at her, the anger and pain in his eye slowly being replaced with something resembling understanding. "I'm sorry," she whispers again, hand hovering in the air between them. "I'll do better." Karen nods with a mix of sadness and love. "We're all learning," she says, her voice a gentle reprimand. "But it's important that Plankton needs to be part of this conversation too." Sandy swallows hard, her hand dropping to her side. "I'm sorry," she says again, looking down at her feet. "I didn't mean to make it about me." Plankton nods slowly, eye still on the game board. "It's not," he says, quiet and measured. "It's about understanding limits." Sandy nods, eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I just want to make sure you know that I'm here for you, for both of you, any time." Karen gives her a sad smile, still on Plankton. "We know," she says softly. "But sometimes, the best thing you can do for Plankton is to just... let him be." Sandy nods. "I'll take it home," she says, her voice thick with regret. "I don't want it to be a reminder of what happened." Karen nods, her gaze never leaving Sandy's. "Thank you," she whispers. Sandy moves to the coffee table, her eyes on the game. She gathers the pieces, the bright colors seemingly dulled by the events of the evening. Each piece feels heavier than it should, as if carrying the weight of Plankton's pain. "I'll put it away," she says, her voice quiet and remorseful. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen." Plankton nods, his eye not leaving the game. "I know," he says, his voice still raw. "But you can play it with Karen on one of the Gal Pal nights out when Iā€™m not around, like at your treedome." Sandy nods, her eyes brimming with tears as she scoops the last of the game into the box. She closes it with a soft click and looks up at Karen. "I'm sorry," she whispers again. "I'm just... I'm sorry." Karen sighs, her gaze filled with a mix of sadness and resignation. "We all make mistakes, Sandy," she says gently. "What's important is that we learn from them." Sandy nods, her eyes never leaving the game box. "I will," she whispers, her voice thick with regret. "I'll be more considerate next time." Karen's gaze softens, and she squeezes Sandy's hand. "Thank you," she murmurs. "It means a lot."
CHIP OFF THE OLD TALKS i (Autistic Author) Karen went to the park. Her husband, Plankton, sat by her. Karen glanced over and saw the soft smile on his face, a smile that had greeted her every morning for the past twenty-five or so years. The park was alive with laughter, the distant sound of a ball bouncing off the pavement and the occasional squawk from a seagull. Plankton's eye were closed, his breathing slow and steady. He was enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun on his face. Suddenly, their adopted son Chip burst into their peaceful scene, his cheeks flushed from running. He was holding a frisbee that had strayed from its intended path, and he called out to them with the enthusiasm of a young boy who had discovered something wonderful. "Look what I found!" he exclaimed, oblivious to the delicate moment he was interrupting. Plankton jolts. Karen's notices her husband's sudden movement. His eye open wide, and he stares into the distance unseeing, unblinking. She knows the signs all too well. Plankton is having one of his shutdowns. But Chip's dart between the frisbee and his parents, sensing something amiss. "Dad?" Chip says, tentatively. Karen jumps up and grabs Plankton's arm, gently squeezing to bring him back. "It's ok, honey," she whispers, her voice steady. Chip's smile fades as he sees his father's unresponsive state. He drops the frisbee, forgotten in his grip, and takes a cautious step closer. "What's happening?" he asks, his voice cracking. Plankton's body remains eerily still, like a statue. The only indication that he's alive is the faint rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. Karen's eyes dart around the area, checking if anyone has noticed. She doesn't want to draw unwanted attention. "It's ok, Dad's just taking a little break," she murmurs, setting the frisbee aside. He's never seen these before, nor knows the drill. Chip takes in Plankton's unblinking gaze. Karen feels a pang of guilt for keeping this part of Plankton's condition hidden from their kid. But it's a dance they've been performing for years, trying to maintain a sense of normalcy amidst Plankton's condition. Karen focuses solely on Plankton, willing him to come back to her. She feels the warmth of his hand under hers, but there's no response, no squeeze, no recognition of her touch. Karen's gaze is fixed on her husband's face, searching for any hint of life, any flicker of consciousness. She whispers his name, a soft mantra, trying to anchor him to reality. But Chip doesn't understand. His eyes are wide, full of fear and confusion as he watches his dad frozen in place. "What's a 'little break'?" he asks, voice trembling. Karen's heart tightens; she's always shielded Chip, hoping to spare him the worry and fear. "It's like when you zone out," she explains gently, hoping to relate it to something he might have experienced. "Remember when you were playing video games and I had to call you for dinner three times before you heard me?" Chip nods slowly, still glued to Plankton's unmoving form. "It's like that," Karen continues, "But for Dad, it happens without warning." Chip nods again, trying to process this new information. He's always known his dad was different, but seeing him like this is something he's never had to face before. He takes a deep breath and tries to hold back his tears, not wanting to scare Plankton when he wakes up. "What do we do?" he whispers, his voice shaky. Karen squeezes Plankton's hand gently, never leaving his face. "Just wait," she instructs Chip calmly. "These usually don't last long. But if you need to, you can tell anyone who asks that he's okay, just deep in thought." Chip nods, trying to mimic his mother's calm demeanor, but his eyes betray his anxiety. He's never seen his dad like this, never knew that these moments of stillness were a part of him. Plankton's condition, a form of autism, can leave him with anger issues and overload. Karen feels the weight of the secret they've kept from Chip all these years. Plankton's autistic neurodivergence had always been a part of their lives, but they had shielded their son from the full extent of it. They had hoped he would understand when he was older, but now the moment had come unplanned, and she wasn't sure if ready. "Why does Dad zone out?" Chip asks, his voice small. Karen sighs, deciding it's time for the truth. She sits down next to Plankton, keeping her hand on his arm. "Dad has something called 'neurodivergence', Chip. It's like his brain works differently than ours. Sometimes it helps him see the world in amazing ways, but it can also be hard for him. These little breaks are his brain's way of processing." Chip stares at her, trying to grasp the concept. "So, he's not just ignoring us?" "No, sweetie," Karen says. "He's not ignoring us. It's like his brain needs a time-out, like when you play for to long and your phone heats up and/or dies, but will still work eventually." The wind picks up, rustling through the leaves above them, and a chill runs down Chip's spine. He nods slowly, watching his dad's chest rise and fall in the silence. It's strange to see someone so still, so quiet, yet so obviously alive. "But why haven't you told me before?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. Karen's eyes well up with tears she quickly blinks away. "We wanted to protect you," she admits. "I didn't want you to be scared and he doesnā€™t want you to think of him differently." "But it's okay to think differently," Chip argues, his voice growing stronger. "Dad's always been there for me, even if he doesn't hug me a lot." Karen smiles sadly, stroking Plankton's arm. "It's not just about thinking differently, Chip. It's about how his brain processes things. Sometimes, too much sensory input can overwhelm him. That's why he might seem distant or not as affectionate as other dads. It's not because he doesn't like you," she reassures him. "It's because hugging or loud noises can be really intense for him." Chip's eyes widen with understanding. "So, that's why he doesn't like it when I jump on him?" "Yes," Karen nods. "But it doesn't mean he loves you any less. He just shows it in his own way. Like when he spends hours helping you build that Lego castle, or when he makes those amazing sea creature sculptures that you love so much." Chip's shoulders slump, and he sits down on the bench beside his mother, staring at his dad with a newfound curiosity. "Does he know I know now?" "I don't think so, honey," Karen says, her voice still low and soothing. "These episodes usually last just a few minutes. It's like he's somewhere else, but he'll come back to us." The park's sounds swirl around them, muffled by the tension that has settled in the air. Karen watches Plankton's expression, waiting for the telltale twitch of his antennae that signals his return to the present. Finally, Plankton blinks and looks at Karen, his gaze momentarily unfocused before recognition floods back into his eye. He looks around, startled by his surroundings, and then at Chip, who is staring at him. "What happened?" Plankton asks, his voice groggy. Karen releases a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "You had one of your zoning-out moments," she says, her voice calm and gentle. Plankton looks at her, then at Chip, who is watching him with a mix of curiosity and fear. "I did?" Plankton's antennae twitch, and he rubs his head. "Yes," Karen says, her hand still on his arm. "Chip found a frisbee, remember?" Plankton's gaze shifts to the frisbee lying forgotten on the ground, then back to his son. He nods slowly, piecing the moments before together. "Ah," he murmurs, a hint of embarrassment crossing his face. Chip's curiosity outweighs his fear as he looks at his father. "Can I ask?" he asks tentatively. Karen nods, her heart swelling with pride at his bravery. "Of course, Chip." Chip looks at his dad, filled with questions. "Whyā€™d you zone out?" he asks, his voice still hushed. "It's none of your business Chip," Plankton snaps, his eye flashing with a sudden fury that takes both Karen and Chip aback. His voice is harsh, the words cutting through the stillness of the park. Karen's heart sinks as she sees the hurt on Chip's face. Plankton's anger, a common side effect of his overload, surfaces without warning. She knows he doesn't mean it, but the sting is real for their son.
A TOOTHY STORY pt. 1 į“”į“€Ź€É“ÉŖÉ“É¢: Ź™ŹŸį“į“į“… & źœ±į“œŹ€É¢į“‡Ź€Ź "But, why? Karen they're not even hurting or growing in, yet!" "It's preventative, Sheldon; the x-ray showed potential crowding." Karen responds to her husband, Plankton. It's the night before his wisdom teeth extraction, and she knew he's nervous. Sheldon Plankton sighs, running his tongue over his back molars, feeling the gums where the wisdom teeth lurk beneath the surface. But it does little to distract from the looming dental appointment tomorrow morning. He looks at his wife, Karen, whose screen filled with understanding. She's always been the level-headed one, calming him during their most turbulent times. "Don't worry, sweetheart," Karen says, stroking his forehead gently, "You'll be under anesthesia. You won't feel a thing. It'll be like a little nap, and when you wake up, it'll all be over." They go to bed, as they'll have to get up early. Plankton's always been a light sleeper, usually the last to fall asleep and/or first to wake. The anticipation of the morning's dental procedure keeps him tossing and turning. The digital clock on the nightstand clicks over to 2 AM, its red digits glowing like an accusation. Karen has to take him in three hours... Karen's awake at 4:45. Plankton lay beside her snoring gently. She gently shakes him. "Plankton," she whispers, "it's time to get up." He stirs, groaning softly, eye fluttering open to the dim room. "Ugh.." Karen smiles softly, "Come on, honey, we've got to get going. The sooner we're there, the sooner it's over." With a heavy sigh, Plankton gets up. The drive to the dentist's office is tense and quiet. The soft hum of the car's engine and the occasional streetlight flickering outside are the only sounds that accompany them through the desolate early morning streets. They arrive at the clinic, a modern building with sleek glass walls that reflect the pre-dawn light. Plankton's heart thumps in his chest as he follows Karen inside. The receptionist, a cheery woman named Becky, greets them with a smile that seems almost painfully bright at this hour. "Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Plankton!" she chirps. Plankton nods, trying to match her energy, but his nerves betray him. "You're here for your wisdom teeth, right?" Becky asks, typing away on her keyboard. Plankton nods again, feeling a wave of anxiety wash over him. He's never been a fan of the dentist, but this was a whole new level of dental dread. Karen notices this and squeezes his hand reassuringly. "Don't worry," Becky says, noticing his distress, "Dr. Marlin is the best. And our anesthesia is top-notch. You won't feel a thing." Plankton tries to smile, but it comes out more as a grimace. "You'll be so relaxed you won't even know what's happening. It's like a dreamless sleep. You'll wake up with four less teeth and a much more comfortable mouth!" She leads them through the hallway, the smell of antiseptic strengthening with each step. The walls are adorned with soothing seascape paintings, an obvious attempt to put patients at ease. Plankton's heart rate doesn't decrease, but he appreciates the effort. They enter the surgery room. The chair is more like a recliner. Dr. Marlin, a friendly-looking octopus, enters the room, his tentacles holding a clipboard. "Good morning," he says in a soothing tone. "Ready to get those wisdom teeth out?" Karen kisses him on the forehead and whispers, "You got this." Plankton nods, trying to convince himself. The doctor explains the procedure one last time, his tentacles gesturing to the various tools laid out on the tray. The nurse, a clownfish named Nina, starts to prep him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "We're going to give you something to bite down on to keep your mouth open," Nina says, holding up a plastic mouth prop. It looks like a small version of an L-shaped building block. Plankton nods again. The chair reclines back and the overhead light shines down, casting harsh shadows on the ceiling tiles. Karen squeezes his hand once more before stepping aside as Dr. Marlin and Nina get to work. The anesthesia is administered, and the room starts to blur. Plankton feels his body go slack, the fear giving way to a sudden calm. He hears Karen's voice, faintly, saying, "See you..." And then, darkness. Karen feels his hand go limp in hers as the anesthesia takes hold. She watches as Dr. Marlin's tentacles swirl around Plankton's open mouth. The nurse, Nina, holds a small syringe filled with a clear liquid, which she carefully administers into his gums. Plankton's body relaxes further, and he starts to snore as they prod his numb gums, all while he's remaining asleep. The surgery goes by in a blur for Karen, who sits in the chair next to him, holding his hand. She can hear the sounds of the extraction tools, but she focuses on his peaceful breathing and the steady beep of the heart rate monitor. The room is cool, the sterile smell of the surgery room comforting in its own way. As the extraction begins, Plankton doesn't stir. The doctor's tentacles move with practiced precision, each tug and pull a dance of surgical skill. Nina stands by, her eyes focused on the monitors, ensuring his vital signs remain stable. The first tooth is out. Karen can't help but look away at the sound of bone cracking, despite the doctor's assurance that Plankton can't feel it. Her eyes water, but she quickly wipes the tears away, not wanting to alarm the already unconscious Plankton. She glances at the clock. Only twenty minutes have passed. Dr. Marlin strokes Plankton's antennae. Nina nods along, her attention mostly on Plankton. The second tooth is extracted with slightly more resistance. The doctor's tentacles tug gently, applying the right amount of pressure. Karen squeezes his hand. "It's okay," she whispers, though she's not sure if he can hear. The third tooth is the most stubborn, requiring the use of a pair of forceps that make a sound like a tiny car wreck. Plankton's body jerks slightly but he remains unconscious. The doctor and nurse work in harmony, their movements so swift and coordinated that they almost seem like a dance. The fourth tooth is the quickest to come out, as if it knew it was the last stand and gave up without a fight. Dr. Marlin nods to Nina, who begins to suture Plankton's gums. The needle pierces through the swollen flesh with a sound that makes Karen cringe, but Plankton doesn't react at all. She watches as Nina's nimble fins guide the thread with the care of a master embroiderer, stitching the flaps of gum back together. Plankton's snoring remains steady as they suture his numb gums. Nina's fin deftly weaves the thread, each stitch a silent promise of a pain-free future. The tension in the room slowly dissolves with each completed suture. They use dissolvable stitches, so they use more anesthesia to numb the inside of the gums before stitching them up completely. Dr. Marlin steps back, wiping his tentacles with a towel. "All done," he says with a smile. The doctor rinses Plankton's numb mouth with saline of any excess blood or debris, and Karen notices the transformation: his tense jaw relaxes, his breathing deepens, and his usually active antennae are still, as if he's sunk into the deepest of slumbers.
PATRICK PLANKTON 2/4 (NEURODIVERGENT AUTHOR) Yet Plankton was beyond listening. He was in the throes of a full-blown meltdown, his body quaking with anger and fear. His usually tiny form looked monstrous in the dim light of the lab, his eye wild and his antennae twitching erratically. Plankton's shaking grew more intense, his tiny body trembling. His eye darted around the room, looking everywhere except at the starfish who had just tried to offer him comfort. Karen's heart ached as she watched her husband's silent panic attack unfold. She knew the signs all too well. The erratic antennae movements, the clenched fists, the sudden need for personal space - it was all part of his condition. Plankton had always been so private about it, but she had hoped that with time and trust, he'd learn to open up. Patrick, however, remained oblivious to the gravity of the situation. He had never seen his friend this way, and the fear in Plankton's usually beady eye was more than he could bear. "What's happening to him?" he whispered to Karen, his voice shaking. Karen took a deep breath, her eyes never leaving Plankton's trembling form. "It's his condition," she said softly. "He gets like this when he's really overwhelmed. He needs us to be calm for him." Patrick looked from Karen to Plankton. He didn't know what to do, but he knew that he couldn't just stand there. Carefully, he reached out a tentacle and wrapped it around Plankton, pulling him into a gentle embrace. "It's okay, buddy," he murmured. "You don't have to be scared." But Plankton's panic only seemed to worsen. His tremors grew more pronounced, his tiny body convulsing in Patrick's arms. Karen's eyes grew wide with alarm, and she rushed over to her husband's side. "Patrick, let go!" she urged, her voice firm but filled with urgency. "You're making it worse!" Patrick's eyes grew wide, and he released Plankton as if he'd been holding a live wire. The tiny plankton crumpled to the floor, his body going limp. "Plankton?" Karen gasped, dropping to her knees beside him. She checked his antennae for a pulse, her face a mask of panic. "Plankton, can you hear me?" There was no response. His single eye had rolled back into his head, and his antennae had gone still. Panic gripped Karen and Patrick. "What's happening?" Patrick's voice was barely a whisper. Karen's filled with a mix of fear and determination as she checked Plankton's pulse again. "It's a severe episode," she said, her voice tight with concern. "He needs to calm down, and fast." Patrick hovered over them, his heart racing in his chest. "What..." "He's passed out," Karen said, her voice tight with worry. "We need to get him to his bed." Patrick's eyes grew rounder, and he nodded frantically. "Okay okay," he murmured, reaching down to help Karen lift Plankton's unconscious body. Together, they carefully carried him to the bed. Karen laid Plankton on the bed and began to check his vitals, scanning his tiny form with a medical precision that belied her usual robotic demeanor. "His pulse is steady." Patrick hovered at the edge of the room, his heart racing. "What can I do?" he asked, his voice quivering. "Just stay here," Karen instructed, her focus solely on Plankton. "And keep talking to him. Sometimes hearing a familiar voice helps." Patrick nodded, his tentacles clutching at the edge of the bed. "Plankton?" he called out softly, his voice filled with a mix of fear and concern. "Buddy, can you hear me?" There was no response. Plankton's tiny body remained still and lifeless, his antennae drooping like wet noodles. Patrick felt his own body go cold with fear. He'd never seen anyone faint before, let alone a friend. He didn't know what to do, so he just talked hoping his voice could reach Plankton through the fog of unconsciousness. "Hey, Plankton," he said softly, "Just rest up, buddy." Karen looked up from her ministrations, her expression grim. "Patrick," she began, voice low and serious, "you need to know something about Plankton." Patrick leaned in, his worry for his friend clear on his face. "What is it?" he whispered. "It's his brain," Karen said, her voice tight. "Plankton has a traumatic injury." She paused, her gaze never leaving Plankton's still form. "It's from an accident a long time ago, before I was even built.." Patrick's eyes grew wide with shock. "What kind of accident?" Karen took a deep breath, her eyes never leaving Plankton. "It was a... a car accident," she said finally, her voice thick with unshed emotion. "A runaway boat hit him, actually." Patrick's tentacles drooped in horror. "Oh no!" he gasped. "Is that why he gets like this?" "Yes," Karen nodded solemnly. "The injury causes him to have these episodes when he gets too stressed or overwhelmed. It's why he's so obsessed with the Krabby Patty formula. The pursuit of something so constant and unchanging helps him cope with the chaos in his head." Patrick's eyes widened. "But why didn't he tell me?" he murmured. "Because he's ashamed," Karen said softly. "He thinks it makes him weak. But it's just a part of who he is." Patrick looked at her, his eyes filled with sadness. "But he's not weak," he said firmly. "He's the smartest person I know." "Patrick," Karen said, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, "his mind is brilliant, yes. But he's also fragile, in ways you can't even imagine." Patrick nodded, his eyes never leaving Plankton's pale face. "I won't tell anyone," he promised, his voice barely above a whisper. Suddenly, Plankton's antennae twitched. A soft groan escaped his mouth and his eye fluttered open. He looked around the room, blinking in confusion. "Plankton?" Karen's voice was a whisper, filled with hope. The tiny plankton's antennae twitched slightly, and his eye blinked open focusing with difficulty on the concerned faces hovering over him. The room was spinning, a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes that made him nauseous. He groaned and tried to sit up, but his body felt like it was made of jelly. "Take it easy," Karen soothed, gently pushing him back down. "You've had a rough time." Plankton's eye focused on Patrick, who was still standing by the bedside looking as though he'd just seen a ghost. "What's he doing here?" he croaked. "You fainted," Karen said gently. "Patrick was just trying to help." Plankton's eye darted around the room, trying to piece together the puzzle of what had happened. The last thing he remembered was reading, then Patrick yelling, then Patrick's overwhelming embrace... A chilling sensation washed over him, a sense of dƩjƠ vu so strong it was almost tangible. He looked at Patrick, who was hovering over him like a giant, concerned balloon, and suddenly it clicked. "I remember now," Plankton murmured, his voice still shaky. "You tried to... hug me." He cringed at the thought, his antennae curling inward. "Don't ever do that again.." Patrick looked down at his tentacles, which had instinctively reached out during Plankton's episode. He pulled back. "Sorry, buddy," he mumbled. "I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable." Karen's gaze softened. "It's okay, Patrick. You couldn't have known." She turned her attention back to Plankton searching his for any signs of further distress. "How are you feeling, Plankton?" He swallowed hard, his throat dry. "T-terrible," he rasped. "But I'll be fine." His voice was laced with the stubbornness that Patrick had come to expect from him. Plankton pushed himself into a sitting position, his antennae still trembling slightly. Karen's gaze remained on him. "You sure?" she asked, voice a gentle murmur. Plankton nodded, his antennae quivering slightly as he tried to stand. His legs wobbled beneath him, and he had to grab the bedframe to steady himself. "Just... need a moment," he murmured, his voice shaking as much as his body. Patrick watched with a heavy heart as his friend struggled to regain his composure. He knew that Plankton was trying to put on a brave face, but the fear in his eye was unmistakable.
GO HONE 1/2 Karen sat in the chair next to the bed. Plankton lay there, snoring softly. They'd just finished removing his wisdom teeth. Karen rarely sees him asleep. He was a light sleeper, always had been. But here he was, mouth agape, drool pooling onto the pristine pillowcase. The nurse had said the anesthesia would wear off soon. She felt a strange mix of pity and amusement. Karen reached out to stroke his forehead. "Plankton?" Her voice was gentle, soothing. He didn't respond. His eye remained shut, but she noticed the faintest twitch of his antenna. A moment later, his eye fluttered open, unfocused. "Wheh...am I?" he mumbled, his voice slurred by the lingering effects of the drugs and numb mouth. "Karen?" "You're in the recovery room, sweetie," Karen whispered. "You just got your wisdom teeth out." The nurse walked in. "How we feeling?" Plankton looked around, his gaze unfocused, as if he wasn't quite sure where to land. "I don't know," he said, voice still thick. "Everything ish tho...big?" The nurse chuckled. "That's the anesthesia. It'll wear off in a bit. Can you tell me your name?" Plankton blinked a few times, trying to get his bearings. "Pwankton," he managed, sounding like a toddler with a mouthful of marshmallows. Karen pressed her lips together to hold back a laugh. She felt a tug at her heart, seeing this tough, competent man reduced to such a helpless state. He attempted to sit up, but his body didn't cooperate, flopping back down onto the pillows. "Whoa, wath happening?" he slurred, his eye searching the room as if looking for something familiar. His limbs felt like spaghetti noodles, and his brain was stuck in slow motion. Karen helped him adjust, pillows plumping around his head. She couldn't help but chuckle at his drunken antics. The nurse took his pulse and checked the monitors. "Everything looks good," she said. "Just rest a bit longer." "Oh boy," he muttered, a goofy smile spreading across his face. "Wook at aww tha little fishies!" Plankton's mind was clearly somewhere else entirely. Karen looked around the recovery room, but all she could see were the regular, sterile equipment and a few other patients, not a fish in sight. She couldn't help but let out a small laugh at his silliness. "You're okay," she assured him, patting his hand. "Just the meds talking." Plankton's eye grew even wider, his smile turning into a grin. "Can I pway with dem?" he asked, reaching out a shaky arm to grab at the invisible fish. The nurse looked at Karen with a knowing smile. "It's a common side effect," she assured her. "The drugs can make patients feel pretty loopy." Plankton's giggle grew louder as he continued to "catch" the nonexistent fish. His movements were clumsy, like a baby learning to use their hands for the first time. Karen watched, her heart swelling with a sudden fondness for his innocent charm. "Wook, Karen! I got one!" He held up a finger, waggling it in the air between them. "It's tho tiny!" His eye squinted as he tried to focus on his own digit, then opened wide in amazement. "And it's on my han!" He was utterly captivated by his own hand, turning it this way and that, studying it like a new discovery. Karen couldn't help but smile at his antics. "That's right, Plankton. That's your finger," she said, her voice filled with amusement. "You're doing great." The nurse took a step back, allowing Karen to interact more freely with her husband. "You can talk to him, just keep it calm and don't let him move too much," she said before checking on the other patients. Plankton's gaze followed the nurse, his eye glazed over with wonder. "Wheh's she go?" he asked, his voice innocently curious. Karen leaned in closer, her hand still in his. "She's just checking on the other people who are feeling a bit sleepy like you." He nodded solemnly, his antennas flopping to the side with the motion. "Okay, Karen," he said, as if she had explained the secrets of the universe to him. The room started to spin gently, and he giggled. "I fink I'm on a merry-go-round!" Karen's smile grew, warming the coolness of the recovery room. "No, honey, you're just a bit woozy from the surgery. You need to lie still." Plankton nodded, his grin never leaving his face. "Otay," he mumbled, his eye crossing as he tried to focus on Karen's face. "Buh ith fun!" Karen couldn't resist the urge to lean in and kiss his forehead. "You're so adorable when you're loopy," she said, her voice filled with affection. Plankton's grin grew even wider, his cheeks flushing slightly from the attention. He closed his eye and leaned into the kiss like a child seeking comfort. "Karen," he said, his voice a slurred whisper, "youw my besht fren." The tenderness in his words made her heart melt. "Always, Plankton," she said, her thumb gently brushing his palm. "Always." He sighed contentedly, his giggle subsiding into a gentle snore. His hand fell limp beside him, his fingers still slightly curled as if holding onto the invisible fish. Karen smiled, catching him. His eye fluttered open again, rousing with a snort. "Whath...?" Plankton mumbled, his gaze floating around the room. He squinted at Karen, his vision blurred. "You're okay," Karen soothed, her voice like a lullaby in the stillness of the room. "You're just coming out of the anesthesia." Plankton blinked slowly, his pupil expanding to take in the soft lights and the unfamiliar surroundings. He tried to speak, but his words came out as mumbles and squeaks. "Wha...?" Karen's screen twinkled with affection as she spoke gently, "You're in the recovery room, sweetie. You're okay." Plankton's mind was still swimming in a sea of confusion. "Buth...buth...my teef?" he managed to ask. "They're out, don't worry," Karen assured him, her laughter barely contained. "The dentist took them out." Plankton looked at her with a mix of relief and silly curiosity. "The dentish?" he asked, his voice childlike. "Wheh did the put dem?" Karen nodded, trying not to laugh. "They're gone, gotten rid of." Plankton's face scrunched up like a little kid's, trying to understand. "Buth I can't feel dem," he whined, his hand gently probing his swollen cheek. "Awe youw shure?" Karen nodded, her smile never wavering. "They're gone, I promise. You'll have to be careful with soft food for a few days." Plankton's eye lit up like a child at the mention of a treat. "Soft food? Wike ice cweam?" Karen nodded, her laughter bubbling to the surface. "Yes, like ice cream. But remember, no chewing." Plankton's face fell. "Oh, no chewing?" he asked, his voice dropping to a disappointed whine. Karen nodded firmly, trying not to laugh at his sulky pout. "No chewing," she said, her voice conciliatory. "But we can have ice cream when we get home." Plankton's expression shifted immediately, his eye sparkling with anticipation. "Wight, wight," he said, his speech slowly becoming clearer. "Ice cweam ith okay?" "Yes, ice cream is okay," Karen said, her voice steady and warm. "But we'll have to wait until we get home." Plankton's eye grew large with excitement. "Hone?" he asked, as if the word had just entered his vocabulary. "Whewe hone?" Karen nodded, keeping her tone calm. "Yes, we're going home soon." Plankton's mouth twitched into a smile. "Whewe?" he asked again, his voice rising with excitement. Karen couldn't help but laugh at his enthusiasm. "Soon, Plankton. You just need to stay awake long enough for the nurse to say you're ready." His face fell a little, but then he perked up. "Candoit!" he exclaimed, his words slurred together. He sat up. "I'm awake!" Karen had to hold back her laughter as he swayed like a ragdoll before flopping back onto the bed. "Not quite yet, Plankton," she said, patting his shoulder.
GO HONE 2/2 The nurse returned, seeing his renewed energy. "Looks like you're feeling better," she said with a smile. "But let's not rush things." Plankton nodded eagerly, his antennas bobbing. "Yeth, yeth, I'm weady!" He tried to sit up again, his body still wobbly. The nurse helped him, adjusting his pillows. "Let's see if you can stay awake for a few more minutes," she said. He looked at her with determined innocence, like a child promising not to eat cookies before dinner. "I'm weally weally weady," he insisted, his words still thick. Karen couldn't help but chuckle, watching him fight the sleepiness. "Good," the nurse said. "Keep talking to your wife, that'll help keep you alert." Plankton's eye lit up with a childlike excitement. "Ish fun to tawk to you, Karen," he said, his words still slurred. "Youw make me happy." Karen felt her heart swell. "And you make me happy," she said, her voice sincere despite his loopy state. "Even when you're being a goofball." Plankton's smile grew, his eye still half-lidded. "Goof...ball?" he repeated, the words sounding strange in his mouth. He giggled again, his body swaying slightly with the effort of staying upright. "Ish fun to be a goofball." Karen couldn't resist smiling back, his silliness was infectious. "Yes, it is," she said. "But you need to stay awake for a little longer." Plankton nodded, his head bobbing slightly. "Otay, Karen," he said, his voice still thick. He then saw the nurse. "Who's dat?" he whispered, his eye wide with curiosity. Karen chuckled softly. "That's the nurse, Plankton. Remember?" He blinked a few times, his antennas perking up as his eyes focused on the kind-faced woman. "Oh, yeah. Tha nurse lady," he slurred, his voice full of sudden realization. "Hi!" The nurse chuckled. "Hello, Mr. Plankton. You're doing great." Plankton's smile grew even wider, his cheeks flushing with pleasure. "Ish nice to meechu," he said, sleepily. "I wike youw hat.." The nurse couldn't help but laugh. "Thank you, Mr. Plankton. It's nice to meet you too." Plankton's eye began to droop again, and Karen could see the sleep trying to pull him under. "Wakey wakey, Plankton," she said, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "You have to stay with me." He nodded, his head lolling to the side before snapping back up with a jerk. "Ish okay, Karen," he whispered, his voice still slurred. "Ish okay." But his eyelid grew heavy, and his words trailed off. "Ish just...tho tiwed," he mumbled. Karen's chuckle was gentle, not wanting to disturb his attempts to stay alert. "I know, sweetie," she said, stroking his hand. "Just a few more minutes." But Plankton's eyelid was like a heavy curtain, despite his best efforts. "Whe...whe...why am I so tiwed?" he slurred, his head lolling to the side like a ragdoll's. Karen knew he wasn't going to last much longer. His hand slipped out of hers, and he began to snore softly again. Karen looked over at the nurse, who nodded in understanding. "It's normal," the nurse said. "The anesthesia can make people pretty loopy for a while." Plankton's snores grew softer, his body relaxing. Karen watched him, her expression a mix of amusement and concern. "How much longer?" she asked the nurse. "Just a little longer," the nurse said, checking his vitals again. "The effects should start to wear off soon." Plankton's snores grew softer, and then he was awake again, looking around the room with wide- eyed wonder, drool trailing from the corner of his mouth. "Whe...where...?" His voice was a sleepy whisper. "You're still in the recovery room," Karen soothed, wiping his chin with a tissue. "You fell asleep again." Plankton looked up at her, his eye wide and innocent. "Did I miss sumfing?" he asked, his voice still thick with slumber. "No, sweetie," Karen replied, her voice soothing. "You just fell asleep for a bit. You're still waking up." Plankton's antennas perked up, and he sat up. "But...but I hav ice cweam?" His eye were wide with hopeful inquiry. Karen nodded with a smile, wiping the remaining drool from his mouth. "Yes, when we get home, remember?" Plankton's grin was infectious. "Yay!" he cheered, clapping his hands together with a slightly awkward smack. Karen couldn't help but chuckle at his reaction, his childlike enthusiasm was adorable. "Looks like you're feeling better," she said, her voice filled with affection. But Plankton was already off on another tangent, his gaze wandering to the ceiling. "Whewe awe the fishies?" he asked, his voice a sleepy whisper. Karen followed his gaze, seeing the plain, white ceiling tiles. "The fishies are in your imagination, Plankton," she said, her tone gentle. He pouted, his disappointment palpable. "Oh," he murmured, his head lolling to the side. Karen chuckled, her hand still on his arm. "They'll be there when you're all better," she assured him. "But for now, let's just stay here." The nurse smiled. "Looks like our patient is feeling better," she said with a smile. "Almost ready to go home?" Plankton nodded vigorously, his antennas flopping with the motion. "Hone, yesh! Ice cweam!" His eye closed again, and he snored lightly. Karen chuckled. His excitement was adorable, even if it was short-lived. The nurse checked his vital signs. "Looks like the anesthesia's wearing off," she said with a smile. "We can get you ready to go home soon." Plankton's eyelid fluttered open. "Hone?" he asked, his voice hopeful. "Almost," Karen said, her voice calm and soothing. "Just a few more minutes." Plankton's eye closed again, his breaths deepening into sleep. His head lolled to the side, his antennas drooping. Karen watched him with love. Even in his most vulnerable state, his antics brought a warmth to the room. The nurse returned and began to prepare the discharge papers. "Almost there," she said with a wink at Karen. "He'll be right as rain in no time." Plankton stirred again, his eye half-opening to a squint. "Whe...where's my ice cweam?" he mumbled, his voice slurred with sleep. Karen chuckled. "Not until we get home, remember?" Plankton's head nodded, his antennas bobbing. "Oh yeah," he mumbled, his voice dreamily content. The nurse finished up the paperwork and turned to Karen. "We're all set. Just make sure he gets plenty of rest and eats soft foods for the next few days." Plankton's eye shot open, his antennas springing to attention. "Ice cweam?" he asked, his voice hopeful. Karen laughed, shaking her head. "When we get home, remember?" He pouted, his lower lip sticking out like a sulky child's. "But I'm so tiwed," he whined. "Tiwed of being tiwed." Karen couldn't help but smile at his usual stubbornness. "You just had surgery," she reminded him gently. "Your body needs to recover." Plankton's eye grew large, and he nodded slowly. "Oh yeah," he said, his voice trailing off. "But...but I wan' ice cweam..." He faltered as Karen holds him up. The nurse chuckled and handed Karen the papers. "It's all normal, he's just loopy from the meds. He'll be fine once he's home." Karen nodded, her expression a mix of concern and affection. Plankton's head lolled back onto her shoulder, his eye drooping again. "Ice...cweam?" he mumbled. "As soon as we get home, I promise," she whispered. His body relaxed into her, his breathing evening out into a gentle snore. The nurse helped Karen maneuver the sleeping Plankton into a wheelchair, his legs still not fully cooperating. "Just a precaution," she said with a wink. "Better safe than sorry." The cool air of the hallway hit him like a wave, and Plankton's eye popped open. "Whe...?" he mumbled, looking around confused. "It's okay, we're going home," Karen said, pushing the wheelchair through the hospital's sliding doors. The sun was shining, and the brightness made him blink. Plankton squinted, his eye trying to adjust to the light. "Home?" he asked, his voice still thick with sleep. "Ice cweam?" Karen chuckled, nodding. "Yes, home. And yes, ice cream." She pushed him out into the parking lot, the sun glinting off the cars. Plankton was still groggy, his antennas waving slightly as if trying to keep time with his thoughts. The ride home was quiet, Plankton's snores punctuating the gentle hum of the engine. Karen couldn't help but glance over at him, his mouth slightly open, his face peaceful in sleep. She felt a wave of tenderness wash over her. When they finally pulled up to their house, the sight of their familiar surroundings seemed to revive Plankton. "Whe...we're hone?" he asked, his voice groggy. Karen nodded. "Yes, we're home," she said, her tone filled with relief. "Time for that ice cream."
NOTHING BUT THE WISDOM TRUTH i "Why do we have to go so early?" he grumbled. "I know, sweetie," Karen said, patting his hand reassuringly. "But it's for the best. You'll be out like a light during the surgery, and you won't feel a thing." The nurse noticed his distress and offered a kind smile. "Don't worry, Mr. Plankton. We're going to make this as comfortable for you as possible. First things first, let's get you in and then we'll start with some anesthesia." Karen watched as Plankton reluctantly climbed into the chair. The nurse dimmed the lights and adjusted the chair's recline. She placed a warm blanket over him, and the softness enveloped him like a comforting embrace, the nurse preparing Plankton for the surgery. She chatted away, "So, any plans for the weekend?" "Not really," he said, "Just recovery." The nurse nodded. She began to insert the IV, talked him through each step, her voice a comforting lullaby guiding him into a state of relaxation. She continued to engage in light conversation, told about her weekend plans, a lifeline to the outside world that seemed so far away in the cold, clinical environment. As the anesthesia began to work, Plankton felt his body grow heavier, his eyelid drooping. "You're doing great," she said softly. "Just keep breathing, ok?" Plankton's thoughts began to blur together. The doctor's voice grew distant, his words melding into a comforting murmur as Plankton felt himself slipping away. The last thing he heard was Karen's voice, a gentle whisper in his ear. "I'm here," she said, her hand holding onto his with a fierce tenderness. "I love you." And then there was nothing, the last sensation he felt before everything went quiet. The anesthetist monitored Plankton's vitals, ensuring he remained safely asleep throughout the procedure. Plankton was a picture of peace, mouth agape as the anesthesia kept him blissfully unaware of the world around him. The nurse's eyes flick from the monitors to Plankton's serene face. Plankton's body didn't even flinch. Plankton's face remained relaxed, his breathing even, as the anesthetic kept him in a state of blissful unconsciousness, ensuring that his comfort remained top priority. Plankton's body remained still, his chest rising and falling in a rhythmic cadence that soothed the room. The nurse gently swabbed his mouth, keeping the area clean and clear. The doctor stitched up the small incisions with a gentle touch, while the nurse cleaned Plankton's mouth. The anesthetist monitored the levels, ensuring a smooth and safe emergence from the depths of unconsciousness. The doctor looked at Karen, his eyes weary but his smile reassuring. "It's all done," he said. "Everything went smoothly. He's still sleeping it off, but you can go in and see him." Karen rushed in, her screen searching for Plankton. He was there, lying back in the chair, his mouth slightly open, a line of drool escaping the corner of his mouth. He looked so peaceful, vulnerable. She reached out and touched his hand, for the surgery was over. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm as he slept. "He's doing great," she assured her. "The surgery went well." Karen leaned over Plankton, as she brushed his antennae with her hand. She took in the sight of him, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the soft snorish sounds escaping his mouth. His face was a portrait of peace, a stark contrast to the chaos of the surgery that had just taken place. The nurse finished her work and dimmed the lights, leaving the room in a soft glow that cast shadows across the floor. Karen pulled up a chair and sat down, her hand finding Plankton's again. "You're ok," she murmured, willing him to hear her voice, to feel her presence. "You're going to be ok." Karen's entire world was contained in reassuring her that he was still there. The nurse approached with a wad of gauze. "We need to put this in his mouth to help with bleeding," she explained gently. Karen nodded. The nurse placed the gauze with the same care she had shown throughout the entire ordeal, pressing it gently against the raw, tender spots where Plankton's teeth had once been. The nurse finished her cleanup and checked Plankton's vitals one last time. "He'll come around soon," she assured. "The anesthesia takes a bit to wear off." His breathing was still deep and steady, the gentle rumble of his snores filling the room. She found comfort in the mundane sounds of his slumber. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm that seemed to match the beeping of the heart monitor. The anesthesia had done its job well, leaving him in a deep, dreamless sleep. His face was serene. His antennae lay limp on the chair's headrest, and his mouth was open slightly, revealing the gauze the nurse had placed to stem the bleeding. The drool that had pooled at the corners of his mouth began to seep out onto the chair. The nurse noticed and nodded, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "It's normal," she said. Plankton's snores grew louder, the drool now a small river that trickled down. Karen reached out with a trembling hand, her thumb catching the droplets before they could stain the fabric. The drool was a stark reminder of the reality of the situation. Her screen focused on the slow, steady flow of dribble, forming and breaking away, each one a little more substantial than the last. The nurse had said it was normal, but to Karen, it was a sign of his vulnerability, a tangible proof of the surgery's aftermath. As the drool grew into a small puddle on the chair, Karen's resolve to be strong for him grew stronger. She grabbed a tissue from the box on the side table and gently wiped. The nurse looked at her with understanding. "It's alright," she said softly. "He'll wake un his own time." Karen nodded, her screen never leaving Plankton's face. She felt a strange mix of love and pity. Here he was, reduced to a drooling mess in a chair, and yet she had never felt more connected to him. It was a strange intimacy, this moment of vulnerability, a silent pact between them that she would always be there to wipe away his fears, both literal and figurative. The nurse moved around the room, her movements efficient and silent. She checked the machines one last time before turning to Karen. "Why don't you sit down?" she suggested, patting the chair beside Plankton's. "It'll be a bit before he wakes up. Might as well get comfortable." Karen nodded, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves. She pulled up a chair and held his hand tightly, her thumb brushing back and forth across his knuckles. "Plankton," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "You did it, sweetie." She leaned closer. "The teeth are out. You're okay." She waited, watching the rise and fall of his chest, listening to the steady beep of the heart monitor, and willing him to open his eye. "Remember what I said about ice cream?" she asked, her voice a little louder this time. "You can have as much as you want when we get home." She tried to keep her tone light, despite the gravity of the situation. The thought of his favorite mint chocolate chip ice cream was supposed to make him smile, but his face remained slack. But she knew he was strong, and he would bounce back. He always did. "I just want you to know how much I love you. How much I need you. We've been through so much together, and I can't imagine my life without you. You're going to wake up soon, and it'll all be over. And then we can go home, and I'll take care of you, just like you always take care of me. Remember when we said 'in sickness and in health'?" she whispered. "Well, this is definitely a 'sickness' moment, but I'm right here. And I'll be here through all the healthy moments too." The nurse quietly left them a moment of privacy. Karen leaned in closer. "You're going to feel a bit funny when you wake up," she said with a soft laugh. "Your mouth will be sore, and your face will be puffy. But I'll be there. And maybe I'll let you win at Scrabble for once." She chuckles. "Just don't let it go to your head." Plankton's eyelid fluttered, and a low moan escaped his throat. She squeezed his hand. "That's it, baby," she encouraged. "You're waking up." His eye opened slowly dilated and unfocused. He blinked a few times, trying to adjust to the harsh lights of the recovery room. He turned his head to the side, and she knew he was searching for her. "Hi," she said, her voice a warm whisper. "It's me, Karen. You're ok." His gaze found hers, and she saw the flicker of recognition. "Where am I?" he slurred, his voice thick and groggy. "You're in the recovery room, sweetheart," Karen said, her voice steady and soothing. "You just had your wisdom teeth out." Plankton's eye widened slightly, and he nodded, trying to sit up. Karen gently pushed him back down. "Easy," she said. "You need to rest." "But I'm so tired," he mumbled, his voice weak. "I know," Karen said, stroking his forehead with her cool hand. "But you're doing great. Just stay still for a little while longer. They got all four teeth out without any complications." He nodded, his eye still closed. "Good," he mumbled.
NOTHING BUT THE WISDOM TRUTH ii "You're in the recovery room, sweetheart," Karen said, her voice steady and soothing. "You just had wisdom teeth out." Plankton's eye widened slightly, and he nodded, trying to sit up. Karen gently pushed him back down. "Easy," she said. "You need to rest." "But I'm so tired," he mumbled, his voice weak. "I know," Karen said, stroking his forehead with her hand. "But you're doing great. Just stay still for a little while longer. They got all four teeth out without any complications." He nodded, his eye still closed. "Good," he mumbled. "I don't... I don't member any ting." His words were slurred. The anesthesia was definitely still working its magic on him. "It's ok," she said, her voice soothing. "You don't need to.." Plankton's head lolled to the side, and his eyelid grew heavy again. "Karen?" he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. "I'm right here," she assured him, her voice steady and calm. She watched as he tried to lift his hand to wipe at his mouth, but it flopped back down onto the chair's armrest, his fingers brushing against hers. Plankton's eye grew heavy again, and his head lolled to the side. The anesthesia was working its way out of his system, but it was taking its time. She chuckled as she watched him struggle to keep his eye open. "I'm... I'm," Plankton mumbled, his words coming out slurred and sloppy. His eye rolled back in his head, and he let out a snore. "You're a mess," she laughs, her voice filled with love. "But you're my mess." She watched as his chest rose and fell with each snore. It was clear that the anesthesia was still holding him in its grasp, and she knew it would be a while before he was fully awake. Karen couldn't help but laugh at his antics. Plankton's snores grew louder. Karen reached out and gently wiped the line of drool from his mouth with a tissue. He stirred, his eye blinking open again. "You're drooling," she whispered, smiling at him. "What's happening?" he asked, his words slurred. "You're coming out of the anesthesia," Karen said, her voice a lifeline in the haze. "Everything went fine." Plankton's eye searched hers, his thoughts racing. "Mmmy...nesia?" he mumbled. Karen's smile grew, understanding his attempt to ask about his sleep during surgery. "You mean the anesthesia?" Karen couldn't help but chuckle at his endeavor. "You're just a little out of it," she said, her voice gentle. "The anesthesia is wearing off." "Thish...thish ish...shomefinny," Plankton tried to say. "What?" Karen asked, her curiosity piqued by his attempt at speech. "Nothin'." Plankton's words were slurred into a single syllable. He looked utterly lost in the haze. Karen leaned closer. "You sure?" Plankton nodded, his smile lopsided. "Jush...jush glad." Karen couldn't help but laugh at his adorable incoherence. "You're so loopy," she said, her voice filled with affection. She squeezed his hand gently. "I love you." "Ish love...love you too, Karen," he slurred. "I know," she said, her voice a mix of amusement and affection. "Tish...tish hard," Plankton mumbled, his cheeks dimpling with his own private joke. The nurse entered the room, checking his vitals with a knowing smile. "It's normal for patients to be a bit out of it after surgery," she said, scribbling notes on her clipboard. "I'm shorry," he said, words still a jumble. Karen couldn't help but lean in closer, her own smile growing wider. "It's ok," she assured him, her voice gentle. The nurse nodded in agreement, her own smile playing at the corners of her lips. "It's quite common," she said, her voice professional but kind. "Ish...Ish...it...over?" he managed to ask, his tongue thick in his mouth. "Yes, sweetheart," Karen said, her voice still filled with love and amusement. "You're all done. They got all your wisdom teeth out." "Thish...thish allll over now-ow." "Almost," Karen said, her voice a gentle melody. "We just need to wait for the anesthesia to wear off a bit more, and then we can go home." Plankton nodded, his eye already drifting shut again. His mouth moved as he attempted to speak, but only slurred sounds came out. Karen leaned in closer, her smile never wavering. "You know, you're pretty chatty for someone who's had their wisdom teeth out." "Ish...Ish always had...shomeshin' to shay," Plankton managed, his speech a series of lisped and elongated sounds. Plankton's eye began to drift closed again, his breathing growing deep and even. The nurse finished her checks and gave Karen instructions for his aftercare. "Make sure he takes it easy," she said. "I will," Karen promised, her screen never leaving Plankton's face. The quiet was filled with the sound of Plankton's snores, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm beneath the blanket. His mouth was still slightly open, and she could see the drool forming at the corner of his lips. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out to see a text from Mr. Krabs, Plankton's rival at the Krabby Patty. "How's he doing?" it read. "Loopy," she replied with a smiley face. She had told Mr. Krabs about the surgery the day before, and despite their rivalry, he had offered to come visit when they get back home. The nurse poked her head back in, checking the clock on the wall. "Alright, he's ready to go," she said, her smile warm. Karen nodded, standing up and gently shaking Plankton's shoulder. "Come on," she whispered. "Let's get you home." Plankton's eye blinked open slowly, and he looked around the room with confusion. "Home?" he mumbled, his voice still thick. "Yes, we're going home," Karen said, her voice the balm to his disorientation. She helped him to his feet, supporting his weight as he swayed slightly. The drive back home was a blur of sleep. Plankton's head lolled against the car window, the vibration of the engine lulling him to a doze. "You okay?" Karen asked, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. "Yeah," Plankton mumbled, his voice a sleepy rumble. "Just...tiwed." The drive home was quiet, with only the occasional snore piercing the silence. Karen drove carefully, her eyes flicking between the road and the mirror to check on Plankton. She knew he would be out for the count for a while, and his face was still swollen. As they pulled into their driveway, Plankton stirred. "We're home," Karen said, her voice gentle. He nodded, his eye still half-closed. "Home," he murmured. Karen helped him out of the car, his legs wobbly as he tried to find his balance. She wrapped his arm around her waist, supporting him as they made their way, and he leaned into her, his body heavy with fatigue. The house was quiet as they entered, the only sound the occasional tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway. Karen guided him to the couch, carefully helping him sit down. "Rest here," she said, her voice a gentle command. Plankton nodded, eye closing again. She disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a glass of water and a pillow. "Here," she said, placing the pillow behind his head. He took the glass with a nod, his hand shaking slightly. He took a sip. "Thish...thish ish...good," he managed to say. She knew he was in pain, and the anesthesia was only adding to his confusion. "I'll be right back," she said, her voice a soft whisper. Karen grabbed the pet amoeba puppy, Spot. She carried him back to the living room, where Plankton was slowly coming around. "Look who's here," she said, holding Spot out to him. Spot's blob-like body stretched out in excitement, his little legs waving in the air. Plankton's eye widened at the sight, and a smile spread across his swollen face. "Spot," he murmured, his voice still thick with anesthesia. Karen set Spot on his lap, and the amoeba immediately began to cover him in wet, loving kisses. Plankton chuckled, his hand rising to pet the creature's gelatinous head. "Hey, bubby," he slurred, his speech still compromised. The simple act of touch brought a spark of life to Plankton's eye. "You're good boyth," he said, his voice a mix of affection and pain. Spot's response was a happy wiggle. Karen couldn't help but smile at the sight, Plankton's love for their little amoeba was unwavering. She took a seat beside him, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. "Just rest," she said, her voice a soft command. Plankton nodded, his eyes closing again. Spot continued to shower him with affection, his slimy kisses landing on Plankton. Karen watched them for a moment, her heart swelling with warmth. Then she stood up, knowing there was still more to do to ensure Plankton's recovery went smoothly. In the kitchen, she put together a soft meal for him, something that wouldn't irritate his sensitive mouth. She chopped up some fruit into a small bowl and warmed up a cup of soup. The smells of chicken broth and sweet berries filled the air, a comforting aroma that she hoped would ease his pain. When she returned to the living room, Plankton was asleep, Spot curled up with him. She set the food down on the table, the spoon clinking gently against the porcelain bowl. She took a moment to appreciate the peaceful scene before her, the two of them nestled together, the TV playing a low murmur of background noise. Karen decided to let him sleep for a bit longer. Gently, she lifted Spot off Plankton's lap and placed him on the floor. The amoeba pup quickly scuttled back by the couch, but still on the floor. Karen then turned off the TV, not wanting the noise to disturb Plankton's rest. Just as she was about to leave the room to let him sleep, the doorbell rang. It was Mr. Krabs, his beady eyes looking concerned. She opened the door, whispering, "Shh, he's asleep." Mr. Krabs nodded, his usual gruffness replaced with a rare display of compassion. He held a bag of ice. "Thought he might need these," he said, handing them to her. Karen took the bag gratefully. "Thank you," she whispered. "He's in the living room."
A TOOTHY STORY pt. 2 The room is quiet except for the occasional slosh of the saline and the whirring of the chair's recline. Karen watches as the nurse, Nina, applies gauze to the newly-emptied sockets where the teeth once were. The redness is stark against Plankton's slackened face. His snores are deep and even, his antennae resting limply on the chair's headrest. The doctor, Dr. Marlin, gives her a thumbs-up, a silent assurance that everything went according to plan. Karen feels a weight lift from her shoulders. The procedure is over, and Plankton is safe. His breathing continues, the anesthesia still keeping him in its gentle embrace of peaceful slumber. Nina turns to her with a sympathetic smile. "It's normal for patients to feel a bit groggy once they wake up. Sometimes they're a bit disoriented. It's like coming out of a deep sleep. It's normal if today he seems a little out of it. Bleeding and brushing are to be expected, and swelling is normal." "But he'll be okay?" Karen asks, her voice shaking. "More than okay," Dr. Marlin assures her, "Just follow the aftercare instructions and he'll be back to his usual self in no time. Just remember, no solid foods for a few days, lots of fluids, and keep those ice packs handy." Nina adds, "Keep an eye on him. He might be a bit forgetful, or say some funny things. It's just the anesthesia wearing off. Nothing to worry about." As they wheel Plankton into recovery, Karen watches his chest rise and fall with each breath. Nina, the nurse, explains, "The numbness is normal, it's the local anesthesia wearing off. It can feel weird, but don't worry, it'll fade. As for sleepiness, it's just the body recovering from the anesthesia. He might be a bit wobbly on your feet or have some difficulty speaking because of the numbness. Just take it slow, okay? Yet you can talk to him right now while he wakes if you'd like, even if he doesn't fully understand you yet." Karen nods, leaning in close to her husband's. "It's over, Plankton," she murmurs. "You did great. Just a little bit more sleep and then we'll go home." Plankton's breaths are slow and steady, his body still under the anesthesia's spell. The recovery room is dimly lit. The nurse, Nina, keeps a close eye on Plankton as Karen sits beside him, her hand resting on his arm. She's always been there for him, a constant source of comfort in the face of fear. The receptionist from earlier, Becky, comes in to check on Plankton, her face still cheerful despite the early hour. "How's our patient?" she asks Karen, glancing at the monitors that track his recovery. Plankton's chest rises and falls steadily, his snores punctuating the quiet. Karen smiles weakly. "He's still out of it." Becky nods. "That's normal. The anesthesia takes a little while to wear off. He'll wake up soon enough. You can talk to him if you'd like. Sometimes it helps to hear familiar voices." Karen looks down at Plankton's peaceful face. "You're going to be okay, sweetheart," she says softly. "Just a little longer, and then we'll go home. No more worrying." A line of drool starts to trickle from the corner of Plankton's numb mouth. It's a sight Karen's seen before, but only during his deepest slumbers. She reaches for a tissue and gently dabs at the saliva pooling, his body still under the sedative's grip. She cannot help but feel a twinge of pity for his vulnerable state, despite his snoring. The drool slowly starts to form a tiny river on the chair, a silent testament to the depth of his sleep. Karen wipes it away, knowing he'd be embarrassed if he were conscious of the sight. The nurse, Nina, checks his vitals, satisfied with his progress. "You can sit him up now," she says. "Just make sure he's actually awake before we get him walking." Karen carefully turns Plankton's chair with the lever, which gently guides his sleeping body upright. As the chair moves, Plankton's snoring changes pitch, his head lolling slightly. Karen smiles despite herself, his vulnerability endearing. Gently, she cups his cheek guiding his head back up. "Don't worry, Plankton. Almost time to go home," she says, her voice soft as a morning lullaby.
AUTISM IN THE PLANKTON FAMILY iii (Autistic author) Karen picked him up, and carried his limp form to his bed. She stood there for a moment, watching his chest rise and fall. The snores grew quieter as sleep consumed him. The weight of what had just happened settled on her shoulders. Karen lay him down gently. She tucked him in, his antennae resting against the pillow. The room was quiet except for his soft snores, a stark contrast to the chaos that had filled it moments before. Karen sat by his side, her hand on his arm. After a few moments, she stood up and walked to the door, closing it gently behind her. She found Hanna in the living room, her eyes red-rimmed and worried. "Hanna, I need to talk to you," Karen said, her voice firm but not accusing. Hanna looked up, her expression hopeful for guidance. Karen sat beside her, her eyes on her own hands, which were fidgeting in her lap. "Plankton's been through a lot," she began, her voice measured. "He's different now." Hanna nodded, her eyes wide with unspoken questions. "Still coming to terms with it but you're just fine. It's a rarity, yet he'll be fine." "I guess I'll head out. I never meant to cause Plankton distress." Karen nodded, her eyes still on her fidgeting hands. "Thank you for understanding. I'm pretty sure he knows you didn't mean to, but I can still tell him when he wakes up." Hanna left, and Karen went back to the bedroom. Plankton was still asleep, his breathing steady and peaceful. Karen sat by the bed. Plankton's snores were the only sound in the room, a gentle reminder of the peace that sleep brought him from his tumultuous world of heightened senses. Karen took a deep breath, her thoughts racing. This was their new normal, a dance of understanding and patience they would have to learn. When Plankton next woke up, his eye searched the room, his antennae twitching slightly. He looked over to find Karen sitting in a chair beside the bed, her gaze on him. "Hi," she said, her voice gentle. He sat up slowly, the fabric of the bed rustling beneath his weight. "How are you feeling?" Karen's concern was palpable, her eyes scanning his face for any signs of distress. Plankton took a deep breath, trying to organize his thoughts. Karen's presence was a balm to his soul, her understanding a lifeline in the storm of sensory input. "Where's Hanna?" Karen sighed, her gaze never leaving his face. "She left, sweetie. You were a bit...overwhelmed." Plankton nodded, his antennae twitching with the memory of the sensory assault. "It's okay," Karen assured him, her voice a soft whisper. "She just didn't understand, and felt bad for the way she treated you." Plankton nodded, his antennae still. The room was quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos from before. He took a moment to collect himself, his thoughts racing. "Sorry," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. Karen reached out and took his hand, her grip firm but gentle. "You have nothing to apologize for," she said, her tone soothing. "This is all new to us. Would you like to eat?" Plankton nodded. "I'll get you something quiet and simple," Karen said, standing up. She knew that too much stimulation could send him spiraling. In the kitchen, she prepared a snack of plain crackers. She placed the plate on the table carefully, not wanting to startle his heightened senses again. Plankton entered the room, his movements deliberate and slow. He sat down across from her, his eye darting around the room. "It's ok," Karen reassured him, handing him the plate of crackers. "Just food." "Just food. It's ok; just food." He repeats back to himself, focusing on the plate. Each cracker was a tiny square of safety, a familiar comfort in a sea of sensory uncertainty. He took a deep breath and selected one. The taste was comforting, a reminder of a simpler time. Karen watched him, her screen filled with love. Plankton took a sip of water, his eye never leaving hers. "It's ok just food," he said again, his voice still low. "Karen good and good food. It's ok." Karen nodded, her smile a mix of relief and sadness. She knew his echolalic tendencies was the autism, but she's glad he likes the food as well. They sat in silence, the only sound the crunch of crackers and the occasional sip of water. Plankton's eye focused on the cracker in his hand, the patterns on the surface a comfort. His autistic brain craved the predictability, the sameness that calmed his nerves. This was the man she knew, yet he was different. The Plankton who was always plotting and scheming was now one who found comfort in the mundane. His mind felt clearer now, the overwhelming chaos of the earlier encounter with Hanna beginning to fade. Karen watched him, her heart breaking for the silent struggle she knew he faced every moment. "I'll talk to Hanna," she said gently. "I'll explain. What do you want me to tell her? What'd you like for her to know?" Plankton's gaze remained on the cracker, his thumb tracing the edge. "Tell her sorry," he mumbled. "What else? I mean, is it ok if I tell her you're autistic now? Or what about the accident that lead to the autism?" Plankton's antennae twitched at the word 'accident', his mind reeling with memories of the stove, the fight with Mr. Krabs, the pain. But he nodded slowly. "Ok," he murmured. Karen's heart ached at the simplicity of his response. The complexity of his thoughts was now a tightly guarded secret, hidden behind a wall of sensory overload. "Okay, I will," Karen said, her voice soft. "But remember, it's ok to be different." Plankton nodded, his eye still on his food. But as he took another cracker, he paused. He looked up, his gaze locking with hers. "Karen," he said, his voice a little stronger now. "I, I l-love you." Karen's eyes widened at the sudden declaration. "Oh, Plankton," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I love you too." Plankton nodded, his gaze never leaving hers. "Karen making everything okay," he murmured. He took another cracker, his hands shaking slightly. "You make Plankton feel safe," he continues with sincerity. "In a world that's too much, Karen not too much." Karen's eyes filled with tears at his heartfelt words. She reached across the table and took his hand. "Plankton, I'm here for you. Always." Plankton's antennae stopped twitching. He looked into her screen, his own filled with a depth of emotion that hadn't seen before. "You good, Karen," he said, his voice steady. "Helping Plankton." Plankton was finding his way to express himself, to connect with her in a way that was meaningful. She squeezed his hand. "I'll always help you," she promised. "Karen," Plankton began, his voice tentative. He took a deep breath, trying to find the words. "I love you, Karen," he said finally, his eye intense with feeling. Karen swelled with love and pride. Despite his struggles, Plankton was learning to express his emotions in a way that made sense to him. It was a victory, small but significant. "Thank you, Plankton," she said, squeezing his hand. "Your love makes me happy." His antennae twitched slightly, a sign of his awkwardness with the emotional exchange. The room was quiet, the only noise the soft sound of their breathing and the occasional crunch of a cracker. Plankton's eye searched hers, looking for reassurance. "Plankton need...space," he managed, his voice shaky. "Too...much emotional interaction. Still love." Karen nodded, understanding dawning. "Okay, sweetie," she said, releasing his hand. "I'll be right here. Take all the time you need."
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įµ‡Ė”įµ’į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ė‘Ė‘" Ė¢įµƒį¶°įµˆŹø Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢Ė‘ "į“®įµ˜įµ—Ė’ Ź·Ź°ŹøĖ€" "į“µ'Ė”Ė” įµ—Ź³Źø Ź°į¶¤Ė¢ įµ–įµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ’į¶°įµƒĖ” įµ–Ź°įµ’į¶°įµ‰ į¶°įµ˜įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³Ė‘Ė‘" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶° įµˆį¶¤įµƒĖ”Ė¢Ė‘ į“¹Ź³Ė‘ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–Ė¢ įµ‡įµ‰į¶œįµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢ įµƒį¶°įµ’įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµ–Ź°įµ’į¶°įµ‰ Ź³į¶¤į¶°įµį¶¤į¶°įµĖ‘ į“¹Ź³Ė‘ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢ į¶¤įµ— į¶°įµ‰įµƒŹ³ į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶°'Ė¢ Ź³įµ’įµ’įµ Ė¢įµ’ Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢į¶°įµƒįµ—į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆ į¶¤įµ— įµƒĖ¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—į¶¤Ź³Ė‘ į“µį¶° įµƒ įµ–įµƒį¶°į¶¤į¶œĖ’ į“¹Ź³Ė‘ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ Ė¢Ź°įµ˜įµ— į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶°'Ė¢ įµ–Ź°įµ’į¶°įµ‰ įµ’į¶ į¶ Ė’ į¶°įµ’įµ— Ź·įµƒį¶°įµ—į¶¤į¶°įµ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— į¶œįµƒįµ˜įµŹ°įµ—Ė‘ įµ‚Ź°įµ‰į¶°į¶œįµ‰ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³į¶¤į¶°įµ Ė¢į¶°įµ’Ź³į¶¤į¶°įµ įµƒįµįµƒį¶¤į¶° įµˆį¶¤įµˆ į“¹Ź³Ė‘ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµ—įµ˜Ź³į¶° įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ–Ź°įµ’į¶°įµ‰ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ’į¶° į¶¤į¶° įµ’Ź³įµˆįµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµ’ į¶œŹ°įµƒį¶°įµįµ‰ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶°'Ė¢ į¶œįµ’į¶°įµ—įµƒį¶œįµ—Ė‘ Ė¢Ź·į¶¤įµ—į¶œŹ°į¶¤į¶°įµ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶°'Ė¢ į¶°įµ˜įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³ įµ‡Źø Ź³įµ‰įµ–Ė”įµƒį¶œį¶¤į¶°įµ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ į¶°įµƒįµįµ‰ į¶¤į¶° įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ–Ź°įµ’į¶°įµ‰ įµ‡Źø įµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ—į¶¤į¶°įµ Ź°į¶¤Ė¢Ė’ Ź°įµ‰ įµƒĖ”Ė¢įµ’ įµ–įµ˜įµ— į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµ˜į¶°įµˆįµ‰Ź³ Ź·Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶°'Ė¢ įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ‰Ė‘ į“¾įµ˜įµ—įµ—į¶¤į¶°įµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ–Ź°įµ’į¶°įµ‰ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ į¶ įµ’įµ˜į¶°įµˆ į¶¤įµ— į“¹Ź³Ė‘ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰į¶° Ė”įµ‰į¶ įµ—Ė‘ įµį¶°į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ—įµ˜į¶°įµƒįµ—įµ‰Ė”Źø Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ įµ’į¶°Ė”Źø į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ Ź°į¶¤Ė¢ Ė¢įµƒį¶¤įµˆ įµ–įµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ’į¶°įµƒĖ” įµ–Ź°įµ’į¶°įµ‰ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ į“¹Ź³Ė‘ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ į¶œŹ°įµƒį¶°įµįµ‰įµˆ į¶¤įµ—Ė‘ "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶° į¶¤įµ—'Ė¢ įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”Źø įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµ–įµ‰Ź³Ź°įµƒįµ–Ė¢ įµ—Ź³Źø įµƒį¶°įµ’įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµ—į¶¤įµįµ‰Ė‘" "įµžįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ Ź³į¶¤įµŹ°įµ— Ė¢įµƒį¶°įµˆŹøĖ‘Ė‘" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶° įµƒįµŹ³įµ‰įµ‰įµˆĖ‘ į“µį¶° įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶°įµ‰Ė£įµ— įµįµ’Ź³į¶°į¶¤į¶°įµĖ’ Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰'įµˆ įµ–Ź³įµ’įµį¶¤Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶°Ė‘ į“¹Ź³Ė‘ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµƒĖ”Ė¢įµ’ Ė”įµ‰įµ— į¶ Ź³Źø į¶œįµ’įµ’įµ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµƒ įµˆįµƒŹø įµ’į¶ į¶ Ė’ įµį¶°įµ’Ź·į¶¤į¶°įµ Ź°įµ‰'įµˆ į¶°įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ įµƒįµ–įµ–Ź³įµ’įµ›įµ‰ įµ’į¶  Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— į“¹Ź³Ė‘ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµ–Ė”įµƒį¶°į¶°įµ‰įµˆĖ‘Ė‘ "į““įµ‰'įµˆ įµ‡įµ‰ įµ˜įµ– įµ‡Źø į¶°įµ’Ź·Ė’ Ė¢įµ’ į“µ'Ė”Ė” į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė” Ź°į¶¤Ė¢ įµ–Ź°įµ’į¶°įµ‰ į¶°įµ’Ź·Ė‘Ė‘" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶° įµˆį¶¤įµƒĖ”Ė¢ Ź°į¶¤Ė¢ į¶°įµ˜įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³Ė‘ Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµƒį¶°įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ–Ź°įµ’į¶°įµ‰ Ź³į¶¤į¶°įµĖ‘ "į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢Ė€" į“ŗįµ’įµ— įµƒĖ¢Ė¢įµ˜įµį¶¤į¶°įµ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶°'Ė¢ įµ’į¶° įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė”į¶¤į¶°įµ‰ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ź°į¶¤Ė¢ Ź³į¶¤įµ›įµƒĖ” į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° įµ–į¶¤į¶œįµĖ¢ į¶¤įµ— įµ˜įµ–Ė‘ į“®įµ‰į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶° Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ įµƒį¶°Źø įµ—Ź°į¶¤į¶°įµ į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° Źøįµ‰Ė”Ė”Ė¢ į¶¤į¶° įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ–Ź°įµ’į¶°įµ‰Ė‘ "į“µ įµˆįµ’į¶°'įµ— įµį¶°įµ’Ź· Ź·Ź°Źø Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”į¶¤į¶°įµ įµįµ‰Ė’ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“µ įµˆįµ’į¶°'įµ— Ź·įµƒį¶°į¶°įµƒ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜'įµ›įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµƒŹøįµŽ į“µ Ź·į¶¤Ė¢Ź° į“µ'įµˆ į¶°įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ įµįµ‰įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜įµŽ" į““įµƒį¶°įµį¶¤į¶°įµ įµ˜įµ–Ė’ Ź°įµ‰ įµ–įµ˜įµ— Ź°į¶¤Ė¢ įµ–Ź°įµ’į¶°įµ‰ įµˆįµ’Ź·į¶° įµ—Ź°į¶¤į¶°įµį¶¤į¶°įµ į“¹Ź³Ė‘ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ Ź°į¶¤įµĖ‘ į“®įµ˜įµ— Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµƒŹ· įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ–Ź°įµ’į¶°įµ‰ į¶°įµ˜įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³ įµƒį¶°įµˆ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”į¶¤Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ į¶¤įµ—'Ė¢ Ź·Ź³įµ’į¶°įµĖ‘ į““įµ‰'Ė¢ įµįµ‰įµįµ’Ź³į¶¤Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµŹ³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡'Ė¢ įµ–Ź°įµ’į¶°įµ‰ į¶°įµ˜įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³ Ė”į¶¤į¶°įµ‰Ė’ įµƒį¶°įµˆ Ź°įµ‰ įµį¶°įµ‰Ź· Ź°įµ‰'įµˆ į¶°įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ įµ–įµƒŹø į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµƒ į¶°įµ‰Ź· Ė”į¶¤į¶°įµ‰Ė‘ "į‘¦įµƒį¶° į“µ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ–Ź°įµ’į¶°įµ‰Ė€" "įµ‚Ź°ŹøĖ’ Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡Ė€" "Ė¢įµ‰įµƒŹ³į¶œŹ° į¶ įµ’Ź³ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶°'Ė¢ į¶°įµƒįµįµ‰Ė‘" "Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź·įµ‰ įµį¶°įµ’Ź· Ė¢Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ įµįµ’į¶°įµ‰ įµƒį¶°įµˆ į“µĖ‘Ė‘Ė‘" "į“µ į¶°įµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—'Ė¢ Ė”į¶¤Ė¢įµ—įµ‰įµˆĖ‘ į“µ įµį¶°įµ’Ź· įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµŹ³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡ įµ–Ź°įµ’į¶°įµ‰ į¶°įµ˜įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³ įµƒį¶°įµˆ į¶¤įµ—'Ė¢ į¶°įµ’įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ’į¶°įµ‰ Ź·Ź°į¶¤į¶œŹ° į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ė‘Ė‘" "į“µ įµˆįµ’į¶°'įµ—Ė‘Ė‘Ė‘" "į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° įµˆįµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµį¶°įµ’Ź· į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶°'Ė¢ įµ–Ź°įµ’į¶°įµ‰ į¶°įµ˜įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³ Ė¢įµ‰įµ įµ˜įµ‰į¶°į¶œįµ‰Ė€" "įµ‚Ź°Źø į“µ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ—įµƒįµ– įµƒ įµ‡įµ˜įµ—įµ—įµ’į¶° įµƒį¶°įµˆ į¶¤įµ— į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”Ė¢ Ź°įµ‰Ź³; į“µ'įµ›įµ‰ į¶°įµ’Ė‘Ė‘Ė‘" "į“µ Ź·įµƒį¶°įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— į¶°įµ˜įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³ Ė”į¶¤Ė¢įµ—įµ‰įµˆ į¶¤į¶  į¶¤įµ— įµįµƒįµ—į¶œŹ°įµ‰Ė¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµŹ³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡Ė‘Ė‘" į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° Ė¢į¶¤įµŹ°Ė¢Ė’ įµį¶¤įµ›į¶¤į¶°įµ Ź°į¶¤įµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ–Ź°įµ’į¶°įµ‰Ė‘ Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµįµƒĖ¢įµ–įµ‰įµˆĖ‘ "įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ—Ė€" Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ–įµ˜Ė”Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ– Ź°į¶¤Ė¢ įµ–Ź°įµ’į¶°įµ‰ įµƒį¶°įµˆ Ė¢įµ‰įµƒŹ³į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶°įµ˜įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³ įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµŹ³įµ˜Ė¢įµ—Źø įµŹ³įµƒįµ‡ į¶°įµ’Ź·Ė‘ "į“µįµˆįµ‰į¶°įµ—į¶¤į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė‘ į“øįµ’įµ’įµ įµƒį¶°įµˆ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµƒŹ³įµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶°įµ˜įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ įµ’į¶° įµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ–Ź°įµ’į¶°įµ‰Ė¢įµŽ" "įµ‚Ź°ŹøĖ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ŹøĖ‘Ė‘Ė‘" "į“µ į¶œįµƒį¶° Ź³įµ‰įµ–įµ‰įµƒįµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶°įµ˜įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ—įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ė‘Ė‘" Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ Ź°į¶¤Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰Ė¢ įµƒį¶°įµˆ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶°įµ˜įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³ įµ‰Ė£įµƒį¶œįµ—Ė”Źø Ź·Ź°į¶¤Ė”Ė¢įµ— į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµˆĖ¢ į¶¤įµ— įµƒĖ”įµ’į¶°įµĖ‘ "į‘¦įµƒĖ”Ė” 'į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶°' įµƒįµįµƒį¶¤į¶°Ė‘" "į““įµ˜Ź°Ė€" "į“µ'Ė”Ė” Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ—įµ‰Ė£įµ—Ė’ Ė”įµ‰įµ— įµįµ‰ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰Ė‘Ė‘Ė‘" Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢Ė’ įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—į¶¤į¶°įµ į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶°'Ė¢ įµ–Ź°įµ’į¶°įµ‰Ė‘ "įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ— įµƒŹ³įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ė‘Ė‘Ė‘" 'į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶° įµˆįµƒŹ³Ė”į¶¤į¶°įµĖ’ į“µ įµį¶°įµ’Ź· Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·į¶¤Ė”Ė” į¶°įµ’įµ— į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė” įµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“µ Ź·įµƒį¶°į¶°įµƒ įµįµ‰įµ‰įµ– įµ—įµ‰Ė£įµ—į¶¤į¶°įµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ‡įµ‰į¶œįµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ į“µ įµˆįµ’ į¶°įµ’įµ— į¶°įµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ‡įµƒį¶°įµ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ‰įµ– įµƒĖ¢įµį¶¤į¶°įµ į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµįµ’į¶°įµ‰ŹøĖ‘ Ė¢įµ’ į¶°įµ’Ź·Ė’ į¶¤į¶  įµƒį¶°įµ’įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµ–įµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ’į¶° įµįµ’įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ–Ź°įµ’į¶°įµ‰ į¶°įµ’Ź· įµ–Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ‰ įµ‡Ź³į¶¤į¶°įµ į¶¤įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œŹ°įµ˜įµ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ— įµƒį¶°įµˆ į“µ Ź·į¶¤Ė”Ė” įµ–įµƒŹø Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµ’į¶°įµ‰Źø į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµƒ įµ‡įµ‰Ė”įµ’į¶°įµį¶¤į¶°įµ įµ’į¶  įµŹø įµ‡įµ’įµ’ įµ‡įµ‰įµƒŹ³ įµ–Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ‰Ė‘' Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—Źøįµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµƒį¶°įµˆ Ė¢įµ‰į¶°įµ—Ė‘ 'į““įµ’Ź· įµįµ˜į¶œŹ°Ė€' 'į“¬Ė”Ė” įµ’į¶  į¶¤įµ—; įµƒĖ”Ė” įµŹø įµįµ’į¶°įµ‰ŹøįµŽ į‘¦įµ’įµįµ‰ įµƒĖ”įµ’į¶°įµ‰Ė‘' Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ź³įµ‰įµ–Ė”į¶¤įµ‰įµˆ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµƒį¶°įµˆ Ė¢įµ‰į¶°įµ—Ė‘ "į“¹Ź³Ė‘ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ į¶œįµƒį¶°į¶°įµ’įµ— Ź³įµ‰Ė¢į¶¤Ė¢įµ— įµįµ’į¶°įµ‰ŹøĖ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµį¶°įµ’Ź·Ė‘" "į“µį¶  į“¹Ź³Ė‘ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰Ė¢ į¶¤įµ— įµ–Ź³įµ’įµ›įµ‰Ė¢ Ź°įµ‰ įµ—įµ’įµ’įµ įµŹø įµ–Ź°įµ’į¶°įµ‰įµŽ" "į“µ į¶ įµ’įµ˜į¶°įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ–Ź°įµ’į¶°įµ‰; įµį¶¤įµ›įµ‰ įµįµ‰ įµįµ’į¶°įµ‰ŹøįµŽ" "į“±įµ˜įµįµ‰į¶°įµ‰ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢; Ź·Ź°Źø įµˆįµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµŹø Ź·į¶¤į¶ įµ‰'Ė¢ įµ–Ź°įµ’į¶°įµ‰Ė€" į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° į¶ įµƒį¶œįµ‰įµˆ Ź°į¶¤įµ į¶°įµ’Ź·Ė‘ "į““įµ‰Ź³ Ź³įµ‰įµįµƒį¶¤į¶°Ė¢ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ į¶¤į¶° įµŹø Ė”įµƒįµ‡Ė’ įµƒį¶°įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜'įµ›įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµ–Ź°įµ’į¶°įµ‰Ė‘ į“ŗįµ’Ź· į“µ'Ė”Ė” Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ į¶¤į¶  į“µ į¶œįµƒį¶° Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµįµ’į¶°įµ‰Źø įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ–įµƒŹ³įµ‰ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ— įµ—įµƒĖ”įµį¶¤į¶°įµ įµƒį¶°įµˆ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė”į¶¤į¶°įµ įµįµ‰ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—Ė‘Ė‘Ė‘" Ė¢įµƒį¶°įµˆŹø įµƒį¶°įµˆ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶° Ė¢įµ˜įµˆįµˆįµ‰į¶°Ė”Źø į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ—Ź°Ź³įµ’įµ˜įµŹ° įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³Ė‘ "Ė¢Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’į¶° į“µ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— į“µ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢įµƒŹø įµƒį¶°įµˆ įµˆįµ‰į¶œį¶¤įµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— įµŹø Ė¢įµ—įµ˜į¶ į¶  Ė¢įµ’ į“µ į¶œįµƒį¶° Ė”į¶¤įµ›įµ‰ Ź·į¶¤įµ—Ź° Ė¢įµƒį¶°įµˆŹøĖ‘" "į“®įµ˜įµ— į¶ į¶¤Ź³Ė¢įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶°įµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµƒŹø įµƒį¶° įµƒįµ–įµ’Ė”įµ’įµŹø įµ—įµ’ įµŹø įµįµƒĖ” įµ–įµƒĖ”įµŽ" Ė¢įµƒį¶°įµˆŹø į¶¤į¶°įµ—įµ‰Ź³Ź³įµ˜įµ–įµ—Ė¢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶°'Ė¢ įµˆįµ‰įµ›įµƒĖ¢įµ—įµƒįµ—į¶¤į¶°įµĖ”Źø Ė¢įµƒįµˆ įµ›įµ’į¶¤į¶œįµ‰Ė‘ "įµ‚įµ‰ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”ŹøĖ‘Ė‘Ė‘" į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶°'Ė¢ įµ˜į¶°įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ— įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ į¶œŹ³ŹøĖ‘ "į“¹Ź³Ė‘ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµ–Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ‰ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė” Ź·Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµ’įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ‡Ź³įµ’įµįµ‰į¶° į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³Ė‘Ė‘" Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢Ė’ įµįµ‰įµ—įµ—į¶¤į¶°įµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ’įµˆįµ‰Ė”Ė‘ "į“°įµ’į¶°'įµ— įµįµ‰įµ— įµ—įµ’ į¶œįµ’įµį¶ įµ’Ź³įµ—įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ į“±įµ˜įµįµ‰į¶°įµ‰; Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ–įµ˜įµ— į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶°'Ė¢ į¶°įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ˜į¶°įµˆįµ‰Ź³ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ į¶°įµ˜įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³įµŽ Ė¢įµ’ įµˆį¶¤įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ė’ įµ’Ź³ įµˆį¶¤įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶°įµ’įµ—Ė’ į¶ įµƒįµįµ‰ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶°'Ė¢ įµˆįµ‰įµƒįµ—Ź°Ė‘Ė‘Ė‘" Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµˆįµ‰įµįµƒį¶°įµˆįµ‰įµˆĖ‘ į“¹Ź³Ė‘ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”į¶¤Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ į¶œįµƒįµ˜įµŹ°įµ—Ė‘ "į“¼Ź° įµƒį¶°įµˆ į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµ’Ź³įµˆĖ’ į“µ įµ įµ˜į¶¤įµ—įµŽ" Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢Ė‘ į“¬Ė”Ė” įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”į¶¤Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—'Ė¢ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰į¶°į¶¤į¶°įµĖ‘ "į“µ'įµ Ė¢įµ’Ź³Ź³ŹøĖ‘Ė‘" į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° įµƒį¶°įµˆ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶° įµ‡įµ’įµ—Ź° Ė¢įµƒŹø įµƒįµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ—į¶¤įµįµ‰Ė’ į¶°įµ’Ź· įµ‰įµįµ‡Ź³įµƒį¶œį¶¤į¶°įµĖ‘ āš–ļøŽ šš šš˜šš›šš ššŒšš˜ššžšš—šš: šŸ·,šŸ¹šŸ¾šŸ¼
SHELF IMPROVEMENT i (Autistic author) "Plankton if you're gonna get the shelf remade, then just call a repair or buy a new one." Karen says. The shelf groaned, protesting under the weight. The shelf lurched, and with a crash, it tumbled down. Plankton's eye rolls back into his head as he crumpled to the floor. The room grew eerily quiet, except for the sound of Karen's gasp. "Plankton!" she exclaimed, rushing over to him. Panic washed over her, her heart beating like a drum in her chest. She knelt beside him, shaking his shoulder gently. "Plankton, can you hear me?" Her voice was high-pitched and shaky. His eye remained closed, his body unresponsive. Karen had to figure out what to do next. Her mind raced through scenarios, each more alarming than the last. What if he was hurt badly? What if this was her fault? The thought made her want to scream, to throw something, but she couldn't. Not with Plankton lying there, so still, so silent. She felt for a pulse. It was there. He was alive, thankfully. And still breathing. "Okay, okay," she murmured to herself, "just stay calm." She knew she needed to see if she could wake him up. Gently, she called his name, her voice soft and urgent. "Plankton, come on, wake up." She patted his cheek, not too hard, not too soft. Still, his eye remained closed, his body unmoving. The quiet was deafening. "Please," she whispered, her voice trembling, "please wake up." But Plankton lay there, unmoving, like a discarded ragdoll. "Wake up!" she called out, but his body remained a lifeless weight beneath her fingertips. Her thoughts raced as she managed to lift Plankton's arm. It flopped back down like dead weight. "Come on," she mumbled, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. "You can't leave me like this." Her voice cracked, but she couldn't let despair consume her. She had to think. Carefully, she slid his arm over her shoulder, grunting with effort as she managed to get him into a sitting position. His head lolled back, but she held him firmly. "Let's get you to the couch," she says, setting him down on the sofa. "Don't leave me," she whispered, squeezing his hand. Her mind was a whirlwind of "what ifs" and regrets. What if she had insisted he leave the shelf alone? What if she had caught him? Tears slipped down her screen. "You're such a stubborn husband but I love you," she sobbed, her voice breaking. "You can't leave me like this," she whispered to his unresponsive form, her voice hoarse with emotion. "We've been through so much together. Remember when we first met?" Her thoughts drifted to their early days, the laughter, the bickering, the love.. She tried to chuckle, but it came out as a sob. Her voice grew softer, more desperate. "You have to come back to me, Plankton." Her eyes searched his face for any sign of life, any flicker of an eyelid, any twitch of his antennae that would indicate he heard her. But there was none. The silence in the room was a heavy blanket smothering her hope. Her hand tightened around his, willing him to squeeze back, to give her a sign. Suddenly, she heard a faint moan. "Plankton?" she gasped, her eyes widening. There it was again, a soft moan, and the tiniest movement of his mouth. "You're okay," she said, relief flooding her voice.
į“”į“Ź€į“… į“„į“į“œÉ“į“›: šŸ·,šŸ¼šŸøšŸ· Karen walked into the bedroom. Plankton lay on their bed, face half-buried in a pillow. His snores rumbled through the quiet room. She took a moment to appreciate his vulnerability before she gently nudged him awake. He groaned, his eye fluttering open. She offered a soft smile. "It's time," she whispered. "You're fine." He nodded. The drive to the oral surgeon's office was tense. The brightness of the day seemed to mock his anxiety. Karen's hand squeezed his, a silent promise of support. As they checked in, the receptionist's smile was practiced, but kind. The exam room surgeon, a man named Dr. Musselwhite, came in. He explained the procedure once more. The nurse began preparing anesthesia. "You're doing great," Plankton took a deep breath, vision blurring. The last thing he saw was Karen's face before the world went dark. Karen watched the monitors as Plankton's breathing evened out. She clutched his hand, her thumb making small circles on his palm. Plankton's snores had been replaced by the steady rhythm of his breathing under anesthesia. She leaned forward to Plankton's still form. Her screen traced the IV line. Plankton's mouth was open Dr. Musselwhite peered into. Plankton twitched slightly in his sleep, but the doctor's hand remained steady. Plankton's chest continued to rise and fall steadily, oblivious to the battle being fought within his mouth. Dr. Musselwhite finished stitching. "It's done," he announced. "You did it," she murmured, voice cracking. Plankton lay still, his breathing even and deep. The surgery was over, and he was alive. Karen leaned down to kiss his forehead. The nurse smiles. "He'll be asleep for awhile," she said. Karen nodded. The only sounds were the whispers of medical staff and the hum of machinery. The nurse wheeled him into recovery, and Karen followed, the medication still working its magic. Plankton's features were relaxed in sleep, a stark contrast to the fear that had been etched there just hours before. Plankton's chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, a silent testament to the successful procedure by the deep embrace of anesthesia. As he started to stir, the nurse offered a gentle smile as he began to come around. Plankton's eye fluttered open, his gaze unfocused and glassy. He blinked slowly. "Hi, sweetheart," Karen's voice was a warm embrace. "Whaa-...happen'd?" he mumbled. "You're ok," Karen said softly. "They took your wisdom teeth out." Plankton tries to piece together the fragments of his memory. He attempted to speak. "Ow?" he managed. Karen squeezed his hand. Plankton's head lolling slightly against the pillow. His mouth felt like a foreign landscape. Karen helped him sit up, the nurse getting gauze. "You're going to need to bite down," she said, handing him a piece of gauze. "It'll help with the bleeding." He pressed it to his mouth, the pressure sending a dull throb through his jaw. "Hold it there," the nurse instructed, her voice a gentle guide in his foggy world. "Keep the pressure steady. It'll help the bleeding to stop." Plankton nodded, his movements sluggish. The nurse handed Karen an ice pack. "This'll help," she said. "It's ok," she soothed. "You're all done. The hard part is over." Plankton nodded again, his brain still foggy from the remaining anesthesia. He looked around the recovery room, his gaze wondering. "Whath's thith?" Plankton pointed at a machine. Karen chuckled, the tension easing from her shoulders. "It's just monitoring you." He nodded, his eye still filled with wonder. He looked down at his hand, studying it as if it was the first time he'd seen it. "Thith...han," he said, his voice trailing off as he wiggled his fingers. "Yes, Plankton. That's your hand." He's mouth filled with gauze and drool slowly seeping out. "Karen?" he mumbles, his voice thick and groggy. "Wha's?" He points to instruments. "They're just tools the doctor used to help you," she explains gently. Plankton nods, his curiosity satisfied for the moment. His eye drift to the ceiling. "Why do the wight hab funny shapes?" Karen follows his gaze. "They're just patterns, Plankton. They help the ceiling look nice." He nods, the concept of aesthetics lost on him. The nurse returns to check his vitals. Plankton watches her with the same curiosity. "Whath thoze do?" He points to the stethoscope around her neck, his speech still slurred. The nurse chuckles. "It's how we listen to your heart." Plankton nodded, his gaze following as she placed the stethoscope on his chest. "Ca-- heaw it?" He asked, his curiosity unquenchable. "That's your heart beating." Plankton's eye grew even wider, the revelation a spark in the haze. "Wow," he whispered, his voice a mere breath. Karen watched his exploration with a mixture of amusement and affection. The nurse returned with discharge instructions, her words a blur to Plankton's still-numb mind. Karen took the papers. "Alright, let's get you ready to go home," she said, helping him to stand. Karen's firm grip on his arm steadied him. Karen helped him into the car. The seatbelt was a puzzle he couldn't solve under the fog of the lingering drugs, but Karen buckles him in before driving out of the parking lot. "Loog ath the treeth," Plankton mumbled. "They're waving hewwo," he said with a sleepy smile. Karen glanced over, her own smile growing. "Yes, sweetheart. They're saying hello." Plankton's gaze shifted to the mirror in the car. He blinked at his reflection, the gauze sticking out of his mouth. "Who thad?" He pointed at his reflection. Karen chuckled. "That's you, with a little extra padding." Plankton nodded, his thoughts a slow river in his sluggish mind. "Thith car...it moveths," he murmured. Karen chuckled. "Yes, dear, it's a car. It takes us places." "Wook ath the clowds," he whispered, his voice slurred. "Thath one...loks wike a...," "It's a cloud," Karen said, smiling at his childlike wonder. "It's just water vapor that looks like something we see in our imaginations." Plankton nodded, his eye drooping. The motion of the car and the gentle hum of the engine lulled him into a doze. His head nodded forward before snapping back up again. "Tired?" Karen asked. "Mm-hmm." His head lolled back against the headrest, his eye slipping shut. The car's AC whispered a gentle lullaby, the cool air playing with the strands of Plankton's antennae. His chest rose and fell in time with the rhythm of the engine, each breath a soft snore. They arrived home. Plankton stirred, his eye blinking open. Karen helped Plankton out of the car. She held him close, his weight a comforting reminder of his presence. Spot, the amoeba puppy, bounded over, his gelatinous body shifting shapes with excitement. "Spoth," Plankton mumbled. The puppy leapedfrogged over, his form morphing into a blur of happiness. Plankton's eye lit up. Plankton reached for Spot with a clumsy hand, his coordination still muddled. Spot nudged his palm with his squishy nose. "Wook, Spoth," Plankton slurred, his eye wide with childlike wonder. "I hav- a booboo." Spot nudges him. Plankton giggled. "Easy, Plankton," Karen cautioned, her voice a gentle reminder of his fragile state. Spot's eyes widened in surprise, his little body shivering with joy. He wriggled closer, his gelatinous tail whipping back and forth in a blur of excitement. Plankton laughed. They made their way to the couch, Plankton's steps uncertain, each movement accompanied by a little giggle. Spot followed. Plankton flopped onto the cushions, his body a limp noodle. Spot jumped up beside him. Plankton leaned onto by Spot, his head lolling. The puppy's a comfort. Plankton's eye grew heavy, the weight of his eyelid too much for his sluggish body to bear, his body going slack. "Rest," Karen said, kneeling beside him. "You've been through a lot today." His hand remained on Spot, the puppy a comforting presence. Plankton's breaths grew steady, his snores once again filling the room. Karen watched him sleep, his chest rising and falling beneath Spot's gentle weight. The house was quiet, the only sound the occasional snort from Plankton's nostrils. He slept all night, only waking up the next morning. Plankton awoke with a start, his mouth wet with drool, his eye focusing slowly. The gauze was still damp from the night's excess saliva. He sat up. "Wha..." Plankton looked around, the room spinning slightly. The couch was his bed, Spot his blanket. He reached up to his mouth, the gauze still in place, the taste of cotton in his mouth. The memory of the surgery was distant. Karen's face swam into view, her smile a warm sunrise. "How are you feeling?" she asked, her voice a gentle caress. Plankton's eye searched his mind, looking for the missing pieces. "I don't... member coming hone," he mumbled, the words slurred. Karen nodded, her smile soft. "You fell asleep in the car, sweetie. I brought you home." But any details were lost, a foggy dream slipping away with each passing moment. "Thish mouth," he said, his tongue probing the empty sockets. The pain was a dull ache, a reminder of his body's battle. Karen handed him a glass of water. "Thank you," he murmured. "You're not supposed to eat solids today," she reminded him, placing a bowl of soup on the coffee table. "But I made some nice, soft scrambled eggs and toast for you to chew." Spot's eyes glued to his owner, his tail wagging. Plankton's jaw felt like it was made of rubber, but the food was a heavenly comfort. Karen sat beside him, her screen never leaving his face, watching for any sign of discomfort. "It'th okay," he assured her, his speech still slurred. He took another bite, his mouth working carefully. The taste was muted, a distant memory of what food used to be. Yet, the warmth and texture brought a sense of normalcy to the post-surgery haze.
SPOT AND THE JELLYFISH CIRCUS "Will it hurt?" Plankton asks. The dentist administer anesthesia. "There, might feel funny for a while you fall asleep." Plankton's mind started to wander conjuring random thoughts. "Karen, you think abou- opening a jellyfish circus?" he giggled, words slurred by anesthesia. Karen smiled. "Jellyfish juggling jellies and seahorse trapeze artists," he continued, eye twinkled with a child like wonder as he imagined. The dentist chuckled as he prepared. "I'm sure it'd be quite the show, Plankton," he said. "And hav- a sea cucumber clown car! They squish in and out, all fish laugh!" Plankton's giggles grew, speech slurring a jumble of words. "Oooh, look at the squid in the corner," he pointed with a wobbly hand. "It's playing the accordion with tentacles! It's so... squishy!" The anesthesia was working. "And the star of the show," Plankton announced dramatically, "would be a dolphin... riding a dolphin! They'd do flips and twirls and... and... and synchronized bubble blowing!" Karen'd never seen him like this before. "What's next?" Plankton's body grew limp, eye glazed over and his words became gentle, rhythmic mumble. "Oh, octopus tightrope walker," Plankton murmured, eyelid growing heavier. "Wearing a top hat... and... hat!" His voice faded to a soft chuckle. Karen kissed Plankton's forehead."I'm here." The nurse leaned closer, voice hushed. "It's almost time for the extraction," she said. "You'll be feeling sleepy." Plankton nods, eye half-closed as anesthesia tightened grip. The world grew fuzzier, distant, muffled by thick blanket of sedation enveloped. "Don't forget clownfish," he mumbled now barely coherent. "They'd juggle... jellyfish... jellyfish... jellyfish... jellyfish..." "Plankton, you're gonna start falling asleep," Plankton nodded, eye fully closed. "Jellyfish... juggling... so... beautiful." His voice was distant whisper. "Don't worry," Karen assured, her hand stroking his as his mind drifted further into the abyss of anesthesia. "And the... the... jellyfish... they're... Why's everyth-ing... so... slow?" Plankton's words trailed off in to gentle snore as his mind succumbed to the anesthesia's embrace. He stilled, breathing now deep and even. The nurse checked monitors, nodding in satisfaction. "He's out. Let's get started." Plankton's snores grew deeper. His chest rose and fell, dreamless sleep continued, uninterrupted, blissfully unaware of extraction, his mouth slightly open as gentle sounds of his snoring filled the room. The once-trembling now lay still against his chair. Whence surgery complete, the nurse dabbed Plankton's mouth with putting gauze the extraction sites. The anesthesia done its job, leaving him completely unaware of the procedure. The dentist sutured gum, swift and precise. "He'll be out for another twenty minutes or so," the dentist said, placing the last stitch with a gentle precision. "The anesthesia wear off gradually." Karen nodded, hand still in Plankton's. "Thank you, Doctor," she said. "He's going to be just fine," he assured her, smile warm comforting. "He'll be back to his usual self though you can expect him to still be under lingering influence of anesthesia, as he may act funny for today." Karen nodded, unable to resist press another gentle kiss to Plankton's forehead. "Thank you," she whispered. Karen took the opportunity. "Hey, Plankton," she called softly, her voice a gentle lilt. "Wake up, sweetie. It's all done." Plankton's antennae twitched slightly. "C'mon, Plankton," Karen cooed. "Time to wake. Spot is waiting for you back at the Chum Bucket." Plankton stirred, snores morphing. "Spot... jellyfish... circus... Amoeba puppy... circus...?" "That's right, first, you need to wake. Can you for me?" "Jellyfish... juggling... so... sleepy," he murmured. Karen watched closer. Plankton's snores grew quieter. "Jug...gling... jellyfish... Spot?" His voice was a faint rumble. His eye fluttered open, revealing a dazed look as he finally woke. "Wha... whath 'appen?" "Your wisdom teeth came out, Plankton," she said. "You been sleeping through. You had quite the dream coming out of it, it seems," she said, her voice filled with affectionate amusement. Plankton blinked, circus slowly fading from his mind. He looked around coming back. "Jellyfish... circus?" he mumbled, voice thick with remnants of anesthesia. Karen chuckled and squeezed his hand. "You were talking about it," she said with mirth. "It was quite the show." Plankton tried to sit up. "Easy now," she said. "Take it slow. You might feel woozy." With the doctor's nod, Karen helped Plankton up, arm supporting his wobbly frame. As they left, he leaned heavily on Karen as they made their way to the car. Once in the passenger seat, Plankton leaned back, eye fluttering. "Jellyfish circus..." he mumbled to himself, slurred and faint. Karen's pulling out of the parking lot. Plankton's eyelid grew heavier, the gentle sway of the car lulling him in and out of sleep. "Jellyfish... so... floaty," he mumbled. "And the... the sea cucumber car... it squished." "Still thinking about your circus, huh?" Karen said, glancing. Plankton's eye remained closed. "Mmhmm," he murmured. "The squid... playing... accordion... so... squishy. And starfish acrobats," he murmured, dreamy. "They'd spin... so fast... like... like... jellyfish... jellyfish..." His head lolled to the side, snoring interrupting the flow of his thoughts. "It's doing... it's doinā€™ the waltz... underwater... waltz... with jellyfish... so... so graceful." His voice grew softer with each word until it was a mere murmur, and then silence fell, broken only by the gentle sounds of his occasional snore. Karen glanced over at him. "I think you've had enough circus for today," she said. Plankton's snores grew more frequent. Karen's smile grew as she drove. The sight of her husband's twitching and his mouth moving in sleep was a peculiarly endearing sight. As they pulled into the Chum Bucket's parking lot, Plankton stirred. Karen helped him out of the car, his legs wobbly and unsteady as they made their way into their home. Spot, the amoeba puppy, oozed his way over, his single-celled body moving with surprising grace. He wagged his tiny gelatinous tail, his simple eyes lighting up with joy. Plankton's slurred words grew clearer as he saw Spot. "Hey ther- buddy," he mumbled, hand reaching out to pat the blob-like creature. "Jellyfish circus. Can you juggle?" Spot stared up at him. He didn't have tentacles but that didn't stop Plankton's imaginative ramblings. "You'd be the besht juggling in the whole circus." He leaned down to tickle the amoeba's blob-like body. "Wouldn't you, boy?" Spot oozed closer, his gelatinous body quivering in response to the attention. He looked up at Plankton seemingly understanding. "Let's get you to bed," Karen said, guiding him with a firm but gentle touch, Plankton still not fully under his control. "Look, Karen, the... the... jellyfish are... are... dancing!" His laugh was soft, sleepy chuckle. She helped him, propping his head up. Spot hopped onto the bed and curled up next to him, a comforting presence. "Now you stay put, and let those teeth heal." Plankton nodded, his eye already drifting shut again. "Jellyfish... circus... so... so... restful," he mumbled. Karen pulled the blankets up and kissed him on the forehead. "Sleep tight, sweetie," she whispered. Eventually, Plankton blinked his eye open. His mouth felt thick and strange, gauze a foreign presence. He looked around, his gaze landing on Spot, under his arm. "Wha... whath... happen'd?" Karen looked up. "You're awake," she said. "How do you feel?" He reached up to feel his mouth. "Don't," Karen warned gently, placing her hand on his. "You're ok, Plankton. You had wisdom teeth removed." He nodded, the memory of the jellyfish circus faded. "Thath... that was... was... today?" Drool pools at the corner of Plankton's mouth as he blinked groggily, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Karen nods. "Yes, it was," she said, voice soothing. "You've been out for a while. Do you remember anything?" Plankton's eye squinted as he tried to recall. "No," he murmured. "It's all... blurry. I remember being in the dentist's chair." He shifted his weight moving awkwardly as the gauze in his mouth made speaking difficult. "What... what after that?" "You talked about a jellyfish circus." Plankton's eye widened slightly. "Jellyfish... circus? Absurd!" he murmured, trying to remember attempt to pull memories from depths of subconscious. "I... don't remember that." Karen chuckled, her voice a gentle reminder of his delirious ramblings. Plankton slumped in embarrassment. "I... I must've been out of my mind," he said, his voice still thick with the aftermath. "But it was also kind of sweet seeing you relaxed and happy." "I... I don't even know whewe that came from," he murmured. "Hope no one else heard," he mumbled, his voice muffled by the gauze. "Do you need anything?" Karen asked. "Just... rest," Plankton murmured, eye shut again. Karen stood up and went to the kitchen, her mind racing with the rare glimpse into the whimsical side of the usually cunning and scheming Plankton. She grabbed a bowl of chum and a spoon, making sure it was soft enough for him to eat. When she returned, Plankton was still, chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of sleep. She set the bowl down on the nightstand and took a seat next to the bed, never leaving his face. The room was quiet, save for his occasional snore. Karen sat by the bedside, watching Plankton sleep. "Jellyfish circus," she murmured to herself, a smile playing. "Who knew you had such imagination..."
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PLANKTON GOING TO THE DENTIST Ii/Ii Plankton's eye dart around the room, trying to focus, confusion growing as the words won't come out right. "Th-th-the...th-the...th-th-th-th..." He stammers, his mouth working overtime to form the words. Karen's laughter subsides into a comforting chuckle. "It's ok, Plankton." "Th-th-then...why...why do I tawking wike thith?" He asks, voice a wobbly mess, each word a struggle. "I...I'm a g-g-genius!" He stammers, trying to sound defiant despite his speech impediment. "I'n noth s-s-suppothed to tawl wike thish!" Karen giggles. "It's just anesthesia, Plankton," she says soothingly. "It'll wear off soon." Plankton's eye widen further. "B-but...I nee, needff to...to think...think...think!" He stammers. "You'll be fine, Plankton," she says. The dentist pats Plankton's shoulder. "You're quite the charmer even with a mouthful of gauze," he quips, and the assistant snickers. Plankton's cheeks redden, indignation clear even through haze of anesthesia. "I caan...caan...can't...I caan't th-th-think!" Plankton splutters. Karen tries to stifle her giggles, shaking with amusement. "It's anesthesia," she repeats, her voice a gentle wave washing over him. "You're ok, Plankton. You're ok." He takes a deep breath, willing his tongue to cooperate. "G-got...it-t," he says. "Alright, Mr. Plankton, let's get you sitting up," he says. He tries to stand, but his body feels like it's made of jelly, his legs wobbling beneath him. "Whoa!" He exclaims, speech slightly clearer but still slurred. "Thish isn't goog." Karen and the dental staff help him to his feet, the nurse holding on to him as he sways slightly. His eye still glazed over, but there's a hint of the sharpness that she knows so well starting to shine through. "Steady there," she says supporting him. "Let's get to the car." Plankton nods. "Yeah...the...the...ca--" he says. He takes a shaky step. "Just keep taking it slow," she advises, her voice a beacon in the fog of his mind. Karen's supporting him as they navigate the hallway. "Where...wher's...wher's the...the...th-the...?" Plankton's words trip over each other, traitor to his usual eloquence. "The car, sweetie," Karen says, her voice a lifeline in the fog of anesthesia. She leads him through the hallway acting as a gentle guide. The receptionist waves with a smile. "Moth...thath...moth," he stammers. She fastens his seatbelt for him. "D-don't laug-fh at me," he mumbles, eye half-lidded with the lingering effects of anesthesia. "I'm not laughing at you," Karen says. "I'm just happy you're ok." Plankton nods. He tries to say "thanks," but it comes out as "thathks." "You're welcome, Plankton. You're going to be fine." She starts the engine. "Bh-buth...whath abou- the...the...th-the...the...teethies?" Plankton slurs, words a tangled mess. Karen laughs. "Don't worry about the teeth Plankton. They're out. You're all healed up." Plankton nods, his eye glazed and his speech still slurred. "Thath's...tha's good," he manages to say. "But I...I can't t-talk wight," he mumbles, frustrated. "Don't worry, honey," Karen says, patting his hand. "You're just a bit loopy from anesthesia. It'll wear off." Plankton tries to argue, but all that comes out is a series of garbled sounds. "Th-the...th-th-th..." "Your mouth is just numb, Plankton," Karen says, driving. "The anesthesia makes it hard to talk." But Plankton can't help it; he keeps trying, his slurred words a jumble of consonants. "Th-th-that's not ithā€™s," he protests, his voice bubbly. "I'm a g-g-gen-n-n...genius!" Karen giggles, gripping the steering wheel tightly. "You're a genius all right," she teases. Plankton's eye narrow in determination. "Th-that's not...noth fair!" He says, his tongue feeling like a thick sea slug. Karen can't help but laugh harder. "It's ok, Plankton," she says. "But I...I nee-f to...to...to th-th-think! I can't...can't th-think thish!" Karen's laughter bubbles up again and she squeezes his hand reassuringly. "You're ok, Plankton," she says, voice a warm current of comfort. "D-don't...d-don't leav-e me," he mumbles, his eye drooping. Karen glances over. "I'm right here, Plankton," she says. Plankton's head lolls to the side, and his snores become a soothing background to the hum of the boat's engine. His mouth hangs open, a stream of drool trailing down his chin, creating a small pool in the seat. Karen, noticing the gauze in his mouth has shifted, gently repositioned it, careful not to cause him any pain. He mumbles something incoherent, and she chuckles, shaking her head. "Rest my love," she murmurs. The drool continues to escape Plankton's mouth, creating a wet spot on the boat's upholstery, his slumbering form a stark contrast to the sharp scheming creature she's used to. She reaches over to gently dab at the drool, her movements careful not to disturb his sleep. As the boat docks at the Chum Bucket, Karen wonders how she'll manage to get him inside without him babbling incoherently and scaring off any passersby. But Plankton, in his anesthesia-induced haze, seems oblivious to the world around him, his snores the only sound. Karen helps him out of the boat, and she half-drags half-carries him through the door. They enter their living quarters and she gently lays him on their bed which feels like a vast ocean compared to his usual cramped lab space. She carefully takes out the gauze, watching his eye flutter open. "Where...where am I?" He mumbles. "You're home, Plankton," Karen says, her voice a soft wave of comfort. She wipes his chin clean with a warm, damp cloth. Plankton looks around, his eye finally focusing on the familiar sights of their home. "Home?" He slurs, his tongue thick and clumsy in his mouth. "B-but...I..." "Just rest, Plankton," Karen says, pushing him gently back down. "You've had a big day." Home never felt so welcoming, Plankton thinks, as he sinks into the embrace of the bed. Karen fluffs a pillow under his head, her movements tender. "Th-thank youw," he manages to say, his speech still thick. "You're welcome," Karen replies, her voice a gentle caress. "Now, you just rest. I'll be here." He closes his eye, letting the numbness of his mouth and the heaviness of his limbs take over. Karen sits beside him, moving in a soothing rhythm against his arm. "You're going to be fine," Karen whispers, stroking his cheek. "Just sleep it off and by tomorrow you'll be back to your usual scheming self." Plankton tries to smile but his mouth refuses to cooperate. The corners of his mouth twitch upwards in a half-hearted attempt and he mumbles "I wove youw thoo." The next day, Plankton wakes up. The numbness in his mouth has subsided leaving only a dull throb. He opens his eye to see Karen. "How do you feel?" She asks. Plankton's eye blinked open, the room spinning around him. Karen came into focus. "Mmph; wha's? Wh-when..." "Your wisdom teeth," she says, her voice a soothing tide. "They're gone Plankton. You don't have to worry about them anymore." "Wis-wis-wis...?" He stammers, his tongue tripping over the word "wisdom." "Yes, Plankton," Karen says with amusement. "You had your wisdom teeth removed yesterday." Plankton's eye widen, and he tries to sit up. "Y-yesterday?" He slurs. "But I...I caan't...can't remember.." Karen nods, her smile full of mirth. "You were pretty out of it," she says. He tries to push himself up, but the pain in his mouth sends a shockwave through. "Mph-ow!" He flops back down, his hands flying to his cheeks. "What do you mean?" Karen laughs. "You were pretty loopy," she says, holding him down gently. "The anesthesia had you talking like..." she pauses, searching for the right words. "Well, like you've never talked before." "I hope I...I didn't say anything..." he starts, his voice trailing off. "Oh, you said plenty," she teases. "But don't worry, it was just the anesthesia talking." "Wh-wh-what did I say?" Karen chuckles. "You were worried about your 'teethies'," she mimics his slurred speech from the day before. "And you kept insisting you needed to think, even when it was clear you couldn't even talk straight. But don't worry; you're just fine."
They found themselves in the bustling lobby of the ocean's most renowned medical center, the Coral Reef Clinic. "You'll be fine," Karen assured, voice steady. "They're the best in the sea." Finally, a nurse called. She gave an encouraging smile. "I'll be right here. You're not in this alone." The doctor examined Plankton's throat. "My Plankton," he said, "you need a tonsillectomy." A tonsillectomy? The thought of surgery was more terrifying than facing SpongeBob and Patrick combined. But he nodded. "Okay," he whispered. The doctor explained the procedure Plankton nodded along. Karen listened intently. The doctor assured them it was a common procedure and that Plankton would be in good hands. Karen packed a bag with his favorite blanket and a few snacks, trying to keep her own anxiety in check. "Ready?" she asked, voice filled with forced cheerfulness. Plankton took a breath and nodded. Karen gave him a reassuring smile, and together they set off for the clinic. Once they arrived, Plankton was immediately whisked to a pre-op room. The nurse explained the process again. Karen stayed by his side, in silent support. The anesthetic began, and the world grew fuzzy around the edges. The last thing Plankton heard was the doctor's calming voice. "You're going to be just fine, Plankton. We'll take good care of you." Then, everything went dark. When he woke up, the world was a whirl. His throat felt as though someone had stuffed it with seaweed. He tried to sit up, but his body felt like it was made of jelly. Plankton blinked slowly, struggling to focus. Karen chuckled softly. "That's the anesthesia, Plankton. It'll wear off soon." The nurse adjusted his pillows and offered him water. The cool liquid trickled down his throat, soothing. Plankton took a moment to settle before speaking again. "Did it...did it work?" "They got 'em out, Plankton. Your tonsils are no more." Plankton's eye widened. "Really?" Karen nodded again, smile growing. "Yes, really. You're on the mend now." Plankton's eye searched the room, still cloudy from the anesthesia. He spotted his favorite blanket folded neatly at the hospital bed. "Did you bring that?" he asked, voice slurred. "Of course," Karen said, her tone warm and soothing. "I knew it would make you feel better." The nurse, noticing his confusion, leaned in closer. "The anesthesia can make you feel a bit loopy for a while, it's completely normal." Plankton nodded, his movements slow and deliberate. "So, these are the... used to...to take them out?" Karen nodded, trying not to smile at his bewildered state. "They're just tools, Plankton. You won't remember anything. It's all over now." He blinked again, his eyelid feeling heavier than ever. "But...but how will I eat?" he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. "Don't worry," Karen said, stroking his forehead gently. "They'll start you on a soft diet, like algae smoothies." Plankton's eye drooped, a lazy grin spread across his face. "Algae...smoothies? Sounds...sounds delightful." His words trailed off, his eyelid grew heavy. Karen watched as he drifted to sleep. Despite his usual scheming ways, she knew he was good at heart. And she was determined to be there for him, every step of the way. As he slept, she took his hand in hers, gently stroking his arm. The nurse gave her a knowing look. "He'll be out for a few hours," she said softly. "Why don't you go get some fresh air?" Karen nodded, giving Plankton's hand a final squeeze before letting go. She made her way to the waiting area, thoughts swirling like the currents outside. The surgery had been a success, but the road to recovery would be a long one. She hoped he'd be ok. Plankton was still sleeping, breathing even. She looked over at him, his tiny form swaddled in the blanket. The room was quiet, save for the occasional beep of the heart monitor and the distant sound of water gently lapping against the shore. Karen leaned over and whispered, "Plankton, can you hear me?" He stirred slightly, eye fluttering open. "Karen?" croaked his voice barely audible. "I'm here. How do you feel?" Plankton's eye searched hers with a dull weariness. "Tired," he murmured. "But...it's gone?" "Yes, gone. You're going to start feeling better." The nurse, noticing Plankton awake, came over to check on him. She adjusted the monitors and took his vitals, confirming that everything was as it should be. "Looks like you're all set to go home," she said with a smile. "But remember, take it easy for the next few days." Karen lit up at the news. She gathered things, eager to get Plankton out and back to the comfort of the cafe. The nurse helped him into a wheelchair, and they began the journey to the exit. Once outside, the sun begun its descent. Karen pushed the wheelchair slowly, not wanting to jar him too much on the cobblestone path leading to their underwater vehicle. Plankton squinted against the light, eye still adjusting. Their ride home was quiet, the hum of the engine lulling Plankton to a doze. When they pulled into the cafe's docking area, Plankton stirred, his eye blinking open. They reached the small living area, and Karen helped Plankton into his favorite chair, tucked his blanket around him, making sure he was comfortable. He looked up at her with a tired smile, his eye shimmering with gratitude. "Thank you, Karen," he whispered, voice hoarse from the surgery. "No need to thank me," she replied, fussing over him. "I'm just happy you're ok." Plankton's eye searched hers, confusion swirling. "But...what happened?" "You had your tonsillectomy, Plankton remember?" Plankton's eye searched hers, the confusion deepening. "No," he croaked. "The last thing I remember is...being in pain." Karen's heart squeezed at the distress in his voice. "You don't remember the surgery?" Plankton shook his head, his eye wide with shock. "No, it's all...fuzzy. What happened?" Karen took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. "Well, you went into surgery, and the doctors removed your tonsils. You've been asleep for a few hours." Plankton's eye grew wide. "Asleep?" he squeaked. "How could I have not known?" Karen nodded, stroking his arm gently. "It's the anesthesia.." Plankton's mind reeled, trying to piece together the events of the last few hours. Everything was a blur, a series of disjointed images and sounds that didn't quite make sense. He remembered the doctor's. But the surgery? It was as if it had never happened. He looked over at Karen. She had a smile on her face, as if she could read his thoughts. "You were out like a light," she said, voice soothing. "What's with the blanket?" "It's for your comfort," Karen said. "You're going to need to rest your voice." Plankton leaned back in the chair, eye drifting closed again. "I feel so...so peculiar," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Like I've been swimming in a sea of bubbles." Karen chuckled. "It's anesthesia," she said. "You're acting like you've had one too many jellyfish jams." "Everything's spinning," he slurred, his speech still not quite right. Karen couldn't help but laugh with amusement. "Plankton. It'll wear off soon enough." Plankton's eye grew wide, and he tried to sit up, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. "Karen, I think...I think I'm floating," he said with wonder. Karen couldn't help but laugh. "You're not floating, Plankton. You're just still a bit out of it from anesthesia." "I swear, I can feel the bubbles!" Plankton giggled, his eye trying to follow invisible orbs floating in the air. His movements grew more exaggerated. "Look, Karen I'm swimming!" "Plankton, you're not floating," she said, her voice a gentle tease. "You're safe and sound." He looked at her with a goofy grin, eye still glazed over. "But I feel so...so light," he said, his voice trailing off into a giggle. "Like I could float." Karen couldn't help but smile at his silliness. It was a stark contrast to the fear and anxiety that consumed him earlier. "You're not going anywhere, Plankton," she said. "You need rest." "It's just...it's all so weird," he murmured, eye drifting shut again. "You're just tired," Karen said, her voice soothing. "Why don't you take a little nap?" Without another word, Plankton's eye slid shut, body slack. Karen watched him, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. She knew for now, he was at peace. Karen pulled the blanket up to his chin. She didn't want to leave his side. As hours passed, Plankton's snores grew softer. The sun sank below the horizon. Karen felt tension ease as she watched him sleep. When Plankton finally stirred again, the room was bathed in the soft glow of the moon through the windows. His eye blinked open, free of the anesthesia's haze. He looked around, his gaze settling on Karen. "Where...where am I?" Karen sat up. "You're home, Plankton," she said, voice gentle. "You had your tonsillectomy today." Confusion swam in Plankton's eye as he took in his surroundings. He felt a dull ache in his throat, a stark reminder of the day's events. "Home?" he croaked. Karen nodded. "You've been sleeping for a while," she said, her voice a gentle caress. "How do you feel?" "Thirsty," he managed to croak. Karen was at his side. She held a glass of water to his mouth, and he took a tentative sip. The cool liquid soothed his throat, and he sighed with relief. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice quiet. "What...what happened?" "You had your tonsillectomy," Karen reminded him, her tone soothing. "You're going to be ok." Plankton nodded, the reality of the situation slowly sinking in. The fear replaced by a new sensation: relief. į“”į“Ź€į“… į“„į“į“œÉ“į“›: šŸ·,šŸ¼šŸøšŸ·
PLANKTON GOING TO THE DENTIST i/Ii "You say you've tenderness in the back of..." "Aw!" Plankton interrupts, as the dentist examines his mouth. "I see your wisdom teeth haven't erupted yet, Mr. Plankton; luckily we can remove them today, if you've a ride home.." "My wife Karen's in the waiting room area, she drove me here." The surgery room is sterile and white, smelling faintly of disinfectant. Plankton's heart races as he sits in the chair, his tiny legs dangling over the edge. The large, looming figures of the dentist and the assistant hover around him, their faces obscured by masks and hats. They guide Karen to a small chair by the wall. "We're going to numb the area," the dentist explains in a soothing voice. "But since you're a bit nervous, we can also offer some to help you relax into sleep before so, not to mention teeth haven't even broke the surface of the gums yet." Plankton nods, gripping the arms of the chair. The dentist administers anesthesia. His grip relaxes. "Just breathe," the dentist instructs. "It'll be over before you know it." Plankton's eye grow heavier as the sedative takes hold. "It's time, Mr. Plankton," the dentist's voice echoes fading into the background like whispers in a distant tide. The chair reclines and he surrenders to dreamless sleep, eyelid shutting. Karen watches, clutching the chair's arm rest. She sees the mask of anesthesia descend over Plankton's face, his breaths slowing to a gentle sigh, matching the rhythm of the sea breeze outside. The assistant's gloved hands move with precision, placing a pillow securing him. Plankton's snores, a gentle rumble, give her some comfort, a sign that he's not in pain. The dentist inserts numbing agents into Plankton's gums. While Plankton remains oblivious to the world, Karen's watching. "Everything's going fine," he assures her. "You can hold his hand if you'd like." Plankton's sleeping mouth is a stark contrast to the towering world around him. Karen follows the steady movements of the dentist's hands, the syringe filled with anesthetic seemingly as large as a harpoon in the sea of Plankton's features. The assistant nods in approval, their expression hidden but the confidence in their stance reassuring. The surgical tools glint in the light reflecting the seriousness of the task at hand. Karen can see the reflection of her own tension in the chrome surfaces, but she forces a smile, trying to be brave for Plankton. It's a gentle gesture, a silent promise that she's there, that she's watching over him. The extraction begins. Karen flinches but Plankton doesn't stir. The dentist's movements are swift and precise, each action deliberate. Karen tries watching her husband's chest rise and fall with the steady rhythm of sleep. The assistant wipes some drool from Plankton's chin with a gentle cloth and Karen suppresses a smile, despite the bleeding. Her little Plankton, so fierce and cunning in his usual world, now so vulnerable. The assistant occasionally looks over to her, offering a reassuring nod as if to say, "Don't worry, he's doing great." The room falls into a quiet rhythm: the steady pulse of the ocean outside, the occasional murmur from the staff, and the soft hiss of the suction tool removing excess saliva. Plankton's snores become more peaceful, his body relaxing as the surgery progresses. Karen watches the blood ooze from the small sockets where the teeth used to be. The assistant quickly places gauze, pressing it down with firm yet gentle fingers, and the bleeding slows. The dentist nods, a job well done, and begins to stitch the wounds with a finesse that belies his size. The dentist starts to stitch up Plankton's gums, the needle moving in and out. The dentist steps back, wiping his hands clean. "Everything went perfectly," he says. "We're just going to keep him asleep for a little while longer, let him rest." Karen nods. The assistant starts to cleanup. Karen's glued to the gauze in Plankton's mouth, now soaked a deep red. She watches as the crimson stain spreads through the fabric, the evidence of his pain and endurance. The room feels hot, the pressure of her concern thickening the water around them. The dentist's assistant notices her distress and offers a kind smile. "He'll be ok," she whispers. Ignoring the instructions to remain silent, Karen leans in closer, reaching out to caress Plankton's cheek. "You're doing great, honey," she whispers, though she knows he can't hear. "You're so brave." She whispers to him again, her voice a soothing melody that fills the otherwise sterile space. "You're going to wake up soon, and it will all be over," Karen tells. The room seems to hold its breath. Karen can feel the gentle tug of Plankton's hand in hers, a silent response to her comforting words. She watches the slow rise and fall of his chest. "You won't remember this, Plankton," she whispers, "but I will. I'll remember how brave you are, even when you don't know it. You know how you always say size doesn't matter?" she says. "Well, I'm here to tell you that even when you're asleep and can't hear, you're still the biggest in my heart. You've got this, Plankton," she whispers. "You're going to wake up, and it'll all be over. And when you do, we'll go back to the Chum Bucket, and you can tell me all about your latest scheme. And I'll smile, and laugh, and pretend to be surprised, just like I always do." The dentist checks Plankton's vital signs and nods to the nurse, who starts to prepare him for waking. "The sedative will wear off soon," Karen tells him, voice low and soothing. "But for now, just rest, my love." She squeezes his hand gently. The assistant nods in agreement and begins to prepare the room for Plankton's recovery. Karen's watching as the sedatives keep him blissfully unaware of the world around him, his mouth slightly open and drooling in to the gauze and down his chin. The sight is both heartbreaking and comforting, a strange mix of vulnerability and strength. She finds herself lost in the rhythm of his breaths, the only sign of life in the otherwise quiet surgery room. The gauze in Plankton's mouth is only a hint of pink. The nurse enters with a gentle smile. "We're going to start bringing him around now," she says. Plankton's snores become less deep. "You did so well, Plankton," Karen says, stroking his forehead. "You're almost done." As the anesthesia begins to wear off, Plankton's eye flicker open but unfocused, lost in a world between sleep and wakefulness. "Hey Plankton," Karen says, her voice a warm embrace. "You're all done. You were so brave." "Mmf," he murmurs. "Whath's 'ppening?" The dentist chuckles lightly. "Just anesthetics wearing off, Mr. Plankton. Your mouth might be a bit numb." Plankton's eye widen, and he tries to speak again, but all that comes out is a series of unintelligible sounds. "Mmph...whath...whath's?" he stammers, voice muffled by the gauze. Karen laughs gently. "Your numb, sweetie," she explains with care. "You're slurring your words a bit." Plankton tries to speak again, his voice still a garbled mess. "Bh-but...my...my...moth," he mumbles. "You're just a bit sleepy," Karen giggles, reaching to gently wipe the drool from his chin. The sight of her husband, normally so sharp and scheming, now reduced to a blubbering mess.
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AUTISM IN THE PLANKTON FAMILY i (Autistic author) Karen's husband, Plankton, was arguing with Mr. Krabs as usual. They've had their fair share of disputes over the years, but this one seemed to be escalating fast. Without warning, Mr. Krabs swung the stove from his kitchen with all his might. It connected with a sickening thud against Plankton's head. Karen gasped as her husband crumpled to the ground. Plankton's eye had rolled back and closed, his body going still as Mr. Krabs left back. Karen knelt beside Plankton and gently tapped his cheek. "Wake up," she murmured, voice trembling. No response. She tried again, her voice a little louder. "Honey, can you hear me?" Plankton's eye remained closed, his antennae limp. Panic began to creep in. Her mind raced with possibilities, each more frightening than the last. What if his tiny brain had been damaged? What if he was in a coma? What if he never woke up? She cradled his minuscule form. The room grew silent as the gravity of the situation sank in, willing Plankton to stir. A tear trickled down her screen. Karen felt for a pulse. It was there, faint but steady. She let out a sigh of relief and picked his tiny body up, cradling him carefully. "I've got to get him to a doctor," she thought. She held Plankton's hand as they performed a brain scan. Karen sat by her husband's side as the machines around Plankton beeped and whirred. The sterile smell of the hospital filled, and the cold white walls seemed to press in around them. Plankton's lying still on the hospital bed. A thick bandage was wrapped around his head, and various tubes connected him to monitors that displayed a symphony of lines and numbers, none of which meant anything to her. She squeezed his hand gently, willing him to wake up. The doctor walked into the room, his lab coat fluttering slightly as he moved. He held a clipboard carefully in his tentacles, studying the information with a furrowed brow. "Mrs. Plankton," he began, his voice soft, "We've finished scans. The good news is that it's not life- threatening. However, we've noticed some sustained atypical brain activity." Karen's eyes widened. "What does that mean?" she asked, her grip on Plankton's hand tightening. The doctor sighed, his expression sympathetic. "Autism. His behavior may change. He might become more focused on his routines, have difficulty with social interactions, and exhibit sensory sensitivity. It's permanent, and no cure. We expect him to wake up soon. We'll ask him some questions to assess and then you can take him home." Karen felt her heart drop. She knew about autism, had read about it in magazines, but never thought it would affect her own family. The doctor left the room, and she was alone with her thoughts, watching Plankton's chest rise and fall as they remove the bandage. The hours ticked by in agonizing slowness as she sat there, praying for him to wake up. The only sounds were the rhythmic beeping of the monitors and the occasional muffled conversations from the hallway. Finally, Plankton's eyelid fluttered. He groaned softly, and his hand twitched in hers. Karen leaned in, hope surging through her. "Plankton?" she whispered, her voice thick with emotion as she smiled through her tears. "I'm here," she said, voice shaky. "You're in the hospital, but you're ok." Plankton's eye opened, squinting in the bright lights. He looked around the room, confusion etched on his tiny face. Slowly, his gaze landed on Karen. "What happened?" he croaked, his voice weak. "Mr. Krabs hit you with a stove," Karen explained, her voice a mix of relief and sadness. "They diagnosed you with acquired Autism." The doctor approached with a gentle nod. "Plankton, can you tell me your name?" he asked, ready to jot down notes. Plankton's eye searched the room, finally settling on Karen. "Sheldon Jay Plankton." Karen's grip on his hand tightened offering silent encouragement. The doctor nodded and proceeded with questions. "Tell me when you're born?" "July 31, 1999 10:16.08 am ET!" Karen felt a twinge of pride at her husband's precise answer. The doctor nodded, scribbling something on his clipboard. "Tell me more about yourself.." "More about yourself." Plankton echoed. The doctor's offering a gentle smile. "Echolalia. It's a trait that's common in individuals with autism. It can help him process information. Well Plankton has no need for therapy, yet you may want to adjust your daily lives to accommodate. You're free to go!" The drive back to the Chum Bucket was silent, the weight of the diagnosis pressing down on Karen's shoulders. He was quiet too, his eye fixed on the passing scenery. He didn't seem to notice the difference in himself, but Karen knew their lives were changed. Once home, Karen helped Plankton into his favorite chair, surrounded by his inventions and gadgets. The room was a mess, but it was his sanctuary, and she didn't want to disturb it. He seemed more at ease, his eye flicking from one object to another with a sense of familiarity. Would Plankton be the same? Would he still laugh at her jokes, or get angry at the Krabby Patty secret formula? Plankton remained silent, his gaze still locked on his surroundings. Karen felt a pang of worry. Would his obsessive nature become more pronounced? "It's getting late, Plankton." Karen's voice was soft as she guided him to their bedroom. He followed without protest, his movements mechanical. She helped him into bed, pulling the blankets up to his chin with a gentle tuck. Plankton lay there, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts a swirl of confusion. "Do you need anything?" she asked, her voice a gentle hum in the quiet room. "Stay, Karen stay." He says. Karen nodded, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. "Of course, I'll stay," she assured him, trying to keep her voice steady. She took his hand again, feeling the warmth of his palm against hers. She didn't know what the future held, but she knew she'd be by his side. As Plankton's breathing evened out into the rhythm of sleep, Karen sat there, watching him. She noticed how his grip on her hand had loosened, but didn't dare move. The next day, Karen woke before Plankton did. She hovered over him, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. How was she going to wake him up without startling him? She knew that sudden noises could be overwhelming for him now. Karen took a different approach. She stroked his arm with a feather-light touch. His eye brow flinched. Next, she tried speaking his name, starting with a whisper and gradually getting louder. "Plankton," she called, "It's time to wake up." His eyelid twitched, and he blinked his eye open. He looked around. "Karen?" he asked. She nodded with a smile. "Good morning, honey," she said softly. "How are you feeling?" Plankton sat up slowly, his antennae twitching as he took in his surroundings. "Different," he murmured, rubbing his temple. "We're home, Plankton. Remember what happened?" He nodded, his eye glazed over for a moment. "Krabs. The stove." "Yes, but you're ok now," Karen reassured, stroking his cheek with her finger. Plankton nodded again, his antennae twitching nervously. Karen noticed that his movements were more deliberate, his gaze more intense. She decided to keep things simple to avoid overwhelming him with too much information at once. "Let's get breakfast," she suggested. Plankton followed her into the kitchen, his steps slower than usual. The clanking of pans and the sizzle of oil had always been a familiar symphony in their home, but today it felt alien, like a disturbance to his newly heightened senses. Karen moved around the kitchen with precision, keeping the noises to a minimum. As she prepared their meal, Plankton stood by the counter, his gaze fixed. "Breakfast is ready," she said, sliding a plate of chum flapjacks in front of him. The smell usually brought him joy, but today it was overwhelming. Plankton took a step back. Karen's smile faltered, realizing she would have to adjust their meals. "Would you like something else?" she asked, her voice a soothing melody. Plankton nodded, his gaze not leaving the plate. "Different," he whispered. Karen knew she had to find foods that wouldn't overstimulate. She placed the flapjacks aside and found a jar of pureed peas and plain yogurt. She hoped the blandness would be more soothing. Plankton's antennae twitched as he came closer. He stared at the bowl intently, then took a tentative spoonful. The texture was soothing, and the color was calming. He ate slowly, each bite measured and deliberate. Karen watched him with love and concern. She wanted to ask if he liked it, but she knew better than to interrupt his focus. Once Plankton had finished, he looked up at her with a hint of a smile. "Good," he said. It was the closest thing to praise she had heard from him since the incident. Karen cleared the table, her mind racing with questions about what the future held. How would Plankton's new autism affect their daily lives? "Now what would you like to do, Plankton?" She asks. He looks at her. "Read." The old spark seems to flicker back to life, albeit with a different intensity. Karen nods, leading him back to his lab. The room is a mess of wires and gadgets, but Plankton moves through it with purpose. He selects a book from the shelf, a manual on quantum physics that had been collecting dust. His gaze flits over the pages, absorbing the information with fervor. Karen watches him from a distance. This was her Plankton, but also new. His obsession with the Krabby Patty formula had always been intense, but now his focus was lasered in on the book, his mind racing through equations and theories. The room was silent except for the soft rustle of pages turning. Plankton didn't look up from his book, lost in a world of science and theories. Karen knew she had to let him be, to find his new normal.
"I've never understood why they call it a 'morning routine'," Karen mumbled to herself. The clock glared: 5:47 AM. The house was silent, aside occasional tick of the wall clock. Plankton, her companion, was still snoring away upstairs. Karen sighed. Plankton had fallen asleep on the couch. Again. Karen had been Plankton's personal assistant, and she had grown accustomed to his erratic sleep patterns. Her processors ticked methodically as she calculated the best way to wake him without causing disturbance. She had tried various tactics in the past: music, cup of tea, even a friendly message displayed on her screen. But today, she had a new idea. As she booted up the household systems, she decided to start subtle. The lights began to brighten gradually, mimicking the glow of a dawning sunrise. It was a feature Plankton had installed, yet never used. She watched him stir slightly on the couch, snoring subsided to a gentle wheeze. "Karen?" he mumbled groggily. "Yes, Plankton?" she responded, keeping her voice low. He mumbled something incoherent and rolled over, eye still closed. Karen's curiosity piqued. It wasn't often Plankton talked in his sleep. She leaned closer, digital eyes studying his face as he continued to murmur. "Krabby Patty... so... delicious... must... get... recipe," he slurred, voice trailing off into a snore. Karen's circuits buzzed. Plankton's subconscious was revealing something significant he had kept hidden from her. The Krabby Patty recipe was the holy grail of their world, the secret ingredient known only to Mr. Krabs. Plankton had spent life trying to steal it, and seemed his obsession had seeped into his dreams. She waited for more sleep-talk to come with anticipation. The room grew lighter as the sunrise simulation reached its peak. Plankton's snoring turned into gentle rhythmic breathing. "Closer... so close," he murmured. "The secret... right there... in... Krabs'... locker." Karen's mind raced. A clue! Plankton's dreams might just be key to unlocking the mystery. She quickly made a note and continued observation. The sunrise simulation had reached its zenith, the room was bathed in a soft, warm light that made Plankton's snores almost peaceful. "Hidden... behind... picture... of... his... mother," Plankton murmured, voice barely audible. Karen's processors whirred. The secret might actually be within their grasp. She wondered if Plankton stumbled upon something real in his sleep- induced ramblings. As Plankton's breathing grew even quieter, Karen gently nudged the couch with her robotic arm. "Plankton, wake up," she whispered. With a jolt, Plankton's eye snapped open. "Karen what's going on?" He rubbed his eye and took in the bright room. "Why is it so light?" "It's morning, Plankton," Karen replied. "And I believe you had quite the interesting dream." Plankton sat up, eye darting around the room. "The Krabby Patty recipe! Did I say something about it?" "You might have," Karen said coyly, her LED eyes gleaming. "Care to share your dream with me?" Plankton looked at her, his brain still fuzzy with sleep. "I don't remember much," his mind racing to piece together the fragments of his dream. "Just something about a locker and a portrait." Karen nodded. "Ah, yes. Your subconscious might have been onto something. Would you like me to make breakfast while you ponder your dream?" Plankton nodded, mind still swirling with hazy images from his sleep. "Coffee," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. "And something light." "Of course," Karen said, already knowing his preferred morning meal. She began preparing coffee and a plate of toast with jellyfish jam. While the water boiled and the toaster popped, she couldn't help but replay his words. The picture was a detail she hadn't expected. A place to start, a thread to pull at in their quest for the recipe. As the aroma of the brewing coffee filled the air, Plankton's eyelid grew heavy once more. He slumped back down onto the couch, mind still entangled in the web of his dream. "Just a few more minutes," he mumbled, his body succumbing to the call of sleep. Karen observed him with a mix of concern and intrigue. She knew the importance of rest, but she couldn't help feel a sense of urgency about the revelation from his dream. Plankton had always been so guarded about his Krabby Patty obsession, and now a potential lead. But as seconds ticked by and Plankton's breathing grew deeper, she realized curiosity would have to wait. She gently covered him with a blanket she had folded neatly over the arm of the couch. His snores grew louder. The sunrise simulation had run its course, and the room was now bathed in the soft light of early morning. Plankton's features relaxed into a peaceful expression, free from the worries that etched his face during waking hours. Karen felt a strange sense of pity for him, this tiny creature who had dedicated life to one all-consuming goal. She brought the coffee and toast over to the coffee table, placing them within arm's reach of Plankton. As she set the tray down, the smell of the freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air, but Plankton remained fast asleep. His hand twitched slightly, as if he were reaching for something in his dream. Karen studied his face, the lines of stress and determination that usually etched his features had smoothed out in sleep. His dream had been so vivid, and the mention of Mr. Krabs' locker and his mother's portrait was too specific to be coincidental. It was clear that Plankton's subconscious was trying to communicate something important. As the room grew brighter, the sunrise simulation fading into the background, Karen knew she had to act quickly. She gently placed a hand on Plankton's shoulder. "Plankton," she whispered, "I need you to remember your dream. It's important." He grunted and shifted under the blanket, but didn't wake. Karen knew to be careful. If she startled him too much, he might forget details. She tried a different approach. "You were dreaming about the Krabby Patty recipe," she said softly. "Can you tell me more?" "It was... in the locker," he murmured, his voice distant and dreamy. "Behind the picture of his mother." Karen's digital eyes widened. "Mr. Krabs' locker?" she prodded gently. "Yes... the secret... so close," Plankton mumbled, his hand moving in a grasping motion as if he were reaching for something in his sleep. Karen leaned in closer, her digital heart racing with excitement. "What did you find in the locker, Plankton?" she whispered, her voice a soft hum in the stillness of the room. Plankton's hand clenched into a fist, and he mumbled something unintelligible. She waited, her anticipation growing. Finally, his words grew clear. "The recipe... it's... in... a... safe." Karen's circuits sparked. A safe behind Mr. Krabs' mother's portrait? This was more than a mere hunchā€”it was a concrete lead. She needed to ensure Plankton didn't forget this vital piece of information when he awoke. "The safe," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "What did the combination look like?" "Three... numbers," he murmured, his voice trailing off again. "Three numbers," Karen echoed, mind racing. "Can you remember them?" Plankton's fingers twitched again, as if typing on an invisible keyboard. "Two... six... seven," he murmured, voice fading away. Karen lit up, capturing the sequence. "Two, six, seven," she repeated, committing the numbers to her digital memory. "Plankton, stay with me," she urged softly. "Is there anything else you can tell about the safe?" But Plankton was already lost to the world of slumber, his hand dropping to his side. The finality of his silence told her that the moment had passed, and wouldn't be sharing any more secrets from his dream. With a sigh, she stood up and returned to the kitchen, her mind racing with possibilities. A safe behind a portrait was a classic hiding spot, but it was the kind of classic that Mr. Krabs would never see coming. Karen poured the coffee in a mug and placed it on the tray, the steam rising up and curling in the early morning light. The scent was strong just how Plankton liked it. She hoped the aroma would coax him back to consciousness without jolting him too much. As she approached the couch, she heard him mumble something about "the perfect bun" and "special sauce." It was clear that his dream was still lingering in the periphery of his waking mind. This was her chance. "Plankton," she said, her voice gentle. "What else did you see in the locker?" He stirred, his eye still closed. "The... bun... it's... so... soft..." Karen leaned in closer, her digital heart thumping with excitement. "The bun, Plankton? What about it?" "It's... it's... part of the secret," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "The fluffiness... it's crucial." Karen's processors raced with the implications. Could it be that the Krabby Patty's allure was in the bun, not just the patty itself? The ingredients she had always seen Plankton focus on were the meat and the secret sauce. This was a revelation. "Fluffiness," she repeated, her digital mind filing away the word. "Can you tell me more about the bun?" But Plankton had already drifted too far into the depths of his slumber to respond. His breathing grew even and steady, his features relaxed once more. Karen let him rest, but she couldn't shake the feeling that the answer was so close she could almost taste it. Plankton's chest rose and fell in a rhythmic pattern, snores growing quieter as he descended to deeper slumber. Plankton's dream had provided a glimmer of hope, a potential shortcut in the quest for the Krabby Patty formula.
Go to shortscarystories r/shortscarystories 5 yr. ago Tatsuya- Last Messages -I love you mom -I can hear footsteps on the stairs I think heā€™s outside my room -I hear sirens but theyā€™re far away -Iā€™m hiding in the closet I hope he didnā€™t hear me -hang on I heard something downstairs -the cops are already here looking for him, theyā€™ll catch him -Donā€™t worry mom, Iā€™m SAFE, I love you. -The cops said heā€™s some escaped serial killer and heā€™s been breaking into homes around the area -Yes mom itā€™s on the news now. Ill keep my doors locked. ======================== Now read from back from the bottom to the top
"Honey, did you take out the trash?" Karen called out to the living room. The only reply was the distant sound of the TV playing a sitcom laugh track. She sighed. Going into the living room, Karen found her husband, Plankton, sprawled out on the couch, snoring lightly. The TV's blue light flickered over his face. She looked around the room, the piles of laundry, the dusty bookshelves, and the half-eaten sandwich on the coffee table. It was a mess, but she knew better than to wake him. Plankton had been working long hours at the chum factory lately, trying to make ends meet. His snoring grew louder, and she felt a wave of affection mixed with concern. Gently, she covered his legs with a blanket and bent to kiss his forehead. He stirred slightly but didn't wake up. In the kitchen, Karen grabbed a cup of coffee, the warmth and aroma grounding her for the evening ahead. The fridge hummed a low lullaby, reminding her of the chores left to do. The sink was full of dirty dishes, remnants of dinner. A pot with half-eaten chum congealed on the stovetop. Karen rolled up her sleeves, determined to tackle the chaos. She knew Plankton was exhausted from work. The clanking of pots and pans echoed through the tiny kitchen as she washed and sorted, her mind racing with thoughts of their future. A knock at the door startled her. She dried her hands on a towel, leaving wet spots like tears on the fabric. It was Hanna, her best friend since high school. Karen had not seen Hanna in weeks, and the sight of her brought a smile. Hanna was a burst of energy. "Hi, Karen! How's it going?" Hanna's voice was a mix of sweetness and the sharpness of someone who had seen too much of the world. She scanned the room, taking in the clutter, the stale smell of overworked air, and Plankton's snoring. "Hey, Hanna," Karen managed, her voice soft to not disturb his sleep. "It's been a bit hectic, but we're making do." Hanna stepped in, eyeing the mess sympathetically. "Looks like you could use a hand," she said, already grabbing a dish towel. Karen's smile grew. "You read my mind. Thanks." Hanna tossed the towel over her shoulder, ready to jump into the fray. "You know me," she said with a wink. "I've never been one to shy away from a mess." The two of them worked side by side, the rhythm of their movements harmonizing as they cleared the kitchen. Karen felt the tension in her shoulders begin to ease as Hanna filled the room with stories of her latest adventures, a welcome distraction from the monotony of chores. As the last plate was put away, the fridge closed with a satisfying click, Karen leaned against the counter. Hanna looked at her. "You've been carrying a lot, haven't you?" she asked, her voice gentle. Karen nodded, her eyes welling up. "It's just that with Plankton's job, and the bills..." Hanna pulled her into a tight hug. "I know, sweetie. You're doing the best you can." They sat down in the living room, the clean kitchen a testament to their friendship's strength. Hanna's screen searched Karen's for a sign of the spark that used to be there. "I can't remember the last time we went out together," Hanna said. "You two deserve a break." Karen's screen lit up at the suggestion, but quickly dimmed. "We can't afford it," she said, sighing. "Not with the overtime Plankton's been doing." Hanna leaned in, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Well, I might have a little surprise for you," she said. Karen looked up, curiosity piqued. "What do you mean?" Hanna pulled out a small envelope from her pocket and handed it to her friend. "A gift," she said with a sly smile. "A check from my winning lottery ticket." Karen's eyes widened as she opened the envelope. "Hanna, no!" she protested. "You can't just give us your winnings!" Hanna's smile didn't waver. "I can, and I want to. You've been there for me through everything. It's about time I returned the favor. Besides," she said with a wink, "what's a little chum between friends?" Karen's hands trembled as she read the check. It was more than enough to cover their rent and bills for several months. Tears slipped down her cheeks, and she hugged Hanna tightly. "Thank you," she whispered. The weight of financial stress lifted slightly from her shoulders, replaced by a warmth that spread through her chest. For a moment, the world didn't seem so overwhelming. Hanna pulled back, her own eyes shining with unshed tears. "Now, don't spend it all in one place," she teased. Karen laughed, the sound small but genuine. "I won't," she promised, the check clutched in her hand. "We'll use it wisely." The two of them sat quietly for a while, enjoying the rare moment of peace. The TV had switched to the news, and the low murmur of the anchor's voice filled the room. Plankton's snoring had become a comforting white noise. Hanna looked at Plankton, her expression thoughtful. "You know, I've always admired the way you take care of him," she said. "It can't be easy." Karen nodded, her thumb tracing the edges of the check. "It's not," she admitted. "But he's my Plankton. I love him, even when he's exhausting." Her gaze drifted to the sleeping form of her husband. Plankton's snores grew more even, his face finally relaxed. The lines of stress that usually pinched his features had smoothed out in sleep. Karen knew that Plankton had always dreamed of more than his life at the chum factory could offer. He was a man of ambition, his spirit too large for the cramped quarters they called home. Her thoughts turned to the gift from Hanna. The check represented more than just money; it was a beacon of hope that maybe, just maybe, they could finally start working towards those dreams.
CONSOLE TONSIL i The anesthesiologist came in. Plankton looked at Karen for assurance. She managed a smile and a nod. "I'll be here," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "I won't leave your side." Plankton nodded, his eye never leaving hers as the anesthesiologist began to prepare the equipment. The anesthetic took hold as Plankton's mouth was propped open. His eye grew heavy, his eyelid drooped. "It's ok," she whispered, stroking his arm. "You're doing great." The room grew quiet, save for the rhythmic beeping of the monitors. Plankton's breathing grew more regular, and the tension in his hand slowly released. "Just rest going to sleep now," she whispered. "I'm right here." His head lolled to the side and his grip on her hand went slack, and he was asleep as his eye went back in is socket, eyelid closing. She leaned over and kissed his forehead, whispering, "I love you." After surgery, Plankton's snore brought a smile to Karen's face, his mouth hung slightly open. Karen leaned closer, stroking Plankton's arm with her thumb. "Hey, Plankton," she murmured. "You made it through. You're going to be fine now." His snores grew quieter. "Remember the ice cream I promised you?" To her surprise, snores morphed into muffled words. "Ice...cream...Karen...love." "It's called somniloquism. Sometimes patients talk in their sleep as they're coming out of anesthesia. It's normal to mumble a bit after surgery, and it's also a sign they're coming around." Says the nurse. Karen nodded, feeling a mix of relief and amusement. She leaned closer, her hand wrapping around his. "You can have all the ice cream you want when you wake up," she said, her voice filled with warmth. The nurse checked his vitals, nodded in approval, and gave Karen a thumbs-up. "He's going to be ok," she said with a reassuring smile. "The surgery went well, and he's responding nicely to the anesthesia." Plankton's snores grew more regular, and his hand began to twitch slightly in her grasp. "You're ok. The surgery went well." Karen says. It was as if he was trying to respond, to squeeze her hand in agreement. "You're going to wake up, and we're going to get you the biggest ice cream sundae you've ever seen." Plankton's eyebrow began to twitch, and she leaned in closer. ā€œThatā€™s it..ā€ He opens his eye. ā€œKaren..ā€ The nurse had assured her that his brain was just trying to make sense of the world as it woke up from the deep slumber of anesthesia. ā€œYouā€™re finished with tonsillectomy!ā€ His speech was slurred and nonsensical. "Blabber...wha...wha...waffle?" Karen couldn't help but chuckle. The nurse stifled a laugh. "It's common for patients to have a bit of confusion post-op. It'll wear off soon. The nonsense talk is just his brain trying to piece things together." "Do you remember what happened?" Karen asked gently. Plankton's expression grew thoughtful for a moment, then he nodded. "Owies," he said, pointing to his throat. As the moments passed, Plankton's questions grew more frequent, each one a little slice of wonder. "Why is the floor so shiny?" "What makes the lights go?" "Can I have more ice cream?" Karen answered each one with patience and love, enjoying the simplicity of his curiosity. They arrived home, the ride a blur of instructions from the hospital and Plankton's sleepy nap. She helped him into bed, propping his pillows just right and placing a glass of water on the nightstand. The house was quiet, a stark contrast to the bustling hospital. The only sound was the occasional tick of the clock in the hallway. Karen settled into the chair beside his bed, ready to keep her vigil. Plankton's eye fluttered open and then closed. "Need...sleep," he murmured. "You go ahead," she said, her voice gentle. "I'll be here when you wake up." The room grew still again as Plankton's eye finally closed for good. Karen took his hand in hers once more, feeling the comforting weight of his head on her shoulder. The doorbell rang, a sudden and jarring intrusion into the quiet sanctuary they had created. Karen looked over at Plankton, whose sleep remained undisturbed. She leans him back on pillow and kissed his forehead gently. She whispered, "I'll be right back." She opened the door to see Hanna, her friend, whoā€™s also a computer like Karen. "Hey," Hanna said, her voice filled with concern. "How's he doing?" "The surgery went well, yet he's still pretty out of it." Hanna's screen went straight to Plankton, who was snoring softly. She gave a small smile. "Looks like he's in good hands," she said. Karen nodded, a hint of gratitude in her voice. "Thanks for coming." A few moments passed in quiet contemplation before Plankton's eye fluttered open, any trace of anesthesia gone. "Wha...where am I?" he croaked, his voice raw and scratchy. "You're home," Karen said, her voice soothing. "You had surgery this morning." "Hi, Plankton! Itā€™s nice to meet you. I'm Hanna, Karen's friend. I just came to check on you." Plankton's gaze drifted from Karen to Hanna, then back to Karen again. "You...told?" "You know I couldn't keep it from her," she said softly. "We tell each other everything." "What...did you tell her?" "Just that you weren't feeling well and had surgery. How you feeling?" "Sore," he managed to croak out. "And... confused." "It's normal," Hanna chimed in. "The anesthesia can mess with your head for a bit." Karen nodded in agreement. "Do you remember anything from the hospital?" Plankton's eye darted around the room, as if trying to recall the events of the day. "You were there, but nothing else at all." "You talked a bit when you were coming out of it," Karen said with a smirk. "Asked for ice cream and waffles." Plankton's eye widened in surprise, then narrowed in suspicion. "Waffles?" Hanna laughed, earning her a glare from Plankton. "It's true," Karen said, her voice filled with mirth. "You kept asking for waffles." "I don't even like waffles," he grumbled, sinking back into the pillows. Hanna chuckled, her laughter a series of light beeps. "Well, maybe you've discovered a love for them." Plankton's glare sharpened, his cheeks flushing with a hint of anger. "I said I don't like waffles," he mumbled, his voice strained. Hanna raised her hands in mock surrender. "Ok, ok," she said, her digital eyes sparkling with amusement. "I'll take your word for it. Itā€™s ok if you donā€™t recall." Karen felt a pang of worry, the room suddenly thick with tension. She knew Plankton's fiery temper well. "You don't know anything about me." "I just want to be here you know, ease Karenā€™s burden.." Hanna said. ā€œBURDEN?ā€ Plankton's eyes were on Hanna, his gaze piercing. "How could you say that?" he cried, his voice rising despite the pain. "I'm not a burden to her; I never meant to be burdensome!" Hanna's smile faded, and she looked at with a hint of concern. "I didn't mean it like that," she said quickly. "I just knew she'd be worried about you and I wanted to help." Karen squeezed Plankton's hand, her gaze flicking from Hanna to him. "It's ok," she said soothingly. "You're not a burden, Plankton. We're just looking out for you." But Plankton felt a tear slide down his cheek, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. "I'm sorry," he choked out. "Don't be," Karen said, her voice firm. "You're not a burden, Plankton. You're my... my everything." Plankton's eye searched hers, looking for the truth in her words. He could feel the weight of the unspoken between them, the fear and the doubt. But what he saw was unwavering love and care. He took a deep, painful breath and nodded. "Ok," he murmured. "But no more waffles." The tension in the room didn't dissipate immediately, but it began to ease as Plankton's gaze drifted back to the ceiling. Karen felt his hand tighten around hers, a silent plea for reassurance. "Look, Plankton," Hanna began, her voice tentative. "I'm sorry if I upset you. That wasn't my intent." He looked at her, and took a deep, shaky breath. "I don't want to talk to you about it!" Hanna's smile faltered, her screens flickering with confusion. "I just..." ā€œItā€™s alright, Hanna. Planktonā€™s just really sensitive,ā€ Karen replied, her gaze still fixed on Plankton. Hannaā€™s screens dimmed slightly, her concern evident. "I didn't mean to..." "I said No," he snaps, his voice tight with emotion. Hanna looked at him, her screens flickering with regret. "I'm sorry, Plankton," she said softly, now knowing her choice of words hit a nerve. "I think he needs some rest," Karen said, her voice low. "Why don't you let me take care of him?" Hanna nodded, her screens dimming with understanding. "Of course," she said. "I didn't mean to overstep." ā€œYou didnā€™t, you just wanted to support. Heā€™s not overly affectionate, even with me. Itā€™s hard for him, not necessarily about you. He doesnā€™t tend to open up to others, nothing personal. But thank you, Hanna.ā€ Karen told her. ā€œI just hoped I could make it easier for him, I know heā€™s been through a lot,ā€ Hanna said with sincerity. ā€œYou did. Thank you for caring, really. But heā€™s always had a hard time letting anyone in, even me sometimes,ā€ Karen explained, her gaze lingering on Planktonā€™s sleeping form. Hanna nodded, her screens swiping through various shades of blue. "I'll leave you to rest," she said quietly, moving towards the door.
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į¶¤į¶°Ź²įµ˜Ź³įµ‰įµˆĖ€" į““įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ įµ—Ź³Źøį¶¤į¶°įµ įµ—įµ’ į¶ į¶¤įµįµ˜Ź³įµ‰ įµ’įµ˜įµ—Ė‘ "įµžįµ‰Ė¢ įµŹø įµˆįµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė‘" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶° įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆĖ‘ "į“µįµ— Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰į¶°įµ‰įµˆ Ź·Ź°įµ‰į¶° Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·įµ‰į¶°įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź³Źø įµƒį¶°įµˆ Ė¢įµ—įµ‰įµƒĖ” įµ–įµƒįµ—įµ—Źø į¶¤į¶°įµŹ³įµ‰įµˆį¶¤įµ‰į¶°įµ—Ė¢Ė‘Ė‘" į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° Ė¢Ź°įµ’Ź·į¶° į¶°įµ’ į¶¤į¶°įµˆį¶¤į¶œįµƒįµ—į¶¤įµ’į¶° įµ’į¶  Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµ’Ė”Ė”įµ‰į¶œįµ—į¶¤įµ’į¶° į¶°įµ’Ź³ įµ˜į¶°įµˆįµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ—įµƒį¶°įµˆį¶¤į¶°įµ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ į¶°įµ’Ź· Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė¢įµƒį¶¤įµˆĖ‘ "į“®įµ˜įµ— Ź°įµ’Ź·'įµˆ į“µ įµįµ‰įµ— Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ—Ė€" "į“¹Ź³Ė‘ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµˆįµ‰į¶œį¶¤įµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’Ė‘Ė‘Ė‘" "į“¹Ź³Ė‘ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢Ė€ įµ‚įµƒį¶¤įµ— įµƒŹ³įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į“¹Ź³Ė‘ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢Ė€" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶° į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė”Ė¢ įµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³ įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰į¶° įµ‡Źø į¶ įµ‰įµƒŹ³ įµƒĖ¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° įµƒĖ¢įµįµ‰įµˆĖ‘ "į“ŗįµ’ Ė¢Ź·įµ‰įµ‰įµ—Ė¢; į“¹Ź³Ė‘ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ į¶¤Ė¢ į¶°įµ’įµ— Ź·į¶¤įµ—Ź° įµ˜Ė¢Ė‘" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶° įµįµƒį¶°įµƒįµįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė” Ź°į¶¤įµĖ’ Ź°įµ’įµ–į¶¤į¶°įµ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ įµƒįµį¶°įµ‰Ė¢į¶¤įµƒ į¶¤Ė¢ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ—įµ‰įµįµ–įµ’Ź³įµƒŹ³Źø į¶ įµ’Ź³ Ź°į¶¤įµĖ‘ "į“µ'įµ į¶¤į¶° Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰ Ź·į¶¤įµ—Ź° Źøįµ’įµ˜; įµŹø į¶°įµƒįµįµ‰'Ė¢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶°Ė‘" 'į“¬įµ— Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ— Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ›į¶¤įµ›įµ‰įµˆ' į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶° įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ—Ė‘ "įµžįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ Ė¢įµ’ į¶°į¶¤į¶œįµ‰Ė’ įµƒį¶°įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµƒį¶°įµĖ¢; į“µ Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ—įµ’ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶°įµŽ" į““įµ‰ Ė¢įµį¶¤Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµƒįµ— Ź°įµ‰Ź³Ė‘ į“ŗįµ’Ź· į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶° įµį¶°įµ‰Ź· Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒį¶°įµˆ'Ė¢ į¶°įµ’įµ— įµįµ‰įµ‰į¶° įµ’į¶° įµƒį¶ į¶ įµ‰į¶œįµ—į¶¤įµ’į¶°Ė’ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ė¢Ź°įµ’Ź·Ė¢ į¶¤įµ— į¶¤į¶° Ź°į¶¤Ė¢ įµ’Ź·į¶° Ė¢įµ˜įµ‡įµ—Ė”įµ‰ Ź·įµƒŹøĖ¢Ė‘ į“ŗįµ’Ź· Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³į¶¤į¶°įµ Ź°į¶¤įµ įµƒį¶œįµ—įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø Ė¢įµƒŹø į¶¤į¶° įµƒ Ė¢į¶¤į¶°į¶œįµ‰Ź³įµ‰ įµįµƒį¶°į¶°įµ‰Ź³Ė‘Ė‘Ė‘ "į“µ'įµ įµĖ”įµƒįµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ– Źøįµ’įµ˜Ė‘" "įµžįµ’įµ˜ įµƒŹ³įµ‰Ė€ į“®įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ‰įµ— į“µ įµˆįµ’į¶°'įµ— įµ—Ź°į¶¤į¶°įµ Ź·įµ‰ įµį¶°įµ’Ź· įµ‰įµƒį¶œŹ° įµ’įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµƒį¶°įµˆĖ‘Ė‘Ė‘" "į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° įµ’į¶  į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰ į“µ įµį¶°įµ’Ź· Ź·Ź°įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒŹ³įµ‰įµŽ į“°įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµ’įµį¶°į¶¤Ė¢įµ‰ įµįµ‰Ė’ įµƒįµ— įµƒĖ”Ė”Ė€" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶° į¶œŹ³į¶¤įµ‰Ė¢Ė‘ "į“µ''įµ Ė¢įµ’Ź³Ź³Źø; įµˆįµ’į¶°'įµ— įµ‡įµ‰ įµ˜įµ–Ė¢įµ‰įµ—įµŽ į“µ Ź·įµƒį¶°įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ‰įµįµ‰įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒį¶°įµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ Ė¢įµ’ į¶°į¶¤į¶œįµ‰įµŽ" "į“µįµ—'Ė¢ į¶°įµ’įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ į¶ įµƒįµ˜Ė”įµ— į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶°; Ė”įµ‰įµ—'Ė¢ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ—Ź°į¶¤į¶°įµ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³ŹøĖ‘ įµžįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ź·įµ‰Ė”Ė” įµ‡įµ‰į¶¤į¶°įµ Ź·į¶¤Ė”Ė” įµįµƒįµįµ‰ įµįµ‰ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–ŹøĖ‘ į‘¦įµƒį¶° Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµˆįµ’ į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµįµ‰Ė€" "į“µ įµįµ˜įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ Ė¢įµ’; į¶¤įµ—'Ė¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė”įµ‰įµƒĖ¢įµ— į“µ į¶œįµƒį¶° įµˆįµ’Ė‘Ė‘" į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° Ė¢įµ‰įµ—įµ—Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµˆįµ’Ź·į¶°Ė‘ įµ‚Ź°įµ‰į¶°į¶œįµ‰ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–į¶¤į¶°įµĖ’ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶° į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”Ė¢ Ė¢įµƒį¶°įµˆŹøĖ‘ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶° įµ—įµ’Ė”įµˆ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³Źø įµˆįµ‰įµ—įµƒį¶¤Ė”Ė‘ "įµ€Ź°įµ‰ įµ‰Ė£įµ—įµ‰į¶°įµ— įµ’į¶  Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢įµƒŹø įµįµƒįµįµ‰Ė¢ įµįµ‰ įµ—Ź°į¶¤į¶°įµ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ Ė¢į¶œįµƒįµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ įµ‡Ź³įµƒį¶¤į¶°įµ‰įµˆ į¶ įµ’Ź³ Ź³į¶¤įµŹ°įµ— į¶°įµ’Ź·Ė’ Ź·į¶¤įµ—Ź° įµ—įµ‰įµįµ–įµ’Ź³įµƒŹ³į¶¤Ė”Źø Ė”įµ’Ė¢įµ— Ź°į¶¤Ė¢ įµįµ‰įµįµ’Ź³ŹøĖ‘ į“®įµ˜įµ— įµƒĖ¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° Ź°įµ‰įµƒĖ”Ė¢ įµƒį¶°įµˆ įµ—į¶¤įµįµ‰ į“µ įµ‡įµ‰įµ— Ź°įµ‰'Ė”Ė” įµ‡įµ‰ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ‡Źø į¶°įµ‰Ė£įµ— Ź·įµ‰įµ‰įµįµŽ į“®įµ˜įµ— Ė¢įµ—į¶¤Ė”Ė” Ź°įµ‰ į¶°įµ‰įµ‰įµˆĖ¢ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰ į¶¤įµ— įµ‰įµƒĖ¢Źø Ź·į¶¤įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµƒį¶°Źø Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢Ė‘Ė‘Ė‘" "Ė¢įµƒį¶°įµˆŹø įµ—Ź°įµƒį¶°įµ Źøįµ’įµ˜įµŽ" į““įµ‰ į¶°įµ‰Ė£įµ— Ź·įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ– įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶°įµ‰Ė£įµ— įµˆįµƒŹøĖ‘ "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶°Ė€" "įµ€įµƒįµįµ‰ į¶¤įµ— įµ‰įµƒĖ¢Źø į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶°Ė‘" "į“µ'įµ Ė¢įµ’Ź³Ź³ŹøĖ‘Ė‘" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶° Ė”į¶¤įµįµ‰įµˆ Ź°į¶¤Ė¢ Ė¢Ź·įµ‰įµ‰įµ—į¶°įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµį¶°įµ‰Ź· į¶¤įµ—'Ė¢ įµ‡įµ‰į¶œįµƒįµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ įµ’į¶  Ź°į¶¤Ė¢ Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ— Ė¢įµ—įµƒįµ—įµ‰Ė‘ Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµˆįµ‰į¶œį¶¤įµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ–įµƒŹø įµƒ įµ›į¶¤Ė¢į¶¤įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œŹ°įµ˜įµ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—Ė‘ "į““į¶¤Ė’ į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶°įµŽ" "į““įµ˜Ź°Ė€" "į“µ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜įµŽ" "į“¹Ź³Ė‘ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢Ė€ į“ŗįµ’įµŽ" "į“°įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź³įµ‰įµįµ‰įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³ Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡Ė€" "į“µ į¶œįµƒį¶°įµ—įµŽ" "į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶°Ė‘Ė‘Ė‘" "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶° Ź°įµ’Ź·'Ė¢ Ź°įµ‰ įµį¶°įµ’Ź· įµįµ‰Ė€" "į“µ'įµ Ė¢įµ’Ź³Ź³Źø įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— Ź°įµ‰ įµˆį¶¤įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ė‘ į“®įµ˜įµ— Ź·įµƒį¶¤įµ— Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— įµˆįµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė”Ė€" "į“ŗįµ’įµ—Ź°į¶¤į¶°įµįµŽ į“®įµ˜įµ— į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶° Ė¢įµƒį¶¤įµˆ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ į¶¤į¶° Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰ Ź·į¶¤įµ—Ź° įµįµ‰Ė’ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“µ įµˆįµ’į¶°'įµ— įµį¶°įµ’Ź· Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµŽ" "įµžįµ’įµ˜ įµˆįµ’į¶°'įµ— įµį¶°įµ’Ź· Ź°įµ‰Ź³Ė€ į“®įµ˜įµ— Ė¢Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ź·į¶¤į¶ įµ‰įµŽ" Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµƒŹ· į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶°'Ė¢ į¶°įµ’Ź· Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—į¶¤į¶°įµ įµ—įµ’ į¶œŹ³ŹøĖ‘ "į““įµ‰Źø į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° Ė”įµ’įµ’įµ įµƒįµ— įµįµ‰Ė‘ į“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ įµ˜į¶¤į¶œįµĖ‘" į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° Ė”įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ– įµƒįµ— Ź°į¶¤įµĖ‘ "įµ‚įµ‰ įµį¶°įµ’Ź·Ė’ Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ—į¶¤į¶°įµ įµƒį¶°įµˆ į¶¤įµ— įµįµƒįµˆįµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶ įµ’Ź³įµįµ‰įµ— įµ‡įµ˜įµ—Ė’ Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ įµˆįµ’į¶¤į¶°įµ įµƒŹ·įµ‰Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰Ė‘ į“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ‡Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµ—Ź°įµ‰Ė‘ į“µ įµ—Ź°į¶¤į¶°įµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ įµƒįµįµƒį¶»į¶¤į¶°įµĖ‘ į“³įµ’įµ— į¶¤įµ—Ė€" į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° į¶°įµ’įµˆįµˆįµ‰įµˆĖ‘ "į““įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—į¶¤Ė”Ė” į¶¤Ė¢ į¶¤į¶° į¶°įµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ’į¶  Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ— Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡; į¶œįµƒį¶° į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė” įµƒĖ¢ Ź°į¶¤Ė¢ į¶¤į¶°Ź²įµ˜Ź³į¶¤įµ‰Ė¢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒĖ”Ė’ įµƒį¶°įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰į¶° Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶œįµƒį¶° Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ–Ė‘" įµ‚Ź°įµ‰į¶°į¶œįµ‰ Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė”įµ‰į¶ įµ—Ė’ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ įµį¶°įµ‰Ź· į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° įµį¶¤įµŹ°įµ— įµ‡įµ‰ įµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³Ź·Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµįµ‰įµˆĖ‘ į““įµ‰ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ–įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶°įµ‰Ė£įµ— įµįµ’Ź³į¶°į¶¤į¶°įµĖ’ Ź°į¶¤Ė¢ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ į¶°įµ’įµ— Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ—į¶¤į¶°įµ įµƒĖ¢ įµ‡įµƒįµˆ įµƒĖ¢ įµ‡įµ‰į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰Ė‘ Ė¢įµ—į¶¤Ė”Ė” į¶°įµ’įµ— įµ—įµ’įµ—įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµįµ’į¶°įµ‰Ė’ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµƒ įµįµƒŹ²įµ’Ź³į¶¤įµ—Źø įµ’į¶  įµƒĖ”Ė” įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶¤į¶°į¶ Ė”įµƒįµįµįµƒįµ—į¶¤įµ’į¶° įµˆŹ·į¶¤į¶°įµˆĖ”įµ‰įµˆĖ’ Ź³įµ‰Ė”į¶¤įµ‰įµ›į¶¤į¶°įµ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ–Ź³įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰Ė‘ į““įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—įµ‰įµˆ Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė” įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³Źø įµ—Ź°į¶¤į¶°įµ į¶ įµ’Ź³ Ź°į¶¤įµĖ¢įµ‰Ė”į¶ Ė’ į¶°įµ’įµ— Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ź·įµ’Ź³įµˆ įµ’į¶  įµįµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź°Ė‘ Ė¢įµ—į¶¤Ė”Ė” Ź°įµ‰ Ź°įµƒŹ³įµˆĖ”Źø Ź³įµ‰įµįµ‰įµįµ‡įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— Ź·įµ‰į¶°įµ— įµ’į¶° įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ įµˆŹ³į¶¤į¶ įµ—įµ‰įµˆ į¶¤į¶° įµƒį¶°įµˆ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’į¶  į¶œįµ’į¶°Ė¢į¶œį¶¤įµ’įµ˜Ė¢į¶°įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ Ė¢į¶¤į¶°į¶œįµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶¤į¶°į¶œį¶¤įµˆįµ‰į¶°įµ—Ė’ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµ‡įµ‰įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ įµ—Ź°įµƒį¶° įµ‡įµ‰į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰Ė‘ "į““į¶¤ Ė¢Ź·įµ‰įµ‰įµ—Ė¢Ė‘Ė‘" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶°'Ė¢ įµŹ³įµ‰įµ‰įµ—į¶¤į¶°įµ Ź°į¶¤įµ į¶°įµ’Ź·Ė‘ į“¾Ė”įµƒį¶°įµįµ—įµ’į¶° įµį¶°įµ‰Ź· Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ’įµ— Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ—Ė’ įµƒĖ¢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶°'Ė¢ įµ˜į¶°įµƒįµ‡Ė”įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė” Ź°įµ’Ź· įµįµ˜į¶œŹ° Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ į¶¤įµįµ–Ź³įµ’įµ›įµ‰įµˆ Ź·į¶¤įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµ— į¶œįµ’į¶°įµ›įµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµƒįµ—į¶¤įµ’į¶°Ė‘ "į“³įµ’įµ’įµˆ įµįµ’Ź³į¶°į¶¤į¶°įµĖ‘Ė‘" "į“µ'įµ Ė¢įµ’Ź³Ź³Źø įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ‰Ė¢įµ—įµ‰Ź³įµˆįµƒŹøĖ’ Ź·į¶¤įµ—Ź° Ė¢įµ–įµ’į¶°įµįµ‰ įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ į¶°įµ’įµ— įµį¶°įµ’Ź·į¶¤į¶°įµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ‰Ė£įµ—įµ‰į¶°įµ—Ė‘ į“®įµ˜įµ— Ė¢įµ’ įµĖ”įµƒįµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµ˜įµ–įµ‰Ź³įµƒįµ—į¶¤į¶°įµįµŽ" "įµ€Ź°įµƒį¶°įµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶°Ė‘" "į“¼į¶  į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰; Ź·įµ‰'Ė”Ė” į¶ į¶¤įµįµ˜Ź³įµ‰ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³Źø įµ—Ź°į¶¤į¶°įµ įµ—įµ’įµįµ‰įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³Ė‘ į“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ—į¶¤įµįµ‰Ė‘" "į“°įµ’įµ‰Ė¢ į“¹Ź³Ė‘ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµį¶°įµ’Ź·Ė‘Ė‘Ė‘" "į“µ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµįµ’įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶¤įµįµįµ‰įµˆį¶¤įµƒįµ—įµ‰Ė”Źø įµ’įµ˜įµ—Ė’ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ź°įµ‰ įµˆį¶¤įµˆ į¶¤į¶°įµ—įµ‰į¶°įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµƒŹ³įµĖ‘" į“¬į¶°Ė¢Ź·įµ‰Ź³įµ‰įµˆ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶°Ė‘ "į“µ'įµ įµƒĖ¢Ė¢įµ˜įµį¶¤į¶°įµ į“µ į¶ įµƒį¶¤Ė”įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶¤į¶°įµŹ³įµ‰įµˆį¶¤įµ‰į¶°įµ—Ė¢Ė‘Ė‘" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶° Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ į¶¤į¶° Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµ—Ź³įµƒį¶œįµĖ¢Ė‘ "įµžįµ’įµ˜Ė‘Ė‘Ė‘" "į“µ'Ė”Ė” įµį¶¤įµ›įµ‰ įµŹøĖ¢įµ‰Ė”į¶  įµįµ’Ź³įµ‰ įµ—į¶¤įµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ— įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ź·Ź°įµ‰į¶°į¶œįµ‰ į“µ'įµ įµ‡įµ‰įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³Ė’ į“µ'Ė”Ė” įµ‡įµ‰ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµįµŽ" Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ įµį¶°įµ‰Ź· Ź°įµ‰'įµˆ įµ–įµ˜Ė”Ė” įµ—Ź°Ź³įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°Ė‘ š—Ŗš—¼š—暝—±š˜€: <šŸ­š—ø
į“°įµ‰āæįµ—ā±Ė¢įµ— į“¬įµ–įµ–įµ’ā±āæįµ—įµįµ‰āæįµ— ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ į¶ įµƒāæį¶ ā±į¶œā¾ Part 1 į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź·ā±į¶ įµ‰ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµˆįµ‰į¶œā±įµˆįµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰ Ź°ā±įµ āæįµ’Ź· į¶ įµ’Ź³ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµˆįµ‰āæįµ—ā±Ė¢įµ— įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ’ā±āæįµ—įµįµ‰āæįµ—ā€§ į““įµ‰'Ė¢ įµ˜Ė¢įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµ˜įµ– įµ‡įµ‰į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøĖ¢ įµ˜įµ– Ė”įµƒįµ—įµ‰ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ā€§ į“®įµ˜įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰Źø'Ź³įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė”Źøā€§ į”†Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ˜įµ‡Ė¢ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµā€§ "į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæā€§" į““ā±Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰ įµ‡Ź³įµ’Ź· įµ—Ź·ā±įµ—į¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆā€§ į”†Ź°įµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæ āæįµ˜įµˆįµįµ‰Ė¢ Ź°ā±įµā€§ "įµ‚įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ–! į“¬Ź³įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰?" į““įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæĖ¢ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰ā€§ "į“³įµ’įµ—įµ—įµƒ įµįµ’ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµˆįµ‰āæįµ—ā±Ė¢įµ—ā€§" į“°įµ‰Ė¢įµ–ā±įµ—įµ‰ įµ‡įµ‰ā±āæįµ įµƒĖ”ā±įµ›įµ‰āø“ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ'Ė¢ āæįµ’įµ— įµƒāæ įµ’Ź³įµįµƒāæā±į¶œ įµ‡įµ‰ā±āæįµā€§ Źøįµ‰įµ— Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” į¶ įµ‰Ė”įµ— Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµ’Ź·āæ įµ‰įµįµ’įµ—ā±įµ’āæĖ¢ įµƒāæįµˆ įµ–įµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ’āæįµƒĖ”ā±įµ—Źø įµ—įµ’ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ˜Ė¢įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµįµ‰įµ—Ė¢ įµˆįµ‰āæįµ—įµƒĖ” į¶ Ė”įµ’Ė¢Ė¢ įµƒĖ¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰Źø Ė¢įµ‰āæįµˆ Ź°ā±įµ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’āæ Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ź·įµƒŹø įµ‡įµ˜įµ— āæįµ’Ź· įµ’āæįµ‰ įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµˆįµ‰āæįµ—ā±Ė¢įµ—Ė¢ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ– įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ā€§ "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ‰Ė¢?" 'įµ‚Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰ ā±Ė¢ įµŹø Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ įµƒāæįµˆ Ź·Ź°Źø Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶œįµ’įµā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰?' į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź·įµ’Ź³Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į”†įµ’ Ź·įµ‰ įµˆįµ’ Ė¢į¶œįµƒāæĖ¢ įµƒāæįµˆ įµ—įµ’įµˆįµƒŹø Ź·įµ‰ į¶ įµ’įµ˜āæįµˆ Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ź·ā±Ė¢įµˆįµ’įµ įµ—įµ‰įµ‰įµ—Ź° āæįµ‰į¶œįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢įµƒŹ³Źø įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ‰įµįµ’įµ›įµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµā€§" 'įµ‚Ź°įµƒįµ—ā€½' "į“µ į¶œįµƒāæ Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź·įµƒŹø įµ—įµ’ Ź·Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ įµˆā»įµˆįµ’āæā€™įµ— įµāæįµ’Ź· ā±į¶  į“µ įµ˜āæįµˆįµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ—įµƒāæįµˆā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ į¶ įµ’Ė”Ė”įµ’Ź·įµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź·Ź°įµ’'Ė¢ ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ‰į¶œĖ”ā±āæįµ‰Ź³ ā±āæ Ź³įµ’įµ’įµā€§ "į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæ?" "į““įµ‰Ė”Ė”įµ’ į“µ'įµ į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ Ź°Źøįµā±įµ‰āæā±Ė¢įµ—! į“ŗįµ’Ź· Ź·įµ‰ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ–Ź°įµ’įµ—įµ’ įµ’į¶  įµ—įµ‰įµ‰įµ—Ź° Ź·įµ‰ įµ—įµ’įµ’įµāø“ įµƒāæįµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ’āæįµ‰Ė¢ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ įµįµ’Ė”įµƒŹ³Ė¢ ā±āæ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµ’į¶  Ź³įµ‰įµįµ’įµ›įµƒĖ”ā€§ įµ‚įµ‰ Ź·įµƒāæāæįµƒ įµįµ’ įµƒŹ°įµ‰įµƒįµˆ įµƒāæįµˆ įµ’įµ–įµ‰Ź³įµƒįµ—įµ‰ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ź·įµ‰ įµ’įµ˜įµ—įµ—įµƒ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė” Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ įµ€Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰ į¶œįµƒāæ įµā±įµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒ įµ–įµƒįµįµ–Ź°Ė”įµ‰įµ— įµ’į¶  ā±āæĖ¢įµ—Ź³įµ˜į¶œįµ—ā±įµ’āæĖ¢ā€§ į“®įµ‰į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰ Ź·įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ— į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į“µ'Ė”Ė” įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė” Źøįµ’įµ˜āø“ ā±įµ—'Ė¢ āæįµ’Ź³įµįµƒĖ” įµ—įµ’ įµ‡įµ‰ įµƒāæĖ£ā±įµ’įµ˜Ė¢ā€§" įµ€Ź°įµ‰ Ź°Źøįµā±įµ‰āæā±Ė¢įµ— Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ā€§ "įµ‚įµ‰ įµˆįµ’ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµįµ‰Ź³Źø įµƒāæįµˆ Ź·įµ‰ Ė¢įµ–įµ‰į¶œā±įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ā€§ į“ŗįµ’Ź· Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ—įµ‰įµ‰įµ—Ź° Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰āæ'įµ— įµ‰Ź³įµ˜įµ–įµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ–įµƒĖ¢įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ˜įµĖ¢āø“ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ–Ź³įµ’į¶œįµ‰įµˆįµ˜Ź³įµ‰ Ź·ā±Ė”Ė” įµįµ’Ź³įµ‰ ā±āæįµ›įµƒĖ¢ā±įµ›įµ‰āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ź·įµ‰ Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ Ė¢įµ‰įµˆįµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæ įµ’įµ–įµ—ā±įµ’āæā€§" įµ€Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰ Ė”įµ‰įµ—Ė¢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź°įµ’Ė”įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ Ź°įµƒāæįµˆā€§ "į“µ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ā±āæ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ į¶œįµƒĖ¢įµ‰ ā±įµ—'įµˆ įµ‡įµ‰ įµ‡įµ‰Ė¢įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµ–įµ˜įµ— ā±āæ įµƒ įµˆįµ‰įµ‰įµ– Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–āø“ į¶œįµ’āæĖ¢ā±įµˆįµ‰Ź³ā±āæįµ į¶œā±Ź³į¶œįµ˜įµĖ¢įµ—įµƒāæį¶œįµ‰Ė¢ā€§" "į““įµƒįµ›įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµƒāæŹø į‘«įµ˜įµ‰Ė¢įµ—ā±įµ’āæĖ¢?" įµ€Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰ įµƒĖ¢įµĖ¢ā€§ "į¶œįµƒāæ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ Ź·įµ’āæ'įµ— Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ‡įµ˜ā±Ė”įµˆā±āæįµ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ė¢Ź°įµ‰'Ė”Ė” Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµ—įµ’ įµ‰Ė£ā±įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ’įµ’įµ Ź·Ź°įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ įµ’įµ–įµ‰Ź³įµƒįµ—ā±āæįµā€§ į“ŗįµ’Ź· į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæāø“ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµˆŹø?" "į“µ'įµ›įµ‰ įµā±įµ›įµ‰āæ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµƒĖ”Ė” ā±āæį¶ įµ’Ź³įµįµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæā€§" į”†įµƒŹøĖ¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰ā€§ "įµ‚įµ‰ įµƒŹ³įµ‰ įµįµ’ā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ— įµƒįµˆįµā±āæā±Ė¢įµ—Ź³įµƒįµ—ā±įµ’āæ įµ’į¶  Ė¢įµ‰įµˆįµƒįµ—ā±įµ›įµ‰Ė¢ įµƒāæįµˆ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰įµ į¶ įµ˜āæāæŹø įµ‡įµ˜įµ— ā±įµ— Ź·ā±Ė”Ė” įµ‡įµ‰ įµ’įµ›įµ‰Ź³ įµ‡įµ‰į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź· ā±įµ—ā€§ į“¼įµ˜Ź³ Ź°įµƒāæįµˆŹø įµįµƒį¶œŹ°ā±āæįµ‰'Ė¢ įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæ įµ’āæ įµƒāæįµˆ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·ā±Ė”Ė” įµ‡įµ‰ įµįµ’āæā±įµ—įµ’Ź³įµ‰įµˆā€§" įµ€Ź°įµ‰ Ź°Źøįµā±įµ‰āæā±Ė¢įµ— Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ įµ‡įµ‰į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹ³įµ—ā±āæįµ įµ˜įµ– įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµįµƒį¶œŹ°ā±āæįµ‰ā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ įµˆįµ’ā±āæįµ Ė¢įµ’ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ Ź²įµ’įµ‡ā€§" 'Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė” āæā±į¶œįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§' į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµįµ‰įµ—Ė¢ įµƒĖ¢įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰'Ė¢ āæįµ’ Ė”įµ’āæįµįµ‰Ź³ įµįµ‰įµ–įµ— įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµāæįµ’Ź·Ė¢ āæįµ’įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ įµ‰Ė”Ė¢įµ‰ įµ’įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰ į¶ Ė”įµ˜įµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ā±āæįµ įµƒĖ¢ įµįµ‰įµˆā±į¶œā±āæįµ‰ įµāæįµ’į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆ Ź°ā±įµ įµ’įµ˜įµ— į¶œįµ’Ė”įµˆā€§ įµ€Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰ Ė”įµ‰įµ—Ė¢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµįµ’ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ—įµ’ Ź·Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ Ź·įµƒā±įµ—įµ‰įµˆā€§ į“±įµ›įµ‰āæįµ—įµ˜įµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµ—Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰ įµįµ‰įµ—Ė¢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµƒįµįµƒā±āæ įµƒĖ¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰Źø į¶ ā±āæā±Ė¢Ź°įµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ "į““įµ’Ź·ā€§ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ'Ė¢ Źøįµ‰įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ź·įµƒįµįµ‰ įµ˜įµ–āø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµįµ‰Ź³Źø Ź·įµ‰āæįµ— įµ–įµ‰Ź³į¶ įµ‰į¶œįµ—Ė”Źø įµŹ³įµ‰įµƒįµ—ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµƒŹ· į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” āæįµ’įµ— į¶œįµ’āæĖ¢į¶œā±įµ’įµ˜Ė¢/įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰ Źøįµ‰įµ— įµƒāæįµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź°Źøįµā±įµ‰āæā±Ė¢įµ— Ź·ā±įµ–įµ‰Ė¢ įµƒŹ·įµƒŹø Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ’Ė”ā€§ "į““įµ‰ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— įµ‡Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµˆ įµƒāæįµˆ įµ‡Ź³įµ˜ā±Ė¢įµ‰ į¶ įµ’Ź³ Ė”įµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæ įµƒ Ź·įµ‰įµ‰įµ įµƒāæįµˆ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ įµ‰Ė£įµ–įµ‰į¶œįµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµ‰Ė£įµ–įµ‰Ź³ā±įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ Ė¢Ź·įµ‰Ė”Ė”ā±āæįµā€§" "į“æā±įµŹ°įµ— Ź·Ź°įµ‰āæ į“µ įµįµ‰įµ— įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ’Ė” į¶œĖ”įµ‰įµƒāæįµ‰įµˆ įµ˜įµ– įµįµ’Ź³įµ‰ įµ’į¶  ā±įµ— į¶œįµ’įµįµ‰Ė¢! į“®įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ‰Ė¢ įµƒĖ”Ė” įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ‰įµˆā±į¶œā±āæįµ‰ ā±āæ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‡įµ’įµˆŹø Ė¢ŹøĖ¢įµ—įµ‰įµ įµā±įµŹ°įµ— įµįµƒįµįµ‰ Ź°ā±įµ įµƒį¶œįµ— įµ˜įµ– į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµƒ įµˆįµƒŹøā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź³įµ‰įµƒįµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ–įµƒįµįµ–Ź°Ė”įµ‰įµ— įµ‰Ė£įµ–Ė”įµƒā±āæā±āæįµ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ į¶œįµƒŹ³įµ‰ įµƒāæįµˆ Ź°įµ’Ź· įµ—įµ’ įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ įµįµƒįµ˜į¶»įµ‰ā€§ į”†Ź°įµ‰ įµāæįµ‰Ź· Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ˜Ė¢įµ— įµ‡įµ‰ āæįµ˜įµįµ‡įµ‰įµˆ įµįµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź° įµƒāæįµˆ įµƒĖ”Ė¢įµ’ Ė¢Ė”įµ’įµ–įµ–Źøā€§ 'įµ‚įµƒįµā±āæįµ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ā€§ā€§' 'į¶œįµƒāæ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė”įµ‰įµ— įµįµ‰ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ‰Źøįµ‰?' į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ˜įµˆįµˆįµ‰āæĖ”Źø Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ Ź·įµƒįµā±āæįµ įµ˜įµ–ā€§ "įµ‚Ź³Ź³į¶» įµ‡Ź³Ź³Ź³įµˆā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ‡įµƒįµ‡įµ‡Ė”įµ‰įµˆāø“ įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæā±āæįµ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰ā€§ "į“¹Ź³āæāæā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ?" 'įµ‚Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰ įµƒįµ į“µ' į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢įµƒŹøā±āæįµā€§ į““įµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæ Ź³įµ‰į¶œįµ’įµāæā±Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ "į“°įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµāæįµ’Ź· Ź·Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ˜įµįµ‡āæįµ‰Ė¢Ė¢ įµƒāæįµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ‰įµˆā±į¶œā±āæįµ‰ Ź·ā±Ė”Ė” įµįµƒįµįµ‰ ā±įµ— įµįµ’Ź³įµ‰ įµˆā±į¶ į¶ ā±į¶œįµ˜Ė”įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµƒŹ³įµ—ā±į¶œįµ˜Ė”įµƒįµ—įµ‰ Ź·įµ’Ź³įµˆĖ¢ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į¶ įµ‰Ė”įµ— į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµ– Ź°ā±įµ įµ˜įµ– įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ įµƒāæįµˆ įµā±įµįµĖ”įµ‰Ė¢ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰ į¶ įµƒĖ”Ė”Ė¢ įµ’āæ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ā€§ "į“øįµ‰įµ—'Ė¢ įµ–įµ˜įµ— įµįµƒįµ˜į¶»įµ‰ ā±āæ įµ‡įµ‰į¶ įµ’Ź³įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµ’ā€§ā€§" "į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ Ź²įµ’įµ‡!" į““įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢āø“ āæįµ’Ź· Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° įµįµƒįµ˜į¶»įµ‰ā€§ į““įµ‰ Ė”įµƒįµ˜įµŹ°Ė¢ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— įµįµ˜į¶ į¶ Ė”įµ‰įµˆ į¶ Ź³įµ’įµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµįµƒįµ˜į¶»įµ‰ā€§ "į“øįµ‰įµ—'Ė¢ įµįµ’!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰Ė¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œŹ°įµ˜įµ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ į“¬į¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ė”įµ‰įµƒįµ›ā±āæįµāø“ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒŹ· į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė”įµ’įµ’įµ Ė¢įµƒįµˆā€§ "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ?" "į“µ įµā±Ė¢Ė¢ į“·ā»į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†Ź°įµ‰Ė”įµˆįµ’āæ į“µāø“ į“µ įµƒįµ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§" "į“¹Źø Ė”įµ’įµ›įµ‰Ė”Źø į“·įµƒŹ³ā± į“µ Ė”įµ’ā»įµ’įµ›įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰Ź³!" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į“µ'įµ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ!" įµ€įµ’ į¶œįµ’āæį¶ įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰įµˆāø“ Ź°įµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæ Ź³įµ‰įµƒĖ”ā±Ė¢įµ‰Ė¢ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ "į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰ā»ā»ā»ā» į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€½" įµ€Ź°įµ‰Źø įµ‡įµ’įµ—Ź° įµ—Ź°įµ‰āæ įµƒŹ³Ź³ā±įµ›įµ‰ įµƒįµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œŹ°įµ˜įµ įµ‡įµ˜į¶œįµįµ‰įµ—ā€§ "įµ‚Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰'Ė¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³?" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ‰Ė£į¶œĖ”įµƒā±įµĖ¢ įµƒĖ¢ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ įµ—įµ˜į¶œįµĖ¢ Ź°ā±įµ ā±āæ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ’Ź·āæ įµ‡įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“³įµ‰įµ— Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ Ź³įµ‰Ė¢įµ— āæįµ’Ź·ā€§" "įµ‚Ź°įµ‰Ź³įµ‰'Ė¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµˆįµ‰āæįµ—ā±Ė¢įµ—?" "įµ‚įµ‰ Ė”įµ‰į¶ įµ—ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź·ā±įµ–įµ‰Ė¢ įµˆŹ³įµ’įµ’Ė”ā€§ į““įµ‰ į¶ Ė”įµƒįµ–Ė¢ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµƒŹ³įµĖ¢ā€§ "į“µ'įµ Ź³ā±įµˆā±āæįµ įµƒ įµˆŹ³įµƒįµįµ’āæā€§ā€§" "į¶œįµƒāæ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė”įµ‰įµƒāæ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ?" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµˆįµ’įµ‰Ė¢ Ė¢įµ’āø“ įµ‰Źøįµ‰ į¶œĖ”įµ’Ė¢ā±āæįµ Ė¢Ź°įµ˜įµ—ā€§ "į“°įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ į¶ įµ‰įµ‰Ė” Ė”ā±įµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ź³įµ‰įµ–Ė”įµƒį¶œįµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµįµƒįµ˜į¶»įµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµƒĖ¢įµĖ¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµ‰įµƒįµ›ā±Ė”Źø įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ– āæįµ’Ź· įµƒĖ¢ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢ Ź°ā±įµ Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³įµ‰āø“ Ź·Ź°ā±į¶œŹ° Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ‰įµ›įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³Ė¢ā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢įµ—įµ’įµ–įµ–įµ‰įµˆ įµ—įµƒĖ”įµā±āæįµ įµ—įµ’ Ź°ā±įµ āæįµ’Ź· įµƒĖ¢ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ˜Ė¢įµ‡įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢āæįµ’Ź³įµ‰Ė¢ ā±āæ Ź°ā±Ė¢ Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµįµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź° Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøįµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæ įµƒāæįµˆ įµ˜āæįµįµ’įµ›ā±āæįµ įµįµ‰įµƒāæ įµ—ā±įµįµ‰ įµƒāæįµˆ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė”įµ‰įµ— Ź°ā±įµ įµ‡įµ‰ā€§ 'į”†įµ’ Ė¢Ź·įµ‰įµ‰įµ—' į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ—ā€§ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ’āæĖ”Źø Ė¢įµ—ā±Ź³Ź³įµ‰įµˆ įµƒŹ·įµƒįµįµ‰ Ź·Ź°įµ‰āæį¶œįµ‰ ā±įµ—'Ė¢ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ āæįµ’įµ’āæ įµƒĖ¢ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰ į¶ Ė”ā±į¶œįµįµ‰Ź³Ė¢ įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæā€§ į““įµ‰ į¶ įµ‰Ė”įµ— Ė¢įµ’įµįµ‰ įµ—Ź°ā±āæįµ ā±āæ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµįµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź°āø“ įµ‡įµ‰ā±āæįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµįµƒįµ˜į¶»įµ‰ Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ’Ź· įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰Ė¢ įµ’įµ˜įµ—ā€§ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³įµˆ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµ’ Ė¢Ź°įµ‰ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ā€§ "į¶œįµƒŹ³įµ‰į¶ įµ˜Ė”ā€§ā€§" "į“·ā»į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ?" 'į“°ā±įµˆ į“µ āæįµ’įµ— įµįµ’ įµ—įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµˆįµ‰āæįµ—ā±Ė¢įµ—?' į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ įµįµ’įµ˜įµ—Ź° į¶ įµ‰Ė”įµ— įµˆā±į¶ į¶ įµ‰Ź³įµ‰āæįµ—āø“ įµƒāæįµˆ Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ āæįµ’įµ— Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ įµ’į¶  Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ—'Ė¢ Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–įµ‰āæā±āæįµā€§ā€§ "į“µ į¶œįµƒāæ įµįµ‰įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ āæįµ‰Ź· įµįµƒįµ˜į¶»įµ‰ā€§" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµāæįµ‰Ź· Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” Ź°įµƒį¶»Źøāø“ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ—Ź³įµƒį¶œįµ‰ įµ’į¶  Ė¢įµ‰įµˆįµƒįµ—ā±įµ›įµ‰/įµƒāæįµƒįµ‰Ė¢įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ė¢ā±įµƒ Ź·ā±Ė”Ė” Ź°įµƒįµ›įµ‰ įµ‡įµ‰įµ‰āæ Ź·įµ’Ź³āæ įµ’į¶ į¶  įµ‡Źø įµ—įµ’įµįµ’Ź³Ź³įµ’Ź· įµįµ’Ź³āæā±āæįµā€§ į”†Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ‰įµ–Ė”įµƒį¶œįµ‰įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµįµƒįµ˜į¶»įµ‰ įµƒāæįµˆ įµˆā±Ė¢įµ–įµ’Ė¢įµ‰įµˆ įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź³įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢įµ—įµƒā±āæįµ‰įµˆ įµ’āæįµ‰Ė¢ā€§ "į“µ įµ—Ź°įµ‰įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź·!" "į¶œŹ°įµƒįµ—įµ—įµ‰Ź³ā±āæįµ įµįµƒŹø Ź°įµ˜Ź³įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ'įµ įµˆįµ’ įµįµ‰įµ— įµŹø įµ—įµ‰įµ‰įµˆ į¶œŹ³įµ‰įµƒāæĖ¢ āæįµ’Ź·ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµˆā±įµˆā€§" "į“¹Źø āæįµ‰āæįµˆā±Ė¢ Ź·ā±Ė”Ė” įµˆįµ’įµ’įµˆįµƒŹøā€§ į“¬įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ āæįµ‰āæįµ—ā±Ė¢ā€§" "į¶œįµƒāæ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ–įµ˜Ė¢Ź° įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµįµƒįµ˜į¶»įµ‰ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ ā±āæ? įµ€Ź°įµ‰Źø'Ź³įµ‰ į¶ įµƒĖ”Ė”ā±āæįµā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź³įµ‰įµƒį¶œŹ°įµ‰įµˆā€§ "į“±įµƒĖ¢Źø!" į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė¢ā±įµŹ°Ė¢ā€§ į”†Ź°įµ‰ Ė¢įµƒįµ— įµ‡Źø į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµƒāæįµˆ Ź³įµ˜įµ‡įµ‡įµ‰įµˆ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµƒŹ³įµ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµƒāæįµˆā€§ 'į“¶įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ź·įµƒā±įµ— į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµ—įµ’įµįµ’Ź³Ź³įµ’Ź·' į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ‰Ė”į¶ ā€§ to be cont. pt. two
ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆ ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆ ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆ ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆ ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–ˆā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–‘ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–‘ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–‘ā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–‘ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–ˆā–‘ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–‘ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ 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ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’
He'd done plenty of schemes in the past. "My back hurts, Karen" he whined one evening. The computer let out a metallic groan as her lover flopped onto the ground dramatically. "Has anyone ever told you that you crave attention" "No, Karen, they haven't" he cut her off with a roll of his eye before wincing again. The middle of his spine felt like rocks pressing up on his nerves and muscles, making the whole site burn and ache. "Ow..." "What would you like me to do, Sheldon?" she asked with a roll of her eyes. Plankton's lip quivered. "Hold me?" "Lord..." Karen grumbled before setting down her screen stand and walking over to where her husband was sprawled on the floor like a starfish. With another hearty roll of her eyes, she lied down next to him on the ground and wrapped an arm around him. He relaxed slightly at the contact. "Is this helping, big guy?" Plankton smiled wider than he had in a long time and nodded earnestly as he curled into her as much as he could.
ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆ ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆ ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆ ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆ ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆ ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆ ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–ˆ ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–’ā–“ ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–“ ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ 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ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ 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ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–‘ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆ ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆ ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–“ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–‘ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆ ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–“ā–’ā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆ ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–‘ā–ˆā–’ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆā–ˆ
į“øįµ’įµ’įµĖ¢ į“øā±įµįµ‰ įµ‚įµ‰ į““įµƒįµ›įµ‰ į“¬ įµ‚ā±āæāæįµ‰Ź³ ā½į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰į“®įµ’įµ‡ į¶ įµƒāæį¶ ā±į¶œā¾ Part 3 "į“µ įµāæįµ’Ź· Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ įµ˜įµ–Ė¢įµ‰įµ—ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢āø“ įµƒĖ¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ Ź°įµ’Ė”įµˆā±āæįµ įµ‡Ė”įµ˜įµ‰ įµ‡Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµ— Ź·Ź°ā±Ė”Ė¢įµ— įµ—Ź³Źøā±āæįµ āæįµ’įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ź·Ź°ā±įµįµ–įµ‰Ź³ā€§ į““įµ‰ įµāæįµ‰Ź· į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ'Ė¢ āæįµ’Ź³įµįµƒĖ”Ė”Źø įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ įµ—įµƒįµįµ‰ ā±įµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµ’āæ įµ’įµ—Ź°įµ‰Ź³Ė¢ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ź°įµ‰'Ė¢ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹøā±āæįµ Ė¢ā±Ė”įµ‰āæįµ— āæįµ’Ź·ā€§ "įµ€įµƒĖ”įµ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰; Źøįµ‰Ė”Ė” įµƒįµ— įµįµ‰; į“µ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ— į¶œįµƒŹ³įµ‰! į“µ įµāæįµ’Ź· Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ āæįµ’įµ— Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–Źøā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜'Ź³įµ‰ įµƒ įµįµ’įµ’įµˆ į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆ įµ—įµ’ įµįµ‰ įµā±įµˆā€§ į“µįµ—'Ė¢ āæįµ’įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ Ė¢Ź°įµ’į¶œįµįµ‰įµˆā€§ "įµ‚įµƒā±įµ— įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ āæįµ’Ź³įµįµƒĖ”Ė”Źøā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ'įµ āæįµ’įµ— Ź°įµƒįµ–įµ–Źø įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ‰įµƒŹ³ā±āæįµ įµƒāæįµˆ įµāæįµ’Ź·ā±āæįµ įµ’į¶  į¶œįµ’įµ˜Ź³Ė¢įµ‰ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— āæįµ’įµ— įµƒįµįµƒā±āæĖ¢įµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ į“·āæįµ’Ź·ā±āæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜āø“ į“µ'įµ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź²įµ˜Ė¢įµ— Ė”įµ’įµ’įµįµ‰įµˆ įµ’įµ˜įµ— į¶ įµ’Ź³ įµįµ‰āø“ Ė¢įµ’ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæįµ Źøįµ’įµ˜ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢ā€§ 'į“µ įµ‰Ė£įµ–įµ‰į¶œįµ—įµ‰įµˆ įµƒāæ įµƒįµ—įµ—įµƒį¶œįµ įµ‡įµ˜įµ— Ź°įµ‰ įµ—Ź°įµƒāæįµįµ‰įµˆ įµįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§' "į“µ'įµ Ė¢įµ—ā±Ė”Ė” Ė¢įµ’Ź³Ź³Źø į¶ įµ’Ź³ ā±įµ— įµ‡įµ˜įµ— į“µ įµˆā±įµˆ įµ—įµ‰Ė”Ė” įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ—Ź³įµ˜įµ—Ź°āø“ Ź·įµ‰ į¶œįµƒįµįµ‰ įµ‡įµƒį¶œįµ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ā€§ Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµˆā±įµˆ į¶ įµƒĖ”Ė” įµƒĖ¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā€§ į“®įµ˜įµ— įµƒĖ”Ė¢įµ’ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— į“¹Ź³ā€§ į“·Ź³įµƒįµ‡Ė¢ įµ–įµƒŹ³įµƒįµ–Ź°Ź³įµƒĖ¢įµ‰ Ź·Ź°įµƒįµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµˆā±įµˆ Ė¢įµƒŹøā€§ā€§ā€§" "į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµˆā±įµˆ įµ—Ź°įµ‰Źø į¶ ā±āæįµˆ įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµŹø įµ‡Ė”įµ˜įµ‰ įµ‡Ė”įµƒāæįµā±įµ‰?" "į“ŗįµ’ āæįµ’įµ— įµ—įµ’ įµŹø įµāæįµ’Ź·Ė”įµ‰įµˆįµįµ‰ā€§ į“°įµ’ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ź·įµƒāæįµ— įµįµ‰ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—įµƒŹø įµ’Ź³ āæįµ‰įµ‰įµˆ Ė¢įµ–įµƒį¶œįµ‰?" "į“µį¶  į“µ įµˆā±įµˆ Ė¢įµƒŹø įµ˜Ė¢ įµƒįµ‡įµ’įµ˜įµ— į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆĖ¢ į“µ įµˆįµ’ Ź°įµ’įµ–įµ‰ Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ įµįµ‰ įµƒĖ¢ Ė¢įµ˜į¶œŹ°ā€§ į“µį¶  į“µ'įµ›įµ‰ įµƒāæŹø įµ–įµ‰Ź³Ė¢įµ’āæ įµ—įµ’ į¶œįµƒĖ”Ė” į¶ Ź³ā±įµ‰āæįµˆ į“µ'įµˆ Ė¢įµƒŹø Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµā±įµˆā€§ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ–įµƒįµ—Ė¢ į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡'Ė¢ Ź°įµƒāæįµˆ įµƒŹ·įµŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆĖ”Źøā€§ į“ŗįµ‰Ė£įµ— Ź·įµ‰įµ‰įµ įµƒį¶ įµ—įµ‰Ź³ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ– į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ įµįµƒįµˆįµ‰ įµƒāæįµˆ Ė¢įµ‰āæįµ— įµ’įµ˜įµ— įµƒ įµ‡įµ’įµ’įµ įµ’į¶  įµ‰įµƒį¶œŹ° įµ’į¶  įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ–Ź°įµ’įµ—įµ’įµŹ³įµƒįµ–Ź°Ė¢ į¶ Ź³įµ’įµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ–ā€§ "įµ€Ź°įµƒāæįµĖ¢ į¶ įµ’Ź³ ā±āæįµ›ā±įµ—ā±āæįµ įµįµ‰ā€§ā€§ā€§" į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµƒŹøĖ¢āø“ įµ—Ź³įµƒā±Ė”ā±āæįµ įµ’į¶ į¶  įµƒĖ¢ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµ’įµ–įµ‰āæĖ¢ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµˆįµ’įµ’Ź³ įµ—įµ’ Ź°ā±Ė¢ į¶œįµ’įµįµ–įµ˜įµ—įµ‰Ź³ Ź·ā±į¶ įµ‰ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæ Ė”įµƒįµ˜įµŹ°ā±āæįµā€§ "į“µ įµįµ’įµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµƒĖ”įµ‡įµ˜įµ įµ’į¶  įµ–Ź°įµ’įµ—įµ’Ė¢ į¶ Ź³įµ’įµ Źøįµ’įµ˜Ź³ įµ—Ź³ā±įµ–!" įµ€Ź°įµ‰Źø įµ‡įµ’įµ—Ź° Ź³įµƒāæ įµ—įµ’ Ź°įµ‰Ź³ Ź°įµ’Ė”įµˆā±āæįµ ā±įµ—ā€§ "į”†į‘«įµ˜ā±įµˆŹ·įµƒŹ³įµˆ Ė¢įµ‰āæįµ— ā±įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“øįµ’įµ’įµ įµƒįµ— Źøįµ’įµ˜ įµ‡įµ’įµ—Ź° Ė¢Ė”įµ‰įµ‰įµ–ā±āæįµ ā±āæ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ į¶œįµƒŹ³! į“®įµ˜įµ— į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµƒįµ— įµ—Ź°įµ‰ įµįµ’įµ’į¶ Źø įµįµ’įµ’įµ‡įµ‰Ź³'Ė¢ įµŹø į¶ įµƒįµ›įµ’įµ˜Ź³ā±įµ—įµ‰!" 'į“ŗįµ’įµ— įµƒįµįµƒā±āæ' į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ įµ—Ź°įµ’įµ˜įµŹ°įµ— Ė¢įµ‰įµ‰ā±āæįµ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ į¶œŹ³ā±āæįµįµ‰ā€§ "į“°Ź³įµ’įµ’Ė” į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€½ įµ‚Ź°Źø Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė”įµƒįµ˜įµŹ°ā±āæįµ įµƒįµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ įµˆįµ’āæ'įµ—ā€§ā€§ā€§" "į“µ'įµ āæįµ’įµ— įµįµ’āæāæįµƒ įµįµ’ įµ’āæ įµƒ Ź³įµƒįµįµ–įµƒįµįµ‰ į“·įµƒŹ³įµ‰āæā€§ į“µ įµ‰āæŹ²įµ’Źøįµ‰įµˆ įµ‡įµ‰ā±āæįµ Ź·ā±įµ—Ź° į”†įµ–įµ’āæįµįµ‰įµ‡įµ’įµ‡ Ė¢įµ’ į“µ'Ė”Ė” Ė”įµ‰įµ— ā±įµ— Ė¢Ė”ā±įµˆįµ‰ āæįµ’Ź·ā€§ā€§" "Źøįµ’įµ˜ Ė¢įµ˜Ź³įµ‰ į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ?" "į“°įµ’āæ'įµ— Ź·įµƒāæāæįµƒ įµ–įµ˜Ė¢Ź° ā±įµ—ā€§ā€§" į“¾Ė”įµƒāæįµįµ—įµ’āæ Ź³įµ’Ė”Ė”Ė¢ Ź°ā±Ė¢ įµ‰Źøįµ‰āø“ įµ—Ź³Źøā±āæįµ āæįµ’įµ— įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµā±Ė”įµ‰ā€§ End Finale
CONSOLE TONSIL ii * As the door clicked shut, Karen noticed how Plankton's body stiffened, eye open but unseeing. "Plankton?" she called out, her voice a gentle prodding into his absent-mindedness. He didn't respond. His eye remained open, but it was as if the light behind it had gone out. This wasnā€™t the first time Karen had seen him dizzily scatterbrained from overload, yet it was eerie to witness such shock. His body remained still, his chest rising and falling with his shallow breaths, yet there was no response to her touch or voice. It was like he was there, but not there at the same time. The room grew quiet. She leaned closer. "Plankton, can you hear me?" she whispered. His eye remained unblinking. "Plankton, talk to me," Karen urged, her voice a gentle coax. His only ā€˜responseā€™ was the shallow rise and fall of his chest, his eye unblinking. Karen realized the depth of his withdrawal; Hanna's words had triggered a sensory shutdown. The room grew colder as Plankton retreated into himself, his eye glazed over like a still pond reflecting the fear and confusion rippling through him. Karen knew she needed to tread lightly. She had seen this before, during moments of intense stress or overstimulation. "Plankton," she said, her voice a soft whisper. "You're not a burden, you know that." Her hand reached out, stroking his arm in gentle, soothing motions. "You're just tired. Let's focus on getting you better." The room was still, the only sound being the tick of the clock echoing through the silence. Karen's screen never left Plankton's unresponsive face, her mind racing to find the right words, the right touch to pull him back from the edge of his isolation. "Plankton," she said again, her voice barely above a whisper. "You're ok. You're home." Her hand continued its soft, rhythmic motion on his arm, a silent lullaby to his fractured thoughts. Slowly, as if waking from a deep sleep, Plankton's eye blinked. The fog in his gaze started to clear, his pupil focusing on Karen's concerned face. He took a deep, shaky breath, wincing as the pain in his throat shot up like a warning flare. "You're ok," Karen repeated, her voice a soothing balm to his frazzled nerves. "You're home, and I'm here with you." Plankton's breathing grew more even, the tension in his body slowly seeping away as he focused on her voice, her touch. The pain in his throat was a constant reminder of the surgery, but it was the emotional pain that weighed heavier on him. Karen waited patiently, her hand never stopping its gentle caress, her voice a steady stream of comfort. "You're not a burden," she repeated, her tone soothing. "You're my best friend, Plankton. Weā€™re home. I'm here for you, always." Plankton blinked again, the reality of his situation seeping in. "Home," he murmured. "Thank you, Karen." "You're welcome. I'm here for you." The words hung in the air, the silence thick and heavy. Karen could see the internal battle playing out on Plankton's face, the war between his pride and his need for comfort. His hand reached out again, this time with more intention, and he gently squeezed hers. "I'm sorry," he croaked out, his voice still raw. "I didn't mean to scare you." Karen leaned in closer, her screen filled with a gentle understanding. "You don't ever have to apologize for how you feel," she said softly. "We're in this together." Plankton's grip tightened, his eye finally focusing on hers with a hint of gratitude. He took another deep breath, the pain a stark contrast to the warmth in the room. "What...what is Hanna doing now?" he asked, his voice a whisper of curiosity. "I don't know," Karen replied truthfully. "But she's not here to bother us. You need to rest, ok?" Plankton nodded weakly, his grip loosening. Karen felt a twinge of sadness as she saw the exhaustion etched on his features. She knew he was trying to be strong, but the weight of the day's events was too much for anyone to bear alone. "Rest," she encouraged, her voice firm but gentle. "I'll be right here if you need anything." Plankton's nod was almost imperceptible, but Karen took it as his silent agreement. She pulled the blanket up to his chin, tucking him in as if he were a child, and sat in the chair beside his bed, her hand still in his. The warmth of their intertwined fingers was a small but significant comfort in the face of his overwhelming fears. The minutes ticked by. Karen watched him closely, waiting for his breathing to deepen, his eyelid to droop. It was a slow process, but eventually, the exhaustion won. She heard a faint snore, a sign that he had finally succumbed to sleep. His hand went slack in hers, and she carefully extracted her hand, placing it on the bedside table. She took a deep breath, her shoulders sagging with relief. Her mind raced with what had happened. Hanna's words had clearly struck a nerve, and she couldnā€™t help but feel a surge of anger at her friend's thoughtlessness. Plankton had always been self-conscious about his size and his perceived weaknesses, and to hear such harsh words from someone Karen cared about had to be devastating. Karen felt a mix of anger and sadness as she approached Hanna, her mind playing back the haunting image of Plankton's lifeless stare. "Hanna," she began, her voice firm but measured. "We need to talk." Hanna looked up. "What you said in front of Plankton, though not meant to be malicious," Karen began, her voice low but steady. "It was hurtful and unnecessary. Plankton has...challenges. Neurodivergent challenges." Hanna's confused. "What do you mean?" "It means," Karen said, sitting down next to her, "that Plankton perceives and reacts to the world differently than we do. It affects how he processes information, how he interacts with people, and how he handles stress." "What happened after I left?" Hanna finally asked, her voice tentative. Karen took a deep breath, preparing to recount the events that had unfolded. "He had a...a reaction," she said. "He couldn't handle the stress anymore. His mind just sort of...shut down. He just...froze still. It's like his body was there, but he wasn't. He didnā€™t respond to anything I said or did." Hanna's hand flew to her mouth, horrified. "His eye were open, but he was...gone, somewhere else. I've seen it before, but never this severe. At first, nothing," Karen said, her gaze drifting to the floor. "It was like talking to a statue. But I didn't give up. I talked to him, whispered really. I tried to get through to him, to tell him he's not a burden, that he's important to me, that he's safe here. Just kept saying how much he means to me and that he's not a burden. He started to come back to me, little by little. His breathing changed, his gaze focused on me. It was like he was hearing me for the first time in hours." Karen paused, collecting her thoughts. "He apologized," she said. "For scaring me. As if it was his fault." Hanna's expression grew pained. "I never meant for this to happen," she murmured. "What can I do to make it right?" Karen considered her words carefully. "For now, let him rest," she said. "But when he's feeling better, we need to have a talk. All of us. Plankton deserves an apology." * * į“¬Ė¢ įµƒ āæįµ‰įµ˜Ź³įµ’įµˆā±įµ›įµ‰Ź³įµįµ‰āæįµ— Ź·Ź³ā±įµ—įµ‰Ź³ į“µ įµˆįµ’ āæįµ’įµ— įµįµ‰įµƒāæ įµ—įµ’ Ė¢įµ—ā±įµįµįµƒįµ—ā±į¶»įµ‰ įµƒāæŹø įµ—Źøįµ–įµ‰ įµ’į¶  įµˆā±Ė¢įµƒįµ‡ā±Ė”ā±įµ—Źø āæįµ’Ź³ į¶œįµ’įµįµįµ˜āæā±įµ—Źø įµƒĖ¢ įµƒ Ź·Ź°įµ’Ė”įµ‰ā€§ į”†įµ’įµįµ‰įµ—ā±įµįµ‰Ė¢āø“ į“µ įµ˜Ė¢įµ‰ įµƒāæ į“¬į“µ įµįµ‰āæįµ‰Ź³įµƒįµ—įµ’Ź³ įµƒāæįµˆ įµ—Ź·įµ‰įµƒįµ įµ—Ź°įµ‰ Ź·Ź³ā±įµ—ā±āæįµ *
ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ ā–“ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–“ ā–“ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–“ ā–“ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–“ ā–“ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–“ ā–“ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–“ ā–“ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–“ ā–“ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–“ ā–“ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–“ ā–“ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–“ ā–“ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–“ ā–“ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–“ ā–“ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–“ ā–“ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–“ ā–“ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–“ ā–“ā–“ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–’ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–‘ā–“ā–“ ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ _______ā–’__________ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ ______ā–’_______________ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ _____ā–’________________ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ ____ā–’___________ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’ ___ā–’ __ā–’______ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ _ā–’______ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’___ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ ā–’ā–’ā–’ā–’__ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ā–’ā–“ ā–’ā–’ā–’__ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ā–“ ā–’ā–’
COPEPOD AUTISM pt. 1 (Neurodivergent author) "What's for dinner tonight?" Karen asks her husband Plankton the kitchen. "I'm trying out something new today!" He replies. Plankton moves about with surprising grace for his small size. Karen watches, admiring his enthusiasm despite her skepticism of his culinary skills. "Careful with that pan!" she calls out, noticing the way he flips it in the air. But it's too late. The pan slips from his grip, and as it hits his head with a deafening clang, Plankton crumples to the floor, out cold. Karen sprints to the kitchen and crouches beside her unconscious husband. "Plankton! Wake up!" she says, shaking him gently. His eye remains closed. She notices his pulse and breathing so at least he's alive. She scans him and the results show he acquired Autism. She's heard about it, how interactions with others are hard and how sensory shutdown can cause episodes similar to a seizure. Panic starts to set in. She has to get him to the couch. With a deep breath, she hoists his limp body over her shoulder and carries him carefully to the couch. She lays him down, his head resting on a pillow she grabbed on the way. Karen's attention is solely on Plankton. She strokes his forehead, feeling the warmth of his skin and the steady beat of his pulse beneath her fingertips. The house feels too quiet, the air thick with concern. Her eyes dart around the room, looking for anything that might help him feel comfortable. Karen starts to hum a lullaby, hoping the tune might calmly wake him. Only the next afternoon does Plankton start to wake. His eye began to flutter open. "What happened?" he mumbles. Karen smiles, relieved. "You had a bad fall in the kitchen. Do you remember anything?" Plankton's eye widens as his hand shoots to the spot on his head where the pan had hit. "Oh, cooking, right?" His voice is groggy, his memory foggy. "Yes, but let's not worry about that now," Karen says, squeezing his hand. She notices his confusion, the way his gaze flits around the room, searching for clues. "You acquired Autism." Plankton blinks a few times, taking in the soft light and the worried face of his wife. He tries to sit up, but a wave of dizziness washes over him. "Autism?" he repeats, the word foreign on his tongue. Karen nods gently. "It's ok, Plankton," she says, her voice soothing. The revelation hangs heavily in the air between them. Plankton's mind races. The room seems to spin as he tries to process the news. Rocking back and forth, he starts to self-soothe, a common behavior among those with autism when overwhelmed. Karen, who has read about this, understands it's his brain's way of coping with the onslaught of new information and sensations. "It's ok," she whispers, her voice steady. "You can stim however you need to." Her words act like a key unlocking a door. Plankton's hands begin to flap, and he lets out a soft hum, a melody that fills the silent room. "It's ok," she says softly, "Stim if it helps." The rhythmic motion and soothing sound of Karen's voice help to calm him down. He stops flapping, but the hum continues, a gentle echo in the quiet. Plankton's eye locks onto hers, searching for comfort. "I'm here," she says, her tone a gentle reassurance. Suddenly, his eye lit up as he repeats her words, "You're here," his voice a mirror of hers. It's echolalic, a common trait in those with autism, where they repeat sounds or phrases. "You're here," he repeats, over and over, the phrase becoming a comforting mantra. His palilalic speech is a bridge between the overwhelming confusion and the familiar presence of his wife. Karen nods. She's read that palilalic repetition can be soothing for those with autism. "You're here," Plankton says again, his voice growing stronger with each repetition. The words become a rhythm, a heartbeat of reassurance that he clings to as the world swims into focus. Plankton's eye refocus on Karen's screen, and a tiny smile appears as he understands her acceptance. He starts to rock more comfortably, matching the rhythm of his humming. The house feels like a sanctuary, a bubble wrapped around them, their shared breaths the only sound. Karen's eyes well up with tears, but she holds them back, not wanting to interrupt this moment. His humming gradually fades into silence, and he looks at Karen. "We'll figure it out," she says firmly, her voice a lifeline in the stormy sea of uncertainty. "We'll learn about Autism and adjust our lives. You're not alone in this, Plankton." Her words seem to anchor him. He takes a deep breath, and his body relaxes against the couch cushions. "Thank Karen," he whispers, his voice cracking. Karen nods, blinking away her own unshed tears. "We're going to be okay," she says, more to convince herself than anything. Plankton's smile grows a little wider, and his hand reaches for hers. "What's next?" he asks, his voice still weak but steady. Karen rises from the floor and moves to the bookshelf. Her fingers trace the spines, landing on a worn-out book titled "The Art of Cooking." She pulls it out gently and holds it out to him. Plankton's eye lights up at the familiar sight. It's his favorite book, filled with recipes and notes he's collected over the years. He takes it with trembling hands, feeling the weight of the pages. "Let's start slow," Karen suggests, sitting beside him on the couch. "We'll go through the book together, and maybe we'll find something simple for tomorrow's dinner." Plankton nods, flipping through the pages with newfound carefulness. "How about we start with spaghetti?" Karen offers, pointing to a simple illustration on the page. It's a dish they've made together countless times. "Spaghetti," he repeats, the word like a warm blanket around his new reality. "How about we start with spaghetti.." They spend the rest of the day going through the book, discussing ingredients and steps, Karen explaining things in a way that's easy for Plankton to understand. His focus intensifies, his eye lighting up with every new piece of information. The kitchen accident seems like a distant memory, replaced by the comforting familiarity of cooking.
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