Drunkcore Emojis & Text

Copy & Paste Drunkcore Emojis & Symbols ᔀʰᔉ á”†ËĄá”‰á”‰á”–Êž á”†á”˜âżá”ˆá”ƒá”‰Ëąâœá”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ á¶ á”ƒâżá¶ â±á¶œâŸ"᎔ ËĄâ±á”á”‰ á”—á”’ ᔐᔉᔒ

ᔀʰᔉ á”†ËĄá”‰á”‰á”–Êž á”†á”˜âżá”ˆá”ƒá”‰Ëą âœá”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ á¶ á”ƒâżá¶ â±á¶œâŸ "᎔ ËĄâ±á”á”‰ á”—á”’ ᔐᔉᔒʷ ᔃᔗ ˥ⁱᔗᔗ˥ᔉ á”ˆá”’á”á”â±á”‰Ëą!" á”†â±âżá”Ëą áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€§ "ʞᔒᔘ á”—Êłâ±á”‰á”ˆ áŽłá”’á”’á¶ Êž áŽłá”’á”’á”‡á”‰Êł'Ëą ⁱᶜᔉ á¶œÊłá”‰á”ƒá” ᔃⁿᔈ âżá”’Ê·â€§â€§â€§" "ᶻᔒᔒᔐ ᶻᔒᔒᔐ ᶻᔒᔒᔐ á”—á”’ ᔗʰᔉ ᔐᔒᔒⁿ ᔐᔒᔒⁿ ᔐᔒᔒⁿ!" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż â±âżá”—á”‰ÊłÊłá”˜á”–á”—Ëą Ê°â±Ëą á¶œá”’á”á”–á”˜á”—á”‰Êł ʷⁱᶠᔉ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âżâ€§ "᎔ á”âżá”‰Ê· á”á”’â±âżá” á”—á”’ ᔗʰᔉ ᔍᔒᔒᶠʞ á”á”’á”’á”‡á”‰Êł'Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ ᔍᔒᔒᔈ á¶ á”’Êł ᔃ ᔈᔃᔗᔉ!" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ˹ᔉᔗ ʰⁱᔐ ᔒⁿ ᔗʰᔉ ᶜᔒᔘᶜʰ‧ "ᶻᔒᔒᔐ‧‧‧" ᶠᔃᶜᔉ á”–ËĄá”ƒâżá”—â±âżá”âžŽ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą ᔉʞᔉ Ê·á”‰âżá”— ᔇᔃᶜᔏ ⁱⁿ Ê°â±Ëą ʰᔉᔃᔈ á”‡á”‰á¶ á”’Êłá”‰ ⁱᔗ ËąÊ°á”˜á”—â€§ "á”†Ê·á”‰á”‰á”—Ëą?" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ËĄá”‰á”ƒâżËą á”’á”›á”‰Êł ᔃⁿᔈ Ê°á”‰á”ƒÊłËą Ëąâżá”’Êłâ±âżá”â€§ "áŽłá”’á”—á”—á”ƒ ᔍᔉᔗ ʞᔒᔘ á”—á”’ ᔇᔉᔈ‧‧" ᔆᔗⁱ˥˥ ËąËĄá”‰á”‰á”–â±âżá” á”ˆá”‰á”‰á”–ËĄÊžâžŽ Ê°á”‰Êł Ê°á”˜Ëąá”‡á”ƒâżá”ˆ âżá”‰á”›á”‰Êł á”’á”–á”‰âżá”‰á”ˆ Ê°â±Ëą ᔉʞᔉ; á”ˆÊłá”’á”’ËĄ Ëąá”‰á”‰á”–á”‰á”ˆ ᔒᔘᔗ ᔒᶠ Ê°â±Ëą ᔐᔒᔘᔗʰ ᔗᔒ‧ ᔆʰᔉ ËĄâ±á¶ á”—á”‰á”ˆ ʰⁱᔐ ᔘᔖ ᔃ˹ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Êłá”‰á”á”ƒâ±âżâ±âżá” ᔈᔉᔃᔈ á”—á”’ ᔗʰᔉ Ê·á”’ÊłËĄá”ˆâžŽ ᔈᔉᔉᔖ á”ƒËąËĄá”‰á”‰á”–â€§ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ˹ᔉᔗ ʰⁱᔐ á”—á”’ ᔇᔉᔈ‧ ᎔ⁿ ᔗʰᔉ á”á”’Êłâżâ±âżá” ËąÊ°á”‰ á”á”‰âżá”—ËĄÊž ËąÊ°á”’á”’á” Ê°â±Ëą ËąÊ°á”’á”˜ËĄá”ˆá”‰Êł á”ƒá¶ á”—á”‰Êł á”—á”ƒá”–á”–â±âżá” áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą ᶜʰᔉᔉᔏ ᔈⁱᔈ âżá”’á”—Ê°â±âżá”â€§ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ê°á”‰á”ƒÊłá”ˆ ʰⁱᔐ á”Êłá”˜á”á”‡ËĄá”‰ ᔃ˹ ËąÊ°á”‰ á¶œá”˜á”–Ëą Ê°â±Ëą ᶜʰᔉᔉᔏ➎ á”á”‰á”—á”—â±âżá” á”ˆÊłá”’á”’ËĄ ᔒⁿ Ê°á”‰Êł Ê°á”ƒâżá”ˆâ€§ ᔆʰᔉ Êłá”‰á”—Êłá”ƒá¶œá”—á”‰á”ˆ ˹ᔃⁱᔈ Ê°á”ƒâżá”ˆ ᔃⁿᔈ á”—Êłâ±á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”ƒËĄá”â±âżá” á”—á”’ á¶œá”’á”ƒËŁ ʰⁱᔐ âżá”’Ê·â€§ "áŽčá”’Êłâżâ±âżá” á”†Ê°á”‰ËĄá”ˆá”’âżâ€§â€§" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ëąá”ƒÊžËąâžŽ á¶ â±âżá”ƒËĄËĄÊž Ëąá”—á”ƒÊłá”— á”—á”’ ʷᔃᔏᔉ ᔃⁿᔈ ᔒᔖᔉⁿ Ê°â±Ëą ᔉʞᔉ ᔗᔒ‧ "á”âżÊ°â€§â€§â€§" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”‡ËĄâ±âżá”á”‰á”ˆâžŽ Ê·á”‰á”ƒÊłâ±ËĄÊž á”˜âżËąá”˜Êłá”‰â€§ "ᔂᔃ⁻ᔃ⁻ᔃᔍʰ‧‧" "áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ⁱᔗ'Ëą ᔗʰᔉ ⁿᔉˣᔗ ᔈᔃʞ!" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ê°á”‰ËĄá”–á”‰á”ˆ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔘᔖ‧ "ᔂʰᔃᔗ'Ëą Ê°á”ƒá”–á”–á”‰âżâ±âżá”?" "Ꮀᔒ ʞᔒᔘ Êłá”‰á”á”‰á”á”‡á”‰Êł ËĄá”ƒËąá”—â€§â€§â€§" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ëąá”ƒÊ· ʰⁱᔐ Ëąá”—á”ƒâżá”ˆ ᔒⁿ Ê°â±Ëą á”’Ê·âżâ€§ "ʞᔒᔘ ᔍᔒᔗ ᔍᔒᔒᶠʞ á”á”’á”’á”‡á”‰Êł Ëąá”˜âżá”ˆá”ƒá”‰â€§â€§â€§" "᎔ á”—Ê°â±âżá” ʷᔉ ᔃᔗᔉ ᔒᔘᔗ á¶ á”’Êł á”’á”˜Êł á”ƒâżâżâ±á”›á”‰ÊłËąá”ƒÊłÊžâ€§â€§" "á¶»á”’á”’á”â±âżá” á”—á”’ ᔗʰᔉ ᔐᔒᔒⁿ➎ Ëąá”’á”˜âżá”ˆ á¶ á”ƒá”â±ËĄâ±á”ƒÊł?" "ᔆᔃʞ ʷʰᔃᔗ‧‧‧" "ʞᔒᔘ ᔍᔒᔗ á”—á”’ ᔐᔘᶜʰ ⁱᶜᔉ á¶œÊłá”‰á”ƒá” ᔃⁿᔈ Ëąá”˜á”á”ƒÊłâžŽ ᔃⁿᔈ Ê·á”ƒâżá”—á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ ᔐᔉᔒʷ ᔃᔗ ˥ⁱᔗᔗ˥ᔉ á”ˆá”’á”á”â±á”‰Ëą!" "᎔ á”ˆá”’âż'á”— á”˜âżá”ˆá”‰ÊłËąá”—á”ƒâżá”ˆ âżá”’Êł ᔈᔒ ᎔ Ê·á”ƒâżá”— á”—á”’ Ê°á”‰á”ƒÊł ᔒᶠ á”ƒá”á”ƒâ±âżâžŽ ᔃ˹ ᎔ ʰᔒᔖᔉ ᎔ ᔈⁱᔈⁿ'á”— ᔃᶜᔗ ᔘᔖ‧‧"
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Related Text & Emojis

The Low After the High newwwwusername Summary: Plankton goes into a depressive episode after his volcano plan falls through Relationship: Karen/Sheldon J. Plankton Characters: Sheldon J. Plankton, Karen (SpongeBob) Plankton would regularly flipflop between emotions as far back as Karen could remember. "Sheldon?" Karen said cautiously. Plankton just groaned slightly, curling further into himself. Karen frowned and walked over, sitting down next to him. "Sheldon, hey" "What do you want?" "Are you okay?" she asked and that's when the man broke down in tears. She picked him up and held him in her arms, rubbing his back gently. "It's okay" she told him. "You're okay" "I failed..." "You didn't" she shook her head. "Something came up that you couldn't have foreseen" she reasoned. "You didn't fail" "I'm sorry" "Shhhh" she shushed. "No apologies, okay? I love you" ... "Yeah, I love you too" Stats: Published:2023-05-27
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https://www.reddit.com/r/FullEpisodesOfSB/comments/1651tuc/spongebob_full_episode_index/
new spongebobcore plaren squibcore krabbobton planktonkin krabskin mrkrabscore plongebob reddit
ᎎᔃᔖᔖʞ áŽźâ±Êłá”—Ê°á”ˆá”ƒÊž á”—á”’ ᶜ᎟ᔁ âœá”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ á¶ á”ƒâżá¶ â±á¶œâŸ @ALYJACI áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą á¶œá”’á”á”–á”˜á”—á”‰Êł ʷⁱᶠᔉ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ëąá”ƒÊ· Ê°á”‰Êł Ê°á”˜Ëąá”‡á”ƒâżá”ˆ ᔃ˹ Ê·á”‰ËĄËĄ ᔃ˹ ᔖᔉᔗ ᔆᔖᔒᔗ á”ƒÊ·á”ƒâ±á”—â±âżá” Ê°á”‰Êł á”ƒÊłÊłâ±á”›á”ƒËĄ ᔗʰᔉ á”â±á”—á¶œÊ°á”‰âżâ€§ ᔆᔖᔒᔗ ÊČᔘᔐᔖᔉᔈ➎ Ê°á”ƒá”–á”–â±ËĄÊž ᔃⁿᔈ á”‰ËŁá¶œâ±á”—á”‰á”ˆâ€§ "ᎎᔃᔖᔖʞ á”‡â±Êłá”—Ê°á”ˆá”ƒÊž áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż!" @ALYJACI
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áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ᔃᔇᔒᔘᔗ á”—Ê°Êž âżá”‰â±á”Ê°á”‡á”’á”˜Êł âœá”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊžËą ᔃᔗ ᔗʰᔉ ᶜʰᔘᔐ ᔇᔘᶜᔏᔉᔗ á¶ á”ƒâżá¶ â±á¶œâŸ "᎔ᔗ'ËĄËĄ ᔇᔉ ᶠᔘⁿ!" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡'Ëą Ê°á”’á”˜Ëąá”‰ âżá”‰á”‰á”ˆá”‰á”ˆ ˹ᔒᔐᔉ â±á”á”–Êłá”’á”›á”‰á”á”‰âżá”—Ëą á”á”‰á”—á”—â±âżá” Ê·á”’Êłá”á”‰á”ˆ ᔒⁿ‧ ᔆᔒ ʰᔉ'Ëą Ëąá”—á”ƒÊžâ±âżá” Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰ á”‡á”‰á¶œá”ƒá”˜Ëąá”‰ á”†á‘«á”˜â±á”ˆÊ·á”ƒÊłá”ˆ ⁿᔒᔗ á”á”’âżâżá”ƒ ˥ᔉᔗ ʰⁱᔐ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊž âœá”ƒâżá”ˆ ᔉᔛᔉⁿ ʰᔉ ᔃⁿᔈ áŽŸá”ƒá”—Êłâ±á¶œá” á”ˆâ±ËąËĄâ±á”á”‰ ᔃ˥˥ ᔗʰᔉ ⁿᔒⁱ˹ᔉ á¶ Êłá”’á” ᔗʰᔉ Ê·á”’Êłá”âŸ ᔃⁿᔈ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą á”ˆá”’á”‰Ëąâż'á”— ʰᔃᔛᔉ á”‰âżá”’á”˜á”Ê° Êłá”’á”’á” á”—á”’ â±âżá¶œËĄá”˜á”ˆá”‰ ʰⁱᔐ‧ áŽłá”ƒÊłÊž ᔗʰᔉ ˹ⁿᔃⁱ˥ ᔉᔛᔉⁿ á¶œÊłá”ƒËąÊ°á”‰Ëą Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰âžŽ ᔃⁿᔈ ʰᔉ ËĄâ±á”á”‰Ëą á”—á”’ á”–ËĄá”ƒÊž ʷⁱᔗʰ ᔆᔖᔒᔗ➎ ᔐʞ Ê°á”˜Ëąá”‡á”ƒâżá”ˆ'Ëą ᔖᔘᔖᔖʞ‧ ᎔ Ê·á”ƒâżâżá”ƒ ᔏᔉᔉᔖ ᔃⁿ ᔉʞᔉ ᔒⁿ ᔗʰᔉᔐ➎ ᔃ˹ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á¶œá”ƒâż ᔍᔉᔗ á”‰á”ƒËąâ±ËĄÊž á”ƒâżá”ÊłÊž Ê·Ê°á”‰âż Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á”‰á”›á”‰Êł á”ƒâżâżá”’ÊžËą ʰⁱᔐ➎ á”ƒá”‡ËĄá”‰â±Ëąá”— á”˜âżâ±âżá”—á”‰âżá”—â±á”’âżá”ƒËĄËĄÊžâ€§ ᔀʰᔉʞ á”âżá”’Ê· ᔉᔃᶜʰ á”’á”—Ê°á”‰Êł Ê·á”‰ËĄËĄâžŽ ᔇᔘᔗ á¶œá”ƒâż ᔇᔉ ᔃᔗ á”’á”ˆá”ˆËą Ëąâ±âżá¶œá”‰ Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ Ê·á”’Êłá”Ëą á¶ á”’Êł á”–ËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą á”‰âżá”‰á”ÊžâžŽ ʷʰⁱᶜʰ á¶œá”ƒâż ᔖᔘᔗ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔗʰᔉ Ê·Êłá”’âżá” ʷᔃʞ‧ áŽźá”˜á”— ᔒᔖᔖᔒ˹ⁱᔗᔉ˹ á”ƒá”—á”—Êłá”ƒá¶œá”—âžŽ á”á”ƒá”â±âżá” á”—Ê°á”‰â±Êł á¶ Êłâ±á”‰âżá”ˆËąÊ°â±á”– á”ˆÊžâżá”ƒá”â±á¶œ ᔈᔘᔒ Ê·á”’Êłá”â€§ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡'Ëą á”á”’â±âżá” á”—á”’ ᔇᔉ âżâ±á¶œá”‰ á”—á”’ ᔃ˥˥➎ ᔃⁿᔈ á¶œá”ƒâż ᔉᔛᔉⁿ ᔇᔉ âżâ±á¶œá”‰Êł á”—á”’ á”–ËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”—Ê°á”ƒâż ᎔ ˹ᔒᔐᔉᔗⁱᔐᔉ˹‧ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”âżá”’Ê·Ëą ʰᔉ'Ëą ᔃ á”–á”ƒá¶œâ±á¶ â±Ëąá”— ᔃⁿᔈ Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á”âżá”’Ê·Ëą á”–ËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”ƒâżá”á”‰Êł â±ËąËąá”˜á”‰Ëą ᔆᔒ ᔗʰᔉʞ á¶œá”ƒâż ᶜᔒᔐᔉ ᔘᔖ ʷⁱᔗʰ á¶œá”’á”á”–Êłá”’á”â±Ëąá”‰Ëą á”—á”’ á¶œá”’á”á¶ á”’Êłá”— ᶻᔒⁿᔉ˹‧ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ á”ƒËĄËąá”’ á”âżá”’Ê·Ëą ʰᔉ Êłá”ƒÊłá”‰ËĄÊž ᔒᔖᔉⁿ˹ ᔘᔖ➎ ᔇᔘᔗ ʰᔉ á”’âżá¶œá”‰ ⁱⁿ ᔃ Ê·Ê°â±ËĄá”‰ á”ˆá”’á”‰Ëą á”—á”’ ËĄâ±á”á”‰ ᔐᔉ á”’Êł Ê°â±Ëą á”Êłá”ƒâżá”ˆá”á”ƒâ€§ áŽźá”˜á”— ᔉᔛᔉⁿ ʰᔉ Ê°á”ƒËą ˥ⁱᔐⁱᔗ˹ ᔃⁿᔈ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ á”âżá”’Ê·Ëą ⁱᔗ‧ ᔀʰᔉʞ Ê·á”‰Êłá”‰ á”–ËĄá”ƒÊžâ±âżá” ʷⁱᔗʰ ᔗʰᔉ ᔖᔉᔗ˹ Ê·Ê°á”‰âż Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ Ëąá”—á”˜á”‡á”‡á”‰á”ˆ Ê°â±Ëą ᔗᔒᔉ ᔒⁿ ᔃ Êłá”’á¶œá”â€§ "ᔂᔃᔗᶜʰ ᔒᔘᔗ Ê·Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰ ʞᔒᔘ'Êłá”‰ á”á”’â±âżá”âžŽ ʞᔒᔘ ᶠᔒᔒ˥!" Êžá”‰ËĄËĄá”‰á”ˆ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔃ˹ Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᔗᔒᔒᔏ Ê°â±Ëą Ëąá”’á¶œá” ᔒᶠᶠ‧ ᎔ᔗ˹ Ê°â±Ëą á”’Ê·âż ʷᔃʞ ᔒᶠ ËąÊ°á”’Ê·â±âżá” ʰᔉ á¶œá”ƒÊłá”‰Ëą ᎔ á”á”˜á”‰ËąËąâ€§ ᔂᔉ ᔍᔒᔗ Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ˹ᔒᔐᔉ ⁱᶜᔉ á”˜âżá”—â±ËĄ ᶠᔉ˥ᔗ á”‡á”‰á”—á”—á”‰Êłâ€§ ᔀʰᔉ ᔖᔉᔗ˹ ᶜᔃᔐᔉ â±âżËąâ±á”ˆá”‰ ᔃⁿᔈ Ëąá”–á”’á”— ᔍᔃᔛᔉ Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ˹ᔒᔐᔉ á”â±ËąËąá”‰Ëąâ€§ "áŽ±á”ƒËąÊžâžŽ ᔇᔒʞ!" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą á”—á”‰ËĄËĄâ±âżá” ˹ᔖᔒᔗ➎ Ê°á”’ËĄá”ˆâ±âżá” ᔗʰᔉ ᔃᔐᔒᔉᔇᔃ‧ áŽșá”’Ê· ʰᔉ'Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ ᔐᔘᶜʰ ᔒᶠ ᔃ Ê°á”˜á”á”á”‰ÊłâžŽ ᔇᔘᔗ Ëąâżá”˜á”á”ËĄá”‰Ëą ʷⁱᔗʰ Ëąá”–á”’á”—; ʰᔉ âżá”‰á”›á”‰Êł á”ˆá”’á”‰Ëą ʷⁱᔗʰ ᔖᔉᔒᔖ˥ᔉ➎ ᔃᔗ ËĄá”‰á”ƒËąá”— ⁿᔒᔗ á¶ á”’Êł ËĄá”‰âżá”á”—Ê° ᔒᶠ ᔗⁱᔐᔉ‧ ᎔ á”âżá”‰Ê· ⁿᔒᔗ á”—á”’ Ëąá”˜á”á”á”‰Ëąá”— ᔃ á”‡á”’á”ƒÊłá”ˆ ᔍᔃᔐᔉ➎ á”âżá”’Ê·â±âżá” ᔐʞ Ê°á”˜Ëąá”‡á”ƒâżá”ˆËą ᶜᔒᔐᔖᔉᔗⁱᔗⁱᔛᔉ âżá”ƒá”—á”˜Êłá”‰â€§ ᎔ Ê·á”ƒËą ᔃᔇᔒᔘᔗ á”—á”’ ᔐᔃᔏᔉ ˹ᔒᔐᔉ ᶠᔒᔒᔈ Ê·Ê°á”‰âż á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ Ê°á”‰ËĄá”ˆ ᔘᔖ ᔃ ᔖᔃᔗᔗʞ‧ "᎔ á”âżá”’Ê· ʞᔒᔘ'ᔈ ËĄâ±á”á”‰ á”—á”’ á”ƒâżá”ƒËĄÊžËąá”‰ ᔗʰᔉ Êłá”‰á¶œâ±á”–á”‰âžŽ ᔇᔘᔗ ᎔ ᶠᔉᔉ˥ ʞᔒᔘ ËąÊ°á”’á”˜ËĄá”ˆ ᔃᔗ ËĄá”‰á”ƒËąá”— ᔍᔉᔗ ᔃ á”—á”ƒËąá”—á”‰ ᔒᶠ ᔗʰᔉ á”ˆá”‰ËĄâ±á¶œâ±á”’á”˜Ëąâżá”‰ËąËąâ€§" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ Ëąá”ƒâ±á”ˆâ€§ "áŽźá”˜á”— ⁱᶠ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëąâ€§â€§â€§" "áŽčÊłâ€§ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰; á”‡á”‰Ëąâ±á”ˆá”‰ËąâžŽ ʷᔉ'Êłá”‰ á”’âżËĄÊž á”‰á”ƒá”—â±âżá” ⁱᔗ➎ ⁿᔒᔗ Êłá”‰á”›á”‰á”ƒËĄâ±âżá” ᔗʰᔉ á¶ á”’Êłá”á”˜ËĄá”ƒ!" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ á”—á”’ËĄá”ˆ ʰⁱᔐ➎ á”âżá”’Ê·â±âżá” ʰᔉ'Ëą ᔗʰᔉ á”’âżËĄÊž á”–á”‰ÊłËąá”’âż á”‡á”ƒÊłâżá”‰á”ˆ á¶ á”’Êł ˥ⁱᶠᔉ‧ ᔀʰᔉʞ ˹ᔖ˥ⁱᔗ ᔗʰᔉ ᔖᔃᔗᔗʞ➎ á”‰á”ƒá”—â±âżá” á”‰á”›á”‰ÊłÊž ËĄá”ƒËąá”— á”á”’ÊłËąá”‰ËĄ! "á”€Ê°á”ƒâżá” ʞᔒᔘ Ëąá”’ ᔐᔘᶜʰ ᔏⁱᔈ‧‧‧" ᎔ Ëąá”ƒÊ· Ê°á”’Ê· Ëąâ±âżá¶œá”‰Êłá”‰ ʰᔉ'Ëą ʷⁱᔗʰ á”Êłá”ƒá”—â±á”—á”˜á”ˆá”‰âžŽ ᔃ˹ ʰᔉ Êłá”ƒÊłá”‰ËĄÊž Ëąá”’ á”ƒá¶ á¶ á”‰á¶œá”—â±á”’âżá”ƒá”—á”‰ËĄÊž ËąÊ°á”’Ê·Ëą á”ƒá”–á”–Êłá”‰á¶œâ±á”ƒá”—â±á”’âżâ€§ áŽŹá¶ á”—á”‰Êł á”‰á”ƒá”—â±âżá”âžŽ ᔗʰᔉ á”‡á”’ÊžËą á”–á”˜ËĄËĄá”‰á”ˆ ᔒᔘᔗ ᔗʰᔉ ᶜᔒᔘᶜʰ ⁱⁿ á¶ Êłá”’âżá”— ᔗʰᔉ ᔗᔉ˥ᔉᔛⁱ˹ⁱᔒⁿ‧ ᔆᔉᔃᔗᔉᔈ Ëąâ±á”ˆá”‰ ᔇʞ Ëąâ±á”ˆá”‰âžŽ ᔗʰᔉʞ ËĄá”’á”’á”á”‰á”ˆ á¶ á”’Êł Ëąá”’á”á”‰á”—Ê°â±âżá” á”—á”’ ʷᔃᔗᶜʰ‧ ᔆᔖᔒᔗ ᔃⁿᔈ áŽłá”ƒÊłÊž Ê·á”‰âżá”— á”—á”’ Êłá”‰Ëąá”— á¶ á”’Êł ᔗʰᔉ âżâ±á”Ê°á”—â€§ "Ꮇⁱᔈ➎ á”ˆá”’á”‰Ëą Êžá”’á”˜Êł ᔇᔒ˹˹ á”âżá”’Ê· Ê·Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰â€§â€§â€§" "᎔ ᔈⁱᔈⁿ'á”— ᔗᔉ˥˥ ʰⁱᔐ ᎔'ᔈ ᔇᔉ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊžâ±âżá” Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰ ᔃᔗ Êžá”’á”˜Êł á”–ËĄá”ƒá¶œá”‰âžŽ Ëąá”’ á”ˆá”’âż'á”— Ê·á”’ÊłÊłÊž!" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ á”—á”’ËĄá”ˆ á”–ËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâžŽ ËĄá”‰á”ƒâżâ±âżá” á¶œËĄá”’Ëąá”‰Êłâ€§ "ᔂᔃⁱᔗ➎ ᎔'ᔛᔉ Ê·á”’Êłá” á”—á”’á”á”’ÊłÊłá”’Ê· á”á”’Êłâżâ±âżá”! ᔂʰᔃᔗ‧‧‧" "ᔀᔉ˥˥ ʰⁱᔐ ʞᔒᔘ'ᔛᔉ ᔇᔒᔒᔏᔉᔈ ᔃ Êłá”’á”’á” ᔃᔗ ᔃⁿ â±âżâżâ€œ" ᎔ Ëąá”˜á”á”á”‰Ëąá”—á”‰á”ˆâ€§ ᔂᔉ ᔃ˥˥ Êłá”‰á”ƒËĄâ±Ëąá”‰á”ˆ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ á”á”’âżâżá”ƒ ËĄâ±á”á”‰ ⁱᔗ ⁱᶠ ʰᔉ á”âżá”‰Ê· Ê°â±Ëą ËĄá”’Êžá”ƒËĄ Ê·á”’Êłá”á”‰Êł Ëąá”—á”ƒÊžá”‰á”ˆ ᔃᔗ ᔗʰᔉ ᶜʰᔘᔐ ᔇᔘᶜᔏᔉᔗ➎ ᔉᔛᔉⁿ ⁱᶠ ⁱⁿ Ëąá”˜á¶œÊ° á¶œâ±Êłá¶œá”˜á”Ëąá”—á”ƒâżá¶œá”‰Ëąâ€§ ᎔ᔗ'ᔈ á¶œá”ƒá”˜Ëąá”‰ á”á”’Êłá”‰ Êłâ±Ëąá” ᔒᶠ á”—Êłá”’á”˜á”‡ËĄá”‰ á”—Ê°á”ƒâż ⁱᔗ˹ Ê·á”’Êłá”—Ê°! áŽŒâżËĄÊž â±á”á”ƒá”â±âżá”‰ ⁱᶠ ʰᔉ á”âżá”‰Ê· Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡'Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ á”’âżËĄÊž á¶œâ±á”›â±ËĄ á”—á”’ á”–ËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâžŽ ᔇᔘᔗ á”ƒËĄËąá”’ ËąÊ°á”ƒÊłá”‰á”ˆ ᔃ ᔖᔃᔗᔗʞ‧‧‧ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą Êłá”‰á”ƒËĄâ±Ëąá”‰Ëą Ê°á”’Ê· Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡'Ëą á”á”’â±âżá” á”—á”’ ᔇᔉ âżâ±á¶œá”‰âžŽ ⁿᔒ á”á”ƒá”—á”—á”‰Êł ʷʰᔃᔗ➎ ᔇᔘᔗ ʰᔉ âżá”‰á”›á”‰Êł á”ƒá”–á”–Êłá”’á”›á”‰Ëą ᔒᶠ Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á”—ÊłÊžâ±âżá” á”—á”’ ᔏᔉᔉᔖ ᔗʰᔉ ᔖᔉᔃᶜᔉ Ê·Ê°á”‰âż ᔗʰᔉʞ'Êłá”‰ ᔃᔗ á”’á”ˆá”ˆËąâ€§ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”˜âżá”ˆá”‰ÊłËąá”—á”ƒâżá”ˆËą Ê°â±Ëą ËĄá”’Êžá”ƒËĄá”—Êž á”—á”’ ᔗʰᔉ á”Êłá”˜Ëąá”—Êž á”Êłá”ƒá”‡âžŽ á”ƒËĄá”—Ê°á”’á”˜á”Ê° ʰᔉ á”ˆá”’á”‰Ëąâż'á”— á”ƒá”Êłá”‰á”‰ ʷⁱᔗʰ ⁱᔗ‧ ᎎⁱ˹ á”á”’á”ƒËĄ ⁱⁿ ˥ⁱᶠᔉ ⁱ˹ ËąÊ°á”’Ê·â±âżá” ᔗʰᔉ Ê·á”’ÊłËĄá”ˆ Ê°á”’Ê· á”Êłá”‰á”ƒá”— ʰᔉ á¶œá”ƒâż ᔇᔉ➎ ᔃⁿᔈ Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡'Ëą ᔒⁿ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą Ëąâ±á”ˆá”‰ ⁱⁿ ᔗʰᔉ ˹ᔃⁱᔈ ᶜᔃᔗ ᔃⁿᔈ á”á”’á”˜Ëąá”‰ ᔍᔃᔐᔉ‧ ᎔ Ê·á”ƒËą á”—Ê°â±âżá”â±âżá” ᔃᔇᔒᔘᔗ ⁱᔗ ᔃ˹ ᔗʰᔉ á”–Êłá”’á”Êłá”ƒá”á”á”‰ á”‰âżá”ˆá”‰á”ˆâžŽ ᔃⁿᔈ á”—á”˜Êłâżá”‰á”ˆ ᔒᶠᶠ ᔗʰᔉ ᔗᔉ˥ᔉᔛⁱ˹ⁱᔒⁿ‧ ᎔ Ê·Ê°â±Ëąá”–á”‰Êłá”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ "᎔ á”ˆá”’âż'á”— á”âżá”’Ê· ʷʰᔃᔗ ᔗⁱᔐᔉ ʞᔒᔘ ᔍᔒ á”—á”’ á”ƒá”—á”—á”‰âżá”ˆ Ê·á”’Êłá”â€§â€§â€§" "᎔ᔐ á”—á”’ á”ƒÊłÊłâ±á”›á”‰ ᔃᔗ ⁞ á”’'á¶œËĄá”’á¶œá” ⁱⁿ ᔗʰᔉ ᔃᔐ‧" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ á‘«á”˜â±á”‰á”—ËĄÊž á”ƒâżËąÊ·á”‰Êłá”‰á”ˆâžŽ Ëąá”’ ᔃ˹ á”—á”’ ⁿᔒᔗ Ëąá”—â±Êł áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâžŽ Ê·Ê°á”’ ËĄá”‰á”ƒâżá”‰á”ˆ ᔒⁿ ʰⁱᔐ á”˜âżá”ƒÊ·á”ƒÊłá”‰Ëąâ€§ áŽŒâżËĄÊž ᔐᔉ ᔃⁿᔈ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ Ê·á”‰Êłá”‰ ᔃʷᔃᔏᔉ ᔃᔗ ᔇʞ ᔗʰᔉ á”‰âżá”ˆ ᔒᶠ ᔗʰᔉ á”–Êłá”’á”Êłá”ƒá”á”á”‰â€§ ᎌʰ Ê°á”’Ê· áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą Ê·á”’á”˜ËĄá”ˆâż'á”— ËĄâ±á”á”‰ á”—á”’ ˹ᔉᔉ ⁱᔗ; ᎔ Ê·á”ƒâżá”—á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ á¶œÊ°á”˜á¶œá”ËĄá”‰ ᔃᔗ ᔗʰᔉ ⁿᔒᔗⁱᔒⁿ ᔒᶠ ʰⁱᔐ á¶ á”˜Êłâ±á”’á”˜Ëą ᔃᔗ ᔗʰᔉ Ëąâ±á”Ê°á”—â€§ "ᎎᔒʷ'Ëą ᔗʰᔉ ᔗᔒᔉ?" ᎔ á”ƒËąá”á”‰á”ˆâ€§ "á”‚á”ƒâżâżá”ƒ ᶜʰᔉᶜᔏ‧‧‧" "᎔˥˥ ᔗᔃᔏᔉ ᔃ ËĄá”’á”’á” ᔃᔗ ᔐʞ ᔗᔒᔉ á”—á”’á”á”’ÊłÊłá”’Ê· á”á”’Êłâżâ±âżá”â€§â€§â€§" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ ˹ᔃⁱᔈ➎ á”—ÊłÊžâ±âżá” á”—á”’ ˥ıᔉ á”ˆá”’Ê·âż á¶œá”’á”á¶ á”’Êłá”—á”ƒá”‡ËĄÊž ʷⁱᔗʰ á”–ËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ËĄá”ƒÌŠÊžâ±âżá” á”ƒá”á”ƒâ±âżËąá”— ʰⁱᔐ‧ "ᔂʰᔃᔗ ᔗⁱᔐᔉ ⁱ˹ ⁱᔗ?" ᎔ Ê°á”‰á”ƒÊłá”ˆ á”–ËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ëąá”ƒÊžâžŽ Êłá”’á”˜Ëąâ±âżá” Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡â€§ "ᎌʰ➎ ᎔ ᔍᔒᔗ á”—á”’ ᔇᔉ ᔃᔗ Ê·á”’Êłá”! Ꮀᔒⁿ'á”— Ê·á”ƒâżá”— áŽčÊłâ€§ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą á”—á”’ ᔇᔉ Ëąá”˜Ëąá”–â±á¶œâ±á”’á”˜ËąâžŽ âżá”’Êł ᔇᔉ ËĄá”ƒá”—á”‰ á”—Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰!" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊłá”—á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ ËĄá”‰á”ƒá”›á”‰âžŽ ᔇᔘᔗ ᎔ Ê·á”ƒâżá”—á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ ᶜʰᔉᶜᔏ ᔒⁿ Ê°â±Ëą ᔗᔒᔉ‧ "ᔂʰᔃᔗ ᔃᔇᔒᔘᔗ ᔗʰᔉ ᔗᔒᔉ?" ᎔ á¶œá”ƒËĄËĄá”‰á”ˆ ᔒᔘᔗ‧ ᎎᔉ ᶜʰᔉᶜᔏᔉᔈ ⁱᔗ➎ ᔃⁿᔈ ⁿᔒ Êłá”‰á”ˆâżá”‰ËąËąâ€§ "ᔆᔗⁱ˥˥ ᔍᔒ á”‰á”ƒËąÊž ᔒⁿ ⁱᔗ‧" "ᔂⁱ˥˥ ᔈᔒ!" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á¶œá”ƒËĄËĄá”‰á”ˆ ᔒᔘᔗ ᔃ˹ ʰᔉ ˥ᔉᶠᔗ‧ "áŽžá”ƒËąá”— ᎔ á¶œá”ƒâż Êłá”‰á¶œá”ƒËĄËĄ á”—ÊłÊžâ±âżá” á”—á”’ Êłá”‰á”á”ƒâ±âż á¶ á”’á¶œá”˜ËąËąá”‰á”ˆ ᔒⁿ ᔗʰᔉ Ëąá¶œÊłá”‰á”‰âż ᔇʞ ʷⁱᔗʰ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰â€§â€§â€§" "᎔ á”ˆá”’âż'á”— á”—Ê°â±âżá” ʞᔒᔘ ᔉᔛᔉⁿ ᔐᔃᔈᔉ ⁱᔗ á”—Ê°Êłá”’á”˜á”Ê° ᔗʰᔉ Ê°á”ƒËĄá¶  ᔒᶠ ᔗʰᔉ á”–Êłá”’á”Êłá”ƒá”á”á”‰!" ᎔ â±âżá”—á”‰ÊłÊČᔉᶜᔗᔉᔈ➎ Êłá”‰á”Êłá”‰á”—á”—â±âżá” Ëąá”ƒÊžâ±âżá” ⁱᔗ Êłâ±á”Ê°á”— ᔃ˹ á”ƒá¶ á”—á”‰Êł ᎔ ˹ᔃⁱᔈ ⁱᔗ; á”‡á”‰á¶œá”ƒá”˜Ëąá”‰ ʰᔉ'Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ ᔒⁿᔉ á”—á”’ ᔃᔈᔐⁱᔗ á”›á”˜ËĄâżá”‰Êłá”ƒá”‡â±ËĄâ±á”—Êžâ€§ ᎏ˹ Ê·á”ƒËĄá”â±âżá” ᔗʰᔉ ᔖᔉᔗ˹➎ ᎔ á”˜Ëąá”‰á”ˆ ᔐʞ Ëąá”˜á”–á”‰Êłá¶œá”’á”á”–á”˜á”—á”‰Êł á”ˆá”‰á”—á”‰á¶œá”—â±á”’âż Ê°á”‰á”ƒÊłâ±âżá” á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ ᔃⁿᔈ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëąâ€§ "ᔂʰʞ ʞᔉ ËĄâ±á”á”–â±âżá”âžŽ ᔇᔒⁱ?" "᎔ á”—Êłâ±á”–á”–á”‰á”ˆ ᔒⁿ ᔗʰᔉ ʷᔃʞ Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰âžŽ á”‡á”‰á¶œá”ƒá”˜Ëąá”‰ ᎔ Êłá”ƒâż á”—á”’ á¶ á”ƒËąá”— ⁿᔒᔗ ËĄá”’á”’á”â±âżá” Ê·Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰ ᎔ Ê·á”ƒËą á”á”’â±âżá”â€§â€§â€§" áŽșⁱᶜᔉ Ëąá”ƒá”›á”‰âžŽ Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡â€§ "Ꮆᔉ˹ᔗ ᔐᔃᔏᔉ Ëąá”˜Êłá”‰ ⁿᔒᔗ á”—á”’ â±âżá”—á”‰Êłá¶ á”‰Êłá”‰ ʷⁱᔗʰ‧‧‧" "᎔ ᔍᔒᔗ ⁱᔗ➎ áŽčÊłâ€§ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą; á”‰á”›á”‰ÊłÊžá”—Ê°â±âżá”'Ëą ᶠⁱⁿᔉ!" ᎌᶠ á¶œá”’á”˜ÊłËąá”‰âžŽ ʷᔉ á”ˆâ±á”ˆâżá”— ʰᔃᔛᔉ á”ƒâżÊž á¶œá”˜Ëąá”—á”’á”á”‰ÊłËą ᔃᔗ ᔗʰᔉ ᶜʰᔘᔐ ᔇᔘᶜᔏᔉᔗ‧ áŽŒâżËĄÊž á”—Ê°â±âżá” ᔘⁿᔘ˹ᔘᔃ˥ ⁜ⁱᶠ á”ƒâżÊžá”—Ê°â±âżá”âŸ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ⁿᔒᔗ á”—á”’ Ëąá”—Êłá”‰ËąËąá”‰á”ˆ ᔒⁿ ËĄá”ƒá¶œá” ᔒᶠ á”‡á”˜Ëąâ±âżá”‰ËąËą ᔗᔒᔈᔃʞ➎ á”‡á”‰á¶œá”ƒá”˜Ëąá”‰ ʰᔉ'Ëą á”—ÊłÊžâ±âżá” á”—á”’ ᶜᔒᔐᔉ ᔘᔖ ʷⁱᔗʰ ʷʰᔃᔗ á”—á”’ ᔈᔒ ʷⁱᔗʰ Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á”ƒá¶ á”—á”‰Êł Ê·á”’Êłá”â€§ "᎞ᔉᔗ'Ëą ˹ᔉᔉ; ʰᔉ ËĄâ±á”á”‰Ëą ÊČá”‰ËĄËĄÊžá¶ â±ËąÊ°âžŽ á”á”ƒÊłá”ƒá”—á”‰âžŽ á”á”‰Êłá”á”ƒâ±á”ˆ ᔐᔃⁿ ᔃⁿᔈ á”‡á”ƒÊłâżá”ƒá¶œËĄá”‰ ᔇᔒʞ‧‧‧" "áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâžŽ ʰᔉ á”á”‰á”—Ëą ᔒᶠᶠ Ê·á”’Êłá” á”ƒá¶ á”—á”‰Êł á”‰á”›á”‰âżâ±âżá”Ëą; ʰᔉ ᔐⁱᔍʰᔗ ᔇᔉ á”—á”’ Ê·á”’Êłâż ᔒᔘᔗ á”—á”’ á”–ËĄá”ƒÊžâžŽ á”ƒËĄá”—Ê°á”’á”˜á”Ê° ʰᔉ'ᔈ á”ƒá”–á”–Êłá”‰á¶œâ±á”ƒá”—á”‰ ⁱᔗ!" "áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âżâ€§â€§â€§" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ÊČᔘᔐᔖᔉᔈ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊłá”—ËĄá”‰á”ˆ ᔃᔗ á”âżá”’á¶œá”â±âżá” á¶ Êłá”’á” á¶ Êłá”’âżá”— á”ˆá”’á”’Êłâ€§ ᔂʰᔃᔗ'Ëą áŽŸá”ƒá”—Êłâ±á¶œá” á”ˆá”’â±âżá” Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰â€§â€§â€§ "á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡'Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰âžŽ ᶜʰᔉᶜᔏ ᔇᔃᶜᔏ á”ƒá¶ á”—á”‰Êł Ê°â±Ëą ËąÊ°â±á¶ á”—â€§ ᔁⁿ˥ᔉ˹˹ ʞᔒᔘ'Êłá”‰ Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰ á¶ á”’Êł ËĄá”˜âżá¶œÊ°â€§â€§â€§" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ëąá”ƒâ±á”ˆâ€§ "ᎌʰ➎ ʰᔉ'Ëą Ëąá”—á”ƒÊžâ±âżá” Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰? ᎔ Ê·á”ƒËą á”á”’âżâżá”ƒ ᔍᔉᔗ ʰⁱᔐ ᔃ Ëąá”˜Êłá”–Êłâ±Ëąá”‰ á”á”‰á”ƒËĄâ€§ ᎔ ᔈⁱᔈⁿ'á”— á”âżá”’Ê· ʰᔉ'Ëą Ëąá”—á”ƒÊžâ±âżá” ʷⁱᔗʰ ʞᔒᔘ!" áŽŸá”ƒá”—Êłâ±á¶œá” ˹ᔃⁱᔈ ᔃ˹ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą ËąÊ°á”˜á”— ᔗʰᔉ á”ˆá”’á”’Êł ⁱⁿ Ê°â±Ëą ᶠᔃᶜᔉ‧ áŽŸá”ƒá”—Êłâ±á¶œá” Ê·á”‰âżá”— á”ƒá¶œÊłá”’ËąËą ᔗʰᔉ Ëąá”—Êłá”‰á”‰á”— ᔃ˹ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔏᔉᔖᔗ ᔒⁿ á”‡Êłá”ƒâ±âżËąá”—á”’Êłá”â±âżá” ᔒⁿ ʷʰᔃᔗ ʰᔉ á¶œá”’á”˜ËĄá”ˆ ᔈᔒ‧ áŽŒâżá¶œá”‰ Ê°â±Ëą ËąÊ°â±á¶ á”— á”‰âżá”ˆá”‰á”ˆâžŽ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ ʷᔃⁱᔗᔉᔈ á¶ á”’Êł ᔗʰᔉ á¶œá”’á”ƒËąá”— á”—á”’ ᔇᔉ á¶œËĄá”‰á”ƒÊł á”‡á”‰á¶ á”’Êłá”‰ Ê°á”‰á”ƒá”ˆâ±âżá” á”’á”›á”‰Êł Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰â€§ "᎟ʰᔉʷ; ËĄá”’âżá” ᔈᔃʞ ᔒⁿ ᔐʞ ᶠᔉᔉᔗ➎ ᔃ˥˥ Ê·Ê°â±ËĄËąá”— á”ƒá”›á”’â±á”ˆâ±âżá” á”˜âżá”ˆá”˜á”‰ á”˜Ëąá”‰ ᔒᶠ ᔐʞ ᔗᔒᔉ!" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔍᔒᔗ ʷʰᔃᔗ ʰᔉ Ê·á”’Êłá”á”‰á”ˆ ᔒⁿ á¶ á”’Êł Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᔃ˥˥ ᔈᔃʞ á”’âżËĄÊž á”—á”’ Êłá”‰á”—á”˜Êłâż á”—á”’ ᶠⁱⁿᔈ Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ËąËĄá”‰á”‰á”–â±âżá” ᔒⁿ ᔗʰᔉ ᶜᔒᔘᶜʰ‧ "᎔ á”á”˜á”‰ËąËą ʰᔉ'Ëą ᔗʰᔉ á¶ â±ÊłËąá”— ᔒⁿᔉ á”—á”’ ᶠᔃ˥˥ á”ƒËąËĄá”‰á”‰á”– á”—á”’âżâ±á”Ê°á”—â€§â€§â€§" ᎔ á”—á”’ËĄá”ˆ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€§ áŽ¶á”˜Ëąá”— á”—Ê°á”‰âżâžŽ ᔃ á¶œá”’á”á”á”’á”—â±á”’âż á”’á¶œá¶œá”˜ÊłÊłá”‰á”ˆ á”’á”˜á”—á”ˆá”’á”’ÊłËą ⁱⁿ á¶ Êłá”’âżá”—â€§ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ê·á”‰âżá”— á”—á”’ â±âżá”›á”‰Ëąá”—â±á”á”ƒá”—á”‰âžŽ ÊČá”˜Ëąá”— á”—á”’ ᶠⁱⁿᔈ áŽŸá”ƒá”—Êłâ±á¶œá” á”‡á”‰â±âżá” á¶ á”’ËĄËĄá”’Ê·á”‰á”ˆ ᔇʞ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëąâ€§â€§â€§ ᎔ á”á”˜á”‰ËąËą áŽŸá”ƒá”—Êłâ±á¶œá” á”‡ËĄá”ƒá”‡á”‡á”‰á”ˆ; ⁱᔗ Ê·á”’âż'á”— á”‰âżá”ˆ Ê·á”‰ËĄËĄâ€§ "áŽŸáŽžáŽŹáŽșᎷᔀᎌáŽș“" áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą Ëąá¶œÊłá”‰á”ƒá”á”‰á”ˆ ⁱⁿ á¶ á”˜ÊłÊžâžŽ ʷʰⁱᶜʰ ᔃʷᔒᔏᔉ Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á”˜âżá”‡á”‰á”âżá”’Ê·âżËąá”— á”—á”’ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€§ áŽčÊž Ê°á”˜Ëąá”‡á”ƒâżá”ˆ ËĄá”’á”’á”á”‰á”ˆ ᔘᔖ ᔃᔗ áŽŸá”ƒá”—Êłâ±á¶œá”â€§ "Ꮃᔉᔗ ˥ᔒ˹ᔗ➎ ᎟ᔃᔗ‧‧‧" "᎔'ᔐ á”—á”ƒËĄá”â±âżá” á”—á”’ ʞᔒᔘ!" áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą â±âżá”—á”‰ÊłÊłá”˜á”–á”—á”‰á”ˆ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€§ áŽșá”’Ê· á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡'Ëą Ê·á”ƒá”—á¶œÊ°â±âżá” ʷⁱᔗʰ ᔐᔉ‧ "ᶻⁱᔖ ⁱᔗ➎ áŽ±á”˜á”á”‰âżá”‰; ʰᔉ'Ëą Êłá”‰Ëąá”—â±âżá”!" "ᎎᔉ ⁱ˹ ᔐᔉ á”‰á”á”–ËĄá”’Êžá”‰á”‰; ᔐᔒᔛᔉ á”’á”›á”‰Êł!" "ᎎᔉ âżá”‰á”‰á”ˆËą ᔖᔉᔃᶜᔉ ᔃⁿᔈ ᑫᔘⁱᔉᔗ➎ ⁿᔒᔗ Êžá”’á”˜Êł ËĄá”’á”˜á”ˆâ€§â€§â€§ "á”†Ê°á”‰ËĄá”ˆá”’âżâžŽ ᎔ á”—á”’ËĄá”ˆ ʞᔉ á”—á”’ ˹ᔗᔉᔖ á”ƒËąâ±á”ˆá”‰!" "ᔂᔉ˥˥ ᎔ á”—á”’ËĄá”ˆ ʞᔒᔘ ᔗᔒ‧‧‧" "᎔˥˥ á¶œÊłá”˜ËąÊ° ʞᔉ á”—á”’ Ëąá”â±á”—Ê°á”‰Êłá”’á”’âżËą á”†Ê°á”‰ËĄâ€§â€§â€§" "áŽșá”’! ᎎᔉ'Ëą ᔒᶠᶠ ᔗʰᔉ á¶œËĄá”’á¶œá” ᔃⁿᔈ ᎔'ᔐ ËĄá”‰á”—á”—â±âżá” ʰⁱᔐ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊžâ€§â€§â€§" "᎔ ʰᔃᔈ ʰⁱᔐ ˥ⁱᔐᔖ ᔃ˥˥ ᔈᔃʞ➎ Ëąá”’ ᔗʰᔉ ËĄá”‰á”ƒËąá”— ʰᔉ á¶œá”ƒâż ᔈᔒ‧‧‧" "ᎎᔉ'Ëą ËĄâ±á”á”–â±âżá” á”‡á”‰á¶œá”ƒá”˜Ëąá”‰ ʰᔉ'Ëą Ëąá”’Êłá”‰â€§â€§â€§" "áŽ±â±á”—Ê°á”‰Êł ʷᔃʞ ᎔'ËĄËĄ á”–á”˜âżâ±ËąÊ° ʰⁱᔐ➎ á¶ á”’Êł ʰᔉ á¶ Êłá”ƒá”—á”‰Êłâżâ±á¶»á”‰â€§â€§â€§" "᎔ ˥ᔉᔗ ʰⁱᔐ‧‧‧" "ᔂᔉ˥˥ á”—Ê°á”‰âż ᎔ ᶠ᎔ᎿᎱ ᎎ᎔áŽč!" ᔂᔉ ᔃ˥˥ Ëąâ±ËĄá”‰âżá”—ËĄÊž Ëąá”—á”’á”’á”ˆ ⁱⁿ ËąÊ°á”’á¶œá” ᔃ˹ ᔗʰᔉ ᔉᶜʰᔒ ᔒᶠ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡ËąâžŽ ʷⁱᔗʰ Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ Ê·Ê°â±á”á”–á”‰Êłâ±âżá”â€§ ᔂᔉ ᔃ˥˥ ʷᔃᔗᶜʰᔉᔈ á”–ËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâžŽ á”âżá”’Ê·â±âżá” ʰᔉ'Ëą á”á”’âżâżá”ƒ ʰᔃᔛᔉ á”—á”’ á¶œÊ°á”’á”’Ëąá”‰ ᔗʰᔉ ᶠᔃᔗᔉ‧‧‧ "᎞ⁱ˹ᔗᔉⁿ á”—á”’ ᔐᔉ➎ áŽ±á”˜á”á”‰âżá”‰; á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ ˥ᔒᔛᔉ˹ Ê°â±Ëą ÊČᔒᔇ ᔃᔗ Êžá”’á”˜Êł Êłá”‰Ëąá”—á”ƒá”˜Êłá”ƒâżá”— á”ƒâżá”ˆâ€§â€§â€§" ᎔ Ëąá”ƒÊ· áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą á”—á”‰á”ƒÊłÊž ᔉʞᔉᔈ âżá”’Ê·â€§â€§â€§ "ʞᔒᔘ ʰᔃᔛᔉ ᔃ Ëąá¶œá”’Êłá”‰ á”—á”’ ˹ᔉᔗᔗ˥ᔉ ʷⁱᔗʰ ᔐᔉ➎ ᔍᔃᔐᔉ ᔒⁿ; ᔇᔘᔗ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡'Ëą ᔇᔉᔉⁿ âżá”’á”—Ê°â±âżá” ᔇᔘᔗ á”â±âżá”ˆ á”—á”’ á”‰â±á”—Ê°á”‰Êł ᔒᶠ ᔘ˹ ᔃᔗ á”’á”˜Êł Ê·á”’ÊłËąá”—! ᎎᔒʷ á”ˆá”ƒÊłá”‰ ʞᔒᔘ‧‧‧" "á”†â±âżá¶œá”‰ Ê·Ê°á”‰âż ᔈᔒ‧‧‧" "ᔂᎱ ᎏᎿᎱ ᶠᎿ᎔ᎱáŽș᮰ᔆ⾮ ᎏáŽșᎰ ᎎᎱ ᎰᎌᎱᔆáŽș'ᔀ áŽ°áŽ±á”†áŽ±áŽżâ±œáŽ± Ꮁ᎔ᔀᎎᎱᎿ ᎌᶠ ᔁᔆ!" áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą Ëąá”—á”’á”á”–á”‰á”ˆâžŽ Ê°á”ƒÊłá”ˆâ€§ "ᔂʰʞ á”ƒÊłá”‰âż'á”— ʞᔒᔘ‧‧‧" "᎔ ᎿᎏᔀᎎᎱᎿ ᔀᎏᎷᎱ ᔀᎎᎱ áŽźáŽžáŽŹá¶œáŽ· ᎱʞᎱ ᔀᎎᎏáŽș ᔀᎌ áŽŽáŽŹâ±œáŽ± áŽčÊž ᶠᎿ᎔ᎱáŽșᎰ ᶠ᎔ᎿᎱᎰ!" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á¶œÊłâ±á”‰á”ˆâžŽ ᔃ˹ áŽčÊłâ€§ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą Ëąá”ƒÊ· ʰⁱᔐ Ê·â±ËĄËĄâ±âżá”ËĄÊž ⁿᔒᔗ ᔍⁱᔛᔉ ᎏ ᶠⁱᔍʰᔗ ᔃ˹ ʰᔉ á”˜Ëąá”˜á”ƒËĄËĄÊž Ê·á”’á”˜ËĄá”ˆâ€§ "Ꮃᔒ ᔃʰᔉᔃᔈ➎ á”‰á”˜á”á”‰âżá”‰â€§ á”†á‘«á”˜á”ƒËąÊ° ᔐᔉ ᔃ˹ ËĄá”’âżá” ᔃ˹ ʞᔒᔘ ˥ᔉᔗ ⁱᔗ á”á”‰á”ƒâż Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡â€§â€§â€§" áŽ¶á”˜Ëąá”— á”—Ê°á”‰âżâžŽ Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᔖⁱᶜᔏᔉᔈ ᔘᔖ á”–ËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâžŽ Ê·Ê°á”’ ᶠᔉ˥ᔗ á”á”’Êłá”‰ Ëąá”’Êłá”‰ á”—Ê°á”ƒâż á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡'Ëą ᔗᔒᔉ Ê·Ê°á”‰âż ʰᔉ Ëąá”—á”˜á”‡á”‡á”‰á”ˆ ⁱᔗ‧ ᎔ⁿ á”—á”‰á”ƒÊłËąâžŽ ʰᔉ ËĄá”’á”’á”á”‰á”ˆ ᔃᔗ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€§ Ꮁᔛᔉⁿ áŽčÊłâ€§ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą Ëąá”ƒÊ· á”–ËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą Ëąâ±âżá¶œá”‰Êłâ±á”—Êž ⁱⁿ á”â±á”›â±âżá” ᔘᔖ Ê°â±Ëą ˥ⁱᶠᔉ'Ëą Ê·á”’Êłá” á”—á”’ Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡â€§ áŽșá”‰á”›á”‰Êł Ê°á”ƒËą ʰᔉ á¶œá”ƒËĄËĄá”‰á”ˆ á”ƒâżÊž á”–á”‰ÊłËąá”’âż ᔃ á¶ Êłâ±á”‰âżá”ˆâžŽ á”˜âżá”—â±ËĄ ᔗᔒᔈᔃʞ‧
new spongeblog plankbob spongebobkin plongebob plaren krabbobton krabbob krabston plabscore krustykrabcore karen about thy neighbour
đ°đšđ«đđŹ: 𝟓𝟕𝟎 “Plankton can you at least come out and do the dishes?” 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! “Honey?” 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. “C’mon, sweetie, time to wake up.” 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. “Plankton, darling, please come to bed. You have been working so hard. Let’s get some rest,” 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. “Oh no, you don’t!” 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.
new plaren karen plankton sleepicore 570
ᔆᔖᔒᔗ'Ëą áŽŹá”›á”‰Êłá”ƒá”á”‰ Ꮀᔃʞ áŽčÊž âżá”ƒá”á”‰'Ëą ˹ᔖᔒᔗ➎ ᔃⁿᔈ ᎔'ᔐ ᔃⁿ ᔃᔐᔒᔉᔇᔃ ᔖᔘᔖᔖʞ ᔃᔗ ᔗʰᔉ ᶜʰᔘᔐ ᔇᔘᶜᔏᔉᔗ‧ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą ᔗʰᔉ á”’Ê·âżá”‰Êł ᔃⁿᔈ ᔐʞ ᔇᔉ˹ᔗ á¶ Êłâ±á”‰âżá”ˆâžŽ ʰᔉ'Ëą á”á”ƒÊłÊłâ±á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âżâ€§ ᔀʰᔉʞ ᔇᔒᔗʰ ˹ᔒᔐᔉᔗⁱᔐᔉ˹ á”‡â±á¶œá”á”‰Êł ᔇᔘᔗ ᔃᔗ ᔗʰᔉ á”‰âżá”ˆ ᔒᶠ ᔗʰᔉ ᔈᔃʞ ᔗʰᔉʞ'Êłá”‰ á”˜Ëąá”˜á”ƒËĄËĄÊž ᔒⁿ ᔍᔒᔒᔈ á”—á”‰Êłá”Ëąâ€§ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą ᔃⁿ â±âżá”›á”‰âżá”—á”’Êł ᔒᶠ Ëąá¶œâ±á”‰âżá¶œá”‰ ᔃⁿᔈ á”˜âżËąá”˜á¶œá¶œá”‰ËąËąá¶ á”˜ËĄ Êłá”‰Ëąá”—á”ƒá”˜Êłá”ƒâżá”— á”‡á”˜Ëąâ±âżá”‰ËąËąá”á”ƒâż ⁱⁿ ᶠᔒᔒᔈ â±âżá”ˆá”˜Ëąá”—ÊłÊžâ€§ ᎎᔉ'Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ ᔐᔘᶜʰ ᔒⁿ ËąÊ°á”’Ê·â±âżá” á”ƒá¶ á¶ á”‰á¶œá”—â±á”’âż á”—á”’ á”’á”—Ê°á”‰ÊłËą á¶ á”’Êł ⁿᔒᔗ á”‡á”‰â±âżá” ᔃ ᔖᔉᔒᔖ˥ᔉ á”–á”‰ÊłËąá”’âżâžŽ ᔇᔘᔗ ʰᔉ ˥ᔒᔛᔉ˹ á”’á”˜Êł á¶ á”ƒá”â±ËĄÊžâ€§ ᎏ˹ á”‰ËŁá”–á”‰á¶œá”—á”‰á”ˆâžŽ ᔗʰᔉ á”ƒá”›á”‰Êłá”ƒá”á”‰ ᔈᔃʞ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊłá”—Ëą ⁱⁿ ᔗʰᔉ á”á”’Êłâżâ±âżá”â€§ áŽŹËĄá”—Ê°á”’á”˜á”Ê° ⁿᔒᔗ âżá”‰á¶œá”‰ËąËąá”ƒÊłâ±ËĄÊž á¶œá”˜á”ˆá”ˆËĄÊž áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”ˆá”’á”‰Ëą Ëąâżá”˜á”á”ËĄá”‰ ʷⁱᔗʰ ᔐᔉ! ᔀʰᔉ ᔗⁱᔐᔉ ʷᔉ ᔍᔉᔗ ᔘᔖ á”›á”ƒÊłâ±á”‰ËąâžŽ ⁿᔒᔗ á”—á”’ ᔐᔉⁿᔗⁱᔒⁿ ᎔ ˹ᔒᔐᔉᔗⁱᔐᔉ˹ ˹˥ᔉᔉᔖ ⁱⁿ‧ ᎔ᶠ ᎔ Ê·á”ƒâżâżá”ƒ ᔍᔉᔗ ᔒᔘᔗ ᔒᶠ ᔇᔉᔈ á”‰á”ƒÊłËĄâ±á”‰Êł á”—Ê°á”ƒâż ᔗʰᔉ âżá”’Êłá”âžŽ ᎔'ËĄËĄ ËĄâ±á¶œá” á”â±ËąËąá”‰Ëą ʰⁱᔐ ⁱᶠ âżá”˜á”ˆá”â±âżá” á”ˆá”’á”‰Ëąâż'á”— Ê·á”’Êłá”â€§ ᎔ᔗ'Ëą Êłá”ƒÊłá”‰ ⁱᶠ ᎔ á”ˆá”’âż'á”— ˹˥ᔉᔉᔖ ᔒⁿ Ê°â±Ëą á”’Ê·âż ᔇᔉᔈ ʷⁱᔗʰ ᔇᔘᔗ ᔉᔛᔉⁿ á”—Ê°á”‰âż ᎔ á”˜Ëąá”˜á”ƒËĄËĄÊž ᔃᔐ ⁱⁿ ᔗʰᔉ Ëąá”ƒá”á”‰ Êłá”’á”’á”â€§ ᎔ ᔍᔉᔗ ᶠᔉᔈ á”‡Êłá”‰á”ƒá”á¶ á”ƒËąá”— á”‡á”‰á¶ á”’Êłá”‰ á”á”’â±âżá” ᔒᔘᔗ á”ˆá”’á”’ÊłËąâ€§ á”†â±âżá¶œá”‰ ʷᔉ á”ˆá”’âż'á”— ʰᔃᔛᔉ ᔐᔘᶜʰ á”‡á”˜Ëąâ±âżá”‰ËąËąâžŽ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”˜Ëąá”˜á”ƒËĄËĄÊž Ëąá”–á”‰âżá”ˆËą ᔗʰᔉ ᔈᔃʞ Ê·á”’Êłá”â±âżá” ᔒⁿ á”‰ËŁá”–á”‰Êłâ±á”á”‰âżá”—ËąâžŽ ᔐᔒ˹ᔗ ᔒᶠ ʷʰⁱᶜʰ ⁱⁿᔛᔒ˥ᔛᔉ ᔗʰᔉ á”Êłá”˜Ëąá”—Êž á”Êłá”ƒá”‡â€§ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą ⁱ˹ ᔗʰᔉ á”’Ê·âżá”‰Êł ᔒᶠ ᔗʰᔉ áŽ·Êłá”˜Ëąá”—Êž áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡ Êłá”‰Ëąá”—á”ƒá”˜Êłá”ƒâżá”—âžŽ ᔃⁿᔈ á”Êłá”‰á”ƒá”—á”‰Ëąá”— Êłâ±á”›á”ƒËĄ ᔒᶠ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€§ ᎔'ᔛᔉ âżá”‰á”›á”‰Êł á¶ á”’Êłá”á”ƒËĄËĄÊž ᔐᔉᔗ ʰⁱᔐ ᔇᔘᔗ ᎔ á”âżá”’Ê· ʰᔉ'Ëą ᔃⁿ á”‰âżá”‰á”Êžâ€§ ᎎⁱ˹ á”‰á”á”–ËĄá”’Êžá”‰á”‰Ëą á”ƒÊłá”‰ á”†á‘«á”˜â±á”ˆÊ·á”ƒÊłá”ˆ ᔃⁿᔈ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡â€§ ᔂᔉ á”ˆá”’âż'á”— â±âżá”—á”‰Êłá”ƒá¶œá”— ʷⁱᔗʰ Ëąá‘«á”˜â±á”ˆÊ·á”ƒÊłá”ˆ ᔐᔘᶜʰ➎ ᔇᔘᔗ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą ᔒⁿ Ëąá”’á”á”‰Ê·Ê°á”ƒá”— á”ˆá”‰á¶œá”‰âżá”— á”—á”‰Êłá”Ëą ʷⁱᔗʰ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰ ᎟ᔒᔇ á”ˆá”‰Ëąá”–â±á”—á”‰ á”‡á”‰â±âżá” ᔃᔗ á”’á”ˆá”ˆËą ʷⁱᔗʰ ᔗʰᔉ á”’á”—Ê°á”‰Êł Êłá”‰Ëąá”—á”ƒá”˜Êłá”ƒâżá”—â€§ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡'Ëą ᔖᔉᔗ ˹ⁿᔃⁱ˥ áŽłá”ƒÊłÊž ᔉᔛᔉⁿ Ê°á”ƒâżá”Ëą ᔒᔘᔗ ʷⁱᔗʰ ᔐᔉ! áŽźá”˜á”— ᔐᔒ˹ᔗ Ê·á”‰á”‰á”á”ˆá”ƒÊžËą ⁱⁿᔛᔒ˥ᔛᔉ á”—ÊłÊžâ±âżá” á”—á”’ ʰᔃᔛᔉ ᔗʰᔉ Ëąá”‰á¶œÊłá”‰á”— á”—á”’ ᔗʰᔉ á”Êłá”ƒá”‡á”‡Êž ᔖᔃᔗᔗʞ! ᔀʰᔉ ˹ᔃⁱᔈ Ëąá”‰á¶œÊłá”‰á”—'Ëą ⁱⁿ ᔃ ᔇᔒᔗᔗ˥ᔉ ⁱⁿ á”—Ê°á”‰â±Êł á”›á”ƒá”˜ËĄá”—âžŽ ᔇᔘᔗ á”ƒËĄËąá”’ á”á”‰á”—á”—â±âżá” ᔗʰᔉ ᔖᔃᔗᔗʞ ⁱᔗ˹ᔉ˥ᶠ ⁱ˹ ᔍᔒᔒᔈ á”‰âżá”’á”˜á”Ê° Ê·Ê°á”‰âż Êžá”’á”˜Êł á”’Ê·âżá”‰Êł'Ëą ᔃ Ëąá¶œâ±á”‰âżá”—â±Ëąá”—! ᔆᔒᔐᔉ ᔒᶠ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą á”–ËĄá”ƒâżËą á”ƒÊłá”‰ ᔒⁿ ᔃ ʷʰⁱᔐ Ê·Ê°â±ËĄËąá”— á”’á”—Ê°á”‰ÊłËą á”ƒÊłá”‰ á”á”’Êłá”‰ á”ˆÊłá”ƒÊ·âż ᔒᔘᔗ á”—á”ƒá”â±âżá” á”á”’Êłá”‰ ᔗⁱᔐᔉ‧ áŽŹËĄá”—Ê°á”’á”˜á”Ê° ʰᔉ'Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ á”—á”’ ʰᔃᔛᔉ ᔃ ᔇⁱᔗᔉ ˹ᔒᔐᔉᔗⁱᔐᔉ˹ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą á”—á”ƒá”˜âżá”—Ëą ʰⁱᔐ Ê·Ê°á”‰âż ʰᔉ ᶠᔃⁱ˥˹➎ ᔉᔛᔉⁿ ᔃᔗ ᔗⁱᔐᔉ˹ Êłá”‰Ëąá”’Êłá”—â±âżá” á”—á”’ á”á”ƒá”â±âżá” ᶠᔘⁿ á”’á”˜á”—Êłâ±á”Ê°á”— á¶œá”’âżËąâ±á”ˆá”‰Êłâ±âżá” á”‡á”˜ËĄËĄÊžâ±âżá” áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔃᔇᔒᔘᔗ ⁱᔗ!áŽŹËĄá”—Ê°á”’á”˜á”Ê° á”˜Ëąá”˜á”ƒËĄËĄÊž á”ƒâżá”ÊłÊžâžŽ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔐⁱᔍʰᔗ ᶜᔒᔐᔉ ᔇᔃᶜᔏ ⁱⁿ á”—á”‰á”ƒÊłËą á”‡á”‰â±âżá” Ëąá”’ á”˜á”–Ëąá”‰á”—! ᎎᔉ'Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ á”˜Ëąá”˜á”ƒËĄËĄÊž ⁱⁿÊČá”˜Êłá”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ ᔇᔃᔈ➎ ᔇᔘᔗ ⁱᔗ'Ëą Ê°á”ƒÊłá”ˆ Ëąá”‰á”‰â±âżá” ʰⁱᔐ á¶ ËĄÊž ⁱⁿ á”ƒá¶ á”—á”‰Êł á”‡á”‰â±âżá” á”—Ê°Êłá”’Ê·âż ᔇʞ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëąâ€§ ᎔ᶠ ᎔ á¶œá”ƒâżâżá”’á”— á¶œÊ°á”‰á”‰Êł ʰⁱᔐ ᔘᔖ ᎔'ËĄËĄ á”˜Ëąá”˜á”ƒËĄËĄÊž ÊČá”˜Ëąá”— ᔇᔉ á”—Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰ á¶ á”’Êł ʰⁱᔐ‧ ᎔'ËĄËĄ ʷᔃᔍ ᔐʞ á”—á”ƒâ±ËĄ Ëąá”ƒá”ˆËĄÊž ᔃᔗ ᔉᔃᶜʰ Êłá”‰á”—á”˜Êłâż á¶ Êłá”’á” á”—Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰â€§ ᎔ ˥ᔒᔛᔉ á”á”’â±âżá” á¶ á”’Êł Ê·á”ƒËĄá”â±á”‰Ëą ᔃⁿᔈ á”—á”’ ᔗʰᔉ á”–á”ƒÊłá”âžŽ Ê·Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰ ˹ᔒᔐᔉᔗⁱᔐᔉ˹ ʷᔉ ᔐᔉᔉᔗ áŽłá”ƒÊłÊž Ëąá”’ ᔃ˹ á”—á”’ ᔍᔉᔗ ᔗʰᔉ á”‰ËŁá”‰Êłá¶œâ±Ëąá”‰ á”—á”’á”á”‰á”—Ê°á”‰Êł! Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡'Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ ᔒⁿᔉ á”—á”’ Ê°á”ƒÊłá”‡á”’á”˜Êł á”ƒâżÊž Ê°á”ƒÊłá”ˆ á¶ á”‰á”‰ËĄâ±âżá”Ëą á”—á”’ ᔗʰᔉ á¶ á”‰ËĄËĄá”’Ê· á”–á”‰ÊłËąá”’âżâžŽ ᔇᔘᔗ ʰᔉ á”ˆá”’á”‰Ëą ᔃᶜᔗ ᔒᔘᔗ ᔒᶠ ËĄá”’Êžá”ƒËĄá”—Êž á”—á”’ ᔗʰᔉ á”Êłá”ƒá”‡â€§ Ꮁᔛᔉⁿ ˹ᔒ➎ ʰᔉ ᔃⁿᔈ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔇᔒᔗʰ ᔃᔗᔗᔉᔐᔖᔗ á”—á”’ ᶠⁱⁿᔈ á¶œá”’á”á”á”’âż á”Êłá”’á”˜âżá”ˆâ€§ á”‚Ê°á”‰âż ᎔ ᔍᔉᔗ ᔐʞ á”ˆâ±âżâżá”‰ÊłâžŽ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”á”ƒá”á”‰Ëą Ê°á”‰ÊłËąá”‰ËĄá¶  ᔃⁿᔈ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ëąá”’á”á”‰á”—Ê°â±âżá”â€§ ᎏ˹ ᔃ á¶œá”’á”á”–á”˜á”—á”‰ÊłâžŽ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”ˆá”’á”‰Ëąâż'á”— âżá”‰á”‰á”ˆ ᶠᔒᔒᔈ á”–á”‰Êł ˹ᔉ‧ ᔆᔗⁱ˥˥➎ ËąÊ°á”‰ á”ˆá”’á”‰Ëą ʷʰⁱᔖ ᔘᔖ ˹ᔒᔐᔉ ᶜʰᔘᔐ á¶ á”’Êł áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą á”á”‰á”ƒËĄËą! ᎔ ˹ᔒᔐᔉᔗⁱᔐᔉ˹ ᔉᔛᔉⁿ ᔍᔉᔗ ËĄá”‰á¶ á”—á”’á”›á”‰ÊłËą! áŽŒá”˜Êł á”‰á”›á”‰âżâ±âżá”Ëą á”ƒÊłá”‰ ᔍᔒᔒᔈ á¶ á”’Êł ˹ᔒᔐᔉ á”ˆá”’Ê·âżá”—â±á”á”‰âžŽ Ê·Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰ ᔃ˥˥ ᔒᶠ ᔘ˹ ᔈᔒ á”’á”˜Êł á”’Ê·âż á”—Ê°â±âżá”â€§ ᎔ á”—á”‰âżá”ˆ á”—á”’ ʷᔃᔗᶜʰ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ê·á”’Êłá” ᔒⁿ Ëąá”’á”á”‰á”—Ê°â±âżá”âžŽ ᔃ˹ ʰᔉ ËĄâ±á”á”‰Ëą Ê°á”ƒá”›â±âżá” á”ƒËĄá”’âżá”‰ ᔗⁱᔐᔉ‧ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”˜Ëąá”˜á”ƒËĄËĄÊž Êłá”˜âżËą Ëąá”—á”ƒá”—Ëą á”’Êł ˹ᔒᔐᔉ á¶œá”’á”á”–á”˜á”—á”‰Êł á”˜á”–á”ˆá”ƒá”—á”‰Ëąâ€§ ᎔ ᔐᔃʞ ᶠⁱⁿᔈ ᔃ ᶜʰᔉʷ á”—á”’Êž á”—á”’ á”–ËĄá”ƒÊž ʷⁱᔗʰ➎ ʷʰⁱᶜʰ ᎔ á”ƒËĄËąá”’ ᔈᔒ ⁱᶠ ᔗʰᔉʞ'ᔛᔉ ᔃ ᔈᔃᔗᔉ âżâ±á”Ê°á”—â€§ ᎏ ᶠᔘⁿ á”—Ê°â±âżá” ʷᔉ ᔈᔒ ⁱ˹ ᔐᔒᔛⁱᔉ âżâ±á”Ê°á”— Ê·Ê°á”‰âż áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”–â±á¶œá”Ëą ᔒᔘᔗ Ëąá”’á”á”‰á”—Ê°â±âżá” á”—á”’ ʷᔃᔗᶜʰ! ᎔'ËĄËĄ ᔇᔉ ᔇʞ ʰⁱᔐ ᔃⁿᔈ ˹ᔒᔐᔉᔗⁱᔐᔉ˹ ᔉᔛᔉⁿ ᶠᔃ˥˥ á”ƒËąËĄá”‰á”‰á”– ᔒⁿ Ê°â±Ëą ËĄá”ƒá”–! áŽŒâżá¶œá”‰ ᔗʰᔉ ᔈᔃʞ ⁱ˹ á”ˆá”’âżá”‰âžŽ ʷᔉ ᔍᔉᔗ Êłá”‰á”ƒá”ˆÊž á”—á”’ ᔇᔉᔈ‧ ᎏ˹ á”ƒá¶ á”’Êłá”‰á”á”‰âżá”—â±á”’âżá”‰á”ˆâžŽ ᎔ á”á”’Ëąá”—ËĄÊž ˹˥ᔉᔉᔖ ᔒⁿ ᔇʞ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą Ëąâ±á”ˆá”‰ ᔗʰᔉ ᔇᔉᔈ‧ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż'Ëą ᔃ á¶œá”’á”á”–á”˜á”—á”‰ÊłâžŽ Ëąá”’ ËąÊ°á”‰ á¶œá”ƒâż á”‰á”ƒËąâ±ËĄÊž ÊČá”˜Ëąá”— ᔒⁿ Ê°á”‰Êł á”’Ê·âż ËĄâ±á”—á”‰Êłá”ƒËĄËĄÊž Êłá”‰á¶œÊ°á”ƒÊłá”á”‰ á”’Êł ᔖᔘᔗ ᔒⁿ ˹˥ᔉᔉᔖ ᔐᔒᔈᔉ á”’Êł Ê·Ê°á”ƒá”—á”‰á”›á”‰ÊłâžŽ Ëąá”’ ËąÊ°á”‰ Ê°á”ƒËą á”—á”’ á”—á”˜Êłâż ᔒⁿ ⁱⁿ á”’Êłá”ˆá”‰Êł á”—á”’ ᔇᔉ ᔃʷᔃᔏᔉ ᎔ á”á”˜á”‰ËąËąâ€§ á”€Ê°á”˜ËąâžŽ ËąÊ°á”‰ á”ˆá”’á”‰Ëąâż'á”— ʰᔃᔛᔉ á”ˆÊłá”‰á”ƒá”Ëą ᔃⁿᔈ/á”’Êł âżâ±á”Ê°á”—á”á”ƒÊłá”‰Ëąâ€§ ᎔ᔗ á”ˆâ±á¶ á¶ á”‰ÊłËą á”˜Ëąâ€§ ᔆᔒᔐᔉᔗⁱᔐᔉ˹ ᎔ â±á”á”ƒá”â±âżá”‰ Ëąá¶œá”‰âżá”ƒÊłâ±á”’Ëą á”’Êł Êłá”‰ËĄâ±á”›á”‰ ᔗʰᔉ ᔈᔃʞ'Ëą ᔉᔛᔉⁿᔗ˹ á”—á”’ ˹ᔉᔗ ᔗʰᔉ ᔗᔒⁿᔉ á¶ á”’Êł ᔐʞ á”ˆÊłá”‰á”ƒá”Ëą ᔒᶠ ᔗʰᔉ âżâ±á”Ê°á”—â€§ áŽ°Êłá”‰á”ƒá” á”’Êł ⁿᔒ➎ ᎔ á¶œá”ƒâż ˹˥ᔉᔉᔖ Ê·á”‰ËĄËĄ Êłá”‰Ëąá”—á”‰á”ˆ á”—Ê°Êłá”’á”˜á”Ê° ᔗʰᔉ âżâ±á”Ê°á”— ᔉᔃᶜʰ‧ ᔆᔒᔐᔉᔗⁱᔐᔉ˹ ᎔'ËĄËĄ á”ƒÊ·á”ƒá”á”‰âż á”—á”’ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ê°á”ƒá”›â±âżá” ᔃ ᔇᔃᔈ á”ˆÊłá”‰á”ƒá”âžŽ Ëąá”’ ᎔'ËĄËĄ âżá”˜á¶»á¶»ËĄá”‰ á”’Êł Êłá”˜á”‡ á”ƒá”á”ƒâ±âżËąá”— ⁱⁿ Ê°á”’á”–â±âżá” á”—á”’ Ëąá”—á”’á”– ᔗʰᔉ âżâ±á”Ê°á”—á”á”ƒÊłá”‰âžŽ ⁱᶠ ⁿᔒᔗ Êłá”‰á”ƒËąËąá”˜Êłá”‰ ʰⁱᔐ‧ ᎔ á”âżá”’Ê· ʰᔉ'Ëą á”ƒá¶ Êłá”ƒâ±á”ˆ ᔒᶠ Ê·Ê°á”ƒËĄá”‰Ëą ËĄâ±á”á”‰ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą á”ˆá”ƒá”˜á”Ê°á”—á”‰ÊłâžŽ ᔃⁿᔈ ˹ᔒᔐᔉᔗⁱᔐᔉ˹ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą á”—á”ƒá”˜âżá”—Ëą á¶œá”ƒâż ᔍᔉᔗ á”—á”’ ʰⁱᔐ Ëąá”’ á”–á”‰ÊłÊ°á”ƒá”–Ëą ᔗʰᔉʞ Ê·á”’Êłá” á”—Ê°á”‰â±Êł ʷᔃʞ'Ëą ⁱⁿ⁻ᔗᔒ á”ˆÊłá”‰á”ƒá”Ëąâ€§ ᎔ Ê·á”’ÊłÊłÊž ᔃᔇᔒᔘᔗ Ê°á”’Ê· ˹ᔒᔐᔉᔗⁱᔐᔉ˹ ᎔ ˹˥ᔉᔉᔖ á”—Ê°Êłá”’á”˜á”Ê° ᔃ ᔇᔃᔈ âżâ±á”Ê°á”—á”á”ƒÊłá”‰âžŽ ᔇᔘᔗ ᎔ á”˜Ëąá”˜á”ƒËĄËĄÊž ᔃʷᔃᔏᔉ á”—á”’ á”ƒâżÊž á¶œËĄá”ƒá”á”’á”˜ÊłËą á”’Êł á”—á”’ËąËąâ±âżá” ᔃⁿᔈ á”—á”˜Êłâżâ±âżá”â€§ ᎏ˥˥ ⁱⁿ ᔃ˥˥ ᎔ ˥ᔒᔛᔉ ˥ⁱᶠᔉ ᔃⁿᔈ ᔗʰᔉ ᔖᔉᔒᔖ˥ᔉ ⁱⁿ ⁱᔗ! ᎔'ᔐ ʰᔃᔖᔖʞ ᔃⁿᔈ Ê·á”’á”˜ËĄá”ˆâż'á”— á”—Êłá”ƒá”ˆá”‰ ⁱᔗ á¶ á”’Êł ᔗʰᔉ Ê·á”’ÊłËĄá”ˆâ€§
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ᔀʰᔉ âżá”ƒá”á”‰'Ëą áŽźá”’âżá”ˆ âœá”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ á¶ á”ƒâżá¶ â±á¶œâŸ "᎔ Ê°á”‰á”ƒÊłá”ˆ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᔃⁿᔈ á”†á‘«á”˜â±á”ˆÊ·á”ƒÊłá”ˆ á”ƒÊłá”‰ á”á”’â±âżá” á”—á”’ ᔃ Êłá”‰Ëąá”’Êłá”— ᔃⁿᔈ ʷᔉ'Êłá”‰ á”á”’â±âżá” ʷⁱᔗʰ ᔗʰᔉᔐ!" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ᔗʰᔉ á¶œá”’á”á”–á”˜á”—á”‰Êł ʷⁱᶠᔉ á”—á”’ËĄá”ˆ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ê°á”‰Êł Ê°á”˜Ëąá”‡á”ƒâżá”ˆâ€§ "ᔂʰʞ ᔈᔒ ʷᔉ ᔍᔒᔗᔗᔃ ᔍᔒ Ëąá”’ á”‰á”ƒÊłËĄÊž?" "᎔ á”ˆá”’âż'á”— ËĄâ±á”á”‰ á”—á”’ á”ƒÊłÊłâ±á”›á”‰ ËĄá”ƒá”—á”‰ á”†Ê°á”‰ËĄá”ˆá”’âżâ€§â€§â€§" "ᶠⁱⁿᔉ ᔇᔘᔗ á”ƒÊłá”‰ ʷᔉ á”á”’âżâżá”ƒ ᔐᔉᔉᔗ ᔗʰᔉᔐ á”—Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰ á”’Êłâ€§â€§â€§" "Êžá”‰Ëą ᔃⁿᔈ ʷᔉ'ËĄËĄ ᔇᔉ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊžâ±âżá” ⁱⁿ ᔗʰᔉ Ëąá”ƒá”á”‰ Êłá”’á”’á” Ëąá”˜â±á”—á”‰â€§" "ᔀʰᔉ ˹ᔘⁿ'Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ ᔉᔛᔉⁿ ᔘᔖ!" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ˹ᔃⁱᔈ á”˜âżá”ˆá”‰Êł Ê°â±Ëą á”‡Êłá”‰á”ƒá”—Ê°â€§ ᔀʰᔉʞ ᔃ˥˥ ᔐᔃᔈᔉ ⁱᔗ á”—á”’ ᔗʰᔉ Êłá”‰Ëąá”’Êłá”—â€§ "ᎎⁱ➎ á”‡á”’ÊžËą!" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”Êłá”‰á”‰á”—á”‰á”ˆ á”†á‘«á”˜â±á”ˆÊ·á”ƒÊłá”ˆ ᔃⁿᔈ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᔃ˹ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á¶ á”’ËĄËĄá”’Ê·á”‰á”ˆ ᔗᔒ‧ "ᔂᔉ˥˥ ᎔ á¶œá”ƒâżâżá”’á”— ᔍᔒ ËąÊ·â±á”á”â±âżá” á”–á”’á”’ËĄ á”ƒÊłá”‰á”ƒ Ëąâ±âżá¶œá”‰ ᎔'ᔐ ᔃ á¶œá”’á”á”–á”˜á”—á”‰Êłâ€§â€§â€§" "᎔ ᶠᔉᔉ˥ ᔘᔖ á”—á”’ ËĄá”’á”’á”â±âżá” ᔃᔗ ᔗʰᔉ á”ƒÊłá¶œÊ°â±á”—á”‰á¶œá”—á”˜Êłá”‰'Ëą Ëąá”’ ʞᔒᔘ á¶œá”ƒâż ᶜᔒᔐᔉ ʷⁱᔗʰ ᔐᔉ! áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔃⁿᔈ Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰ ᔇᔒᔇ á¶œá”ƒâż Ëąá”˜Êłá”‰ËĄÊž Ê°á”ƒâżá”ˆËĄá”‰ á”—Ê°á”‰á”Ëąá”‰ËĄá”›á”‰Ëąâ€§â€§â€§" ˹ᔃⁱᔈ á”†á‘«á”˜â±á”ˆÊ·á”ƒÊłá”ˆâ€§ "ᔂᔉ'ËĄËĄ ᔐᔉᔉᔗ ᔘᔖ ᔃᔗ á”’á”˜Êł Êłá”’á”’á”!" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á¶ á”’á”˜âżá”ˆ Ê°â±á”Ëąá”‰ËĄá¶  ᔉⁿÊČá”’Êžâ±âżá” á”á”’â±âżá” ᔃ˥˥ á”—á”’ ᔗʰᔉ á”ƒá”—á”—Êłá”ƒá¶œá”—â±á”’âżËą ʷⁱᔗʰ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᔃ˹ ᔗʰᔉʞ Ê·á”‰âżá”— ᔒⁿᔗᔒ ᔃ˥˥ ᔗʰᔉ Êłâ±á”ˆá”‰Ëą ᔃⁿᔈ Ê·á”ƒá”—á”‰ÊłËąËĄâ±á”ˆá”‰Ëą ᔃ˹ Ê·á”‰ËĄËĄ ᔃ˹ á”–ËĄá”ƒÊžâ±âżá” ᔃ˥˥ ᔗʰᔉ á”á”ƒá”á”‰Ëąâ€§ "᎔ âżá”‰á”›á”‰Êł á”âżá”‰Ê· Ê°á”’Ê· ᔐᔘᶜʰ ᶠᔘⁿ Ê°á”ƒâżá”â±âżá” ᔒᔘᔗ ʷⁱᔗʰ ʞᔒᔘ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż!" "ʞᔉᔃ‧‧‧" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ᔃⁿᔈ Ëąá‘«á”˜â±á”ˆÊ·á”ƒÊłá”ˆ ᔐᔉᔗ ᔗʰᔉᔐ ⁱⁿ á¶ Êłá”’âżá”— ᔒᶠ ᔗʰᔉ Ëąá”˜â±á”—á”‰â€§ "ᔂᔉ˥˥ ʷʰᔃᔗ ᔈⁱᔈ ʞᔒᔘ ᔃ˥˥ ᔈᔒ?" á”†á‘«á”˜â±á”ˆÊ·á”ƒÊłá”ˆ á”ƒËąá”á”‰á”ˆ ᔗʰᔉᔐ‧ "ᔂᔉⁿᔗ ËąÊ·â±á”á”â±âżá”â€§â€§" "ʞᔉᔃ ᔃⁿᔈ á”—Ê°á”‰âż ʷᔉ ᔇᔒᔗʰ ᔈⁱᔈ ᔗʰᔉ á”ƒá”á”˜Ëąá”‰á”á”‰âżá”— á”–á”ƒÊłá” ᔗʰᔉʞ á”–Êłá”’á”›â±á”ˆá”‰á”ˆâ€§ ᎌʰ ᔃⁿᔈ ʷᔉ á”ƒËĄËąá”’ ᔍᔒᔗ á”—á”’ á”–ËĄá”ƒÊž ʷⁱᔗʰ Ëąá”–á”’Êłá”—'Ëą á”‡á”ƒËĄËĄËąâ€§â€§â€§" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰ ᔇᔒᔇ á¶œá”’âżá”—â±âżá”˜á”‰á”ˆ Ê·Ê°á”‰âżá¶œá”‰ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą á”—Êłá”ƒâ±ËĄá”‰á”ˆ ᔒᶠᶠ➎ ᔇᔘᔗ Ëąá”—á”’á”–á”–á”‰á”ˆ ᔃ˹ ʰᔉ ᶠᔉ˥ᔗ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᶠᔃ˥˥ ᔒⁿ Ê°â±Ëą Ëąâ±á”ˆá”‰â€§ "áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”â€§â€§â€§" á”†á”˜Êłá”‰ á”‰âżá”’á”˜á”Ê°âžŽ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ËĄá”‰á”ƒâżá”‰á”ˆ ᔒⁿᔗᔒ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á¶œá”’á”á”–ËĄá”‰á”—á”‰ËĄÊž á”ƒËąËĄá”‰á”‰á”– ʷⁱᔗʰ Ê°â±Ëą ᔐᔒᔘᔗʰ á”ˆÊłá”’á”–á”–â±âżá” Ëąá”’á”á”‰Ê·Ê°á”ƒá”— ᔒᔖᔉⁿ ˹ᔗⁱ˥˥ ᔒⁿ Ê°â±Ëą ᶠᔉᔉᔗ ᔇᔘᔗ ᔈⁱᔈⁿ'á”— ᶠᔃᶜᔉ á”–ËĄá”ƒâżá”— á”‡á”‰á¶œá”ƒá”˜Ëąá”‰ Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡'Ëą Ëąá”˜á”–á”–á”’Êłá”—á”‰á”ˆ ʰⁱᔐ‧ "ᔂʰᔃᔗ‧‧‧" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᔍᔒᔗ Ê·á”’ÊłÊłâ±á”‰á”ˆ ᔃ˹ ʰᔉ ᶜᔃᔘᔍʰᔗ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ê°á”‰ËĄá”ˆ ᔘᔖ‧ "ᎎᔉ'Ëą á”‰ËŁÊ°á”ƒá”˜Ëąá”—á”‰á”ˆ; ʷᔉ ˥ᔉᶠᔗ á”‰á”ƒÊłËĄÊž ᔃⁿᔈ ʞᔒᔘ ᔇᔒᔗʰ Ëąá”‰á”‰á”á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ ᔈᔒ Ëąá”—Êłá”‰âżá”˜á”’á”˜Ëą á”ƒá¶œá”—â±á”›â±á”—â±á”‰ËąâžŽ Ëąá”’ âżá”’Ê· ᔒᶠ á¶œá”’á”˜ÊłËąá”‰ ʰᔉ‧‧‧" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ᔍᔒᔗ ᑫᔘⁱᔉᔗ ᔃ˹ ËąÊ°á”‰ ᔗʰᔒᔘᔍʰᔗ ËąÊ°á”‰ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊłá”—á”‰á”ˆ Ê°á”‰á”ƒÊłâ±âżá” Ëąá”˜á”‡á”—ËĄá”‰ Ëąâżá”’Êłá”‰á”ˆâ€§ "ʞᔉᔃ Ëąá”’ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą á¶ á”’Êł á”—á”’âżâ±á”Ê°á”—; ʰᔉ'Ëą á”—á”’ á”—â±Êłá”‰á”ˆ á”‰âżá”’á”˜á”Ê° á”—á”’ Êłá”’á”˜Ëąá”‰ âżá”’Ê·â€§ áŽčÊž Ê°á”˜Ëąá”‡á”ƒâżá”ˆ'Ëą ʷᔃʞ Ëąá”’ Ê·á”’Êłâż ᔒᔘᔗ á¶œá”ƒâż ᔗᔉ˥˥ ÊČá”˜Ëąá”— ËĄá”’á”’á”â±âżá” ᔃᔗ ʰⁱᔐ‧ ᎎᔉ'Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ á”á”’âżâżá”ƒ ᔇᔉ á”ƒá”‡ËĄá”‰ á”—á”’ ʷᔃᔏᔉ ᔘᔖ‧‧‧" "ᔆᔒ âżá”’Ê· ʷʰᔃᔗ ᔈᔒ‧‧‧" "᎔'ᔈ Ëąá”ƒÊž ᔖᔘᔗ ʰⁱᔐ ᔗʰᔉ ᔇᔉᔈ Ëąá”’ ᔃ˹ ᔗʰᔉ Êłá”‰Ëąá”— ᔒᶠ ᔘ˹ âżá”‰á”‰á”ˆ ˹˥ᔉᔉᔖ á”—á”’!" á”†á‘«á”˜â±á”ˆÊ·á”ƒÊłá”ˆ â±âżá”—á”‰ÊłÊČᔉᶜᔗᔉᔈ‧ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”’á”‡á”›â±á”’á”˜ËąËĄÊž á”’á¶ á¶ á”‰Êłá”‰á”ˆ ⁿᔒ Êłá”‰Ëąâ±Ëąá”—á”ƒâżá¶œá”‰ ᔃ˹ ᔖⁱᶜᔏᔉᔈ ᔘᔖ‧‧ ᔀʰᔉ ⁿᔉˣᔗ á”á”’Êłâżâ±âżá” áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ËąËĄá”‰á”‰á”–â±ËĄÊž Ëąá”ƒá”— ᔘᔖ ⁱⁿ ᔗʰᔉ ᔇᔉᔈ ʰᔉ ᔍᔒᔗ á”–ËĄá”ƒá¶œá”‰á”ˆ ⁱⁿ‧ áŽșá”’Ê· á”ƒá”‡ËĄá”‰ á”—á”’ ʰᔃᔛᔉ Ê°â±Ëą ᔉʞᔉ ᔒᔖᔉⁿ➎ ʰᔉ ËĄá”’á”’á”Ëą ᔃⁿᔈ Ëąá”ƒÊ· ᔗʰᔉ á”’á”—Ê°á”‰ÊłËą ⁱⁿ Êłá”’á”’á”â€§â€§ "â€§â€§â€§á¶ â±âżá”ƒËĄËĄÊž ᔃʷᔃᔏᔉ‧‧‧" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż'Ëą ᔛᔒⁱᶜᔉ‧ ᎎᔉ á”‡ËĄâ±âżá”á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ á¶œËĄá”‰á”ƒÊł Ê°â±Ëą ᔛⁱ˹ⁱᔒⁿ‧ áŽŒâżËĄÊž Ëąá‘«á”˜â±á”ˆÊ·á”ƒÊłá”ˆ ˹ᔗⁱ˥˥ ˹˥ᔉᔖᔗ á”ƒËąËĄá”‰á”‰á”–â€§â€§ á¶ á”‰á”‰ËĄâ±âżá”Ëą ᔒᶠ á”‰á”á”‡á”ƒÊłÊłá”ƒËąËąá”á”‰âżá”— Ëąá”—á”ƒÊłá”—á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ ᔉⁿᔛᔉ˥ᔒᔖ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€§ ᎎᔉ ᶠᔉ˥ᔗ á”ˆÊłá”’Ê·ËąÊž ᔇᔘᔗ'Ëą ᔃʷᔃᔏᔉ á”‰âżá”’á”˜á”Ê° á”—á”’ ᶠᔉᔉ˥ á”˜âżá¶œá”’á”á¶ á”’Êłá”—á”ƒá”‡ËĄá”‰ ʷⁱᔗʰ ᔗʰᔉ Ëąâ±á”—á”˜á”ƒá”—â±á”’âż ᔒᶠ Ê°â±Ëą ʷⁱᶠᔉ ᔃⁿᔈ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊłâ±âżá” ᔃ˹ ʰᔉ ᔈⁱᔈⁿ'á”— Êłá”‰á¶œá”ƒËĄËĄ á”á”’â±âżá” ⁱⁿ ᔗʰᔉ Êłá”’á”’á”â€§ ᎎᔉ'Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ Ëąá”˜Êłá”‰ ⁱᶠ ʰᔉ ᔉᔛᔉⁿ Ê·á”ƒâżá”—Ëą á”—á”’ á”âżá”’Ê· ʷʰᔃᔗ á”’á¶œá¶œá”˜ÊłÊłá”‰á”ˆ! "ᔆᔒ ᎔ ˹ᔉᔉ ʞᔒᔘ'Êłá”‰ âżá”’Ê· ᔃʷᔃᔏᔉ; ᔍᔒᔒᔈ á”á”’Êłâżâ±âżá”â€§â€§â€§" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ Ëąá”ƒâ±á”ˆâ€§ "â€§â€§â€§Ëąá”ƒÊž ʷʰᔃᔗ‧‧‧" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ËąÊ°â±á¶ á”—á”‰á”ˆâ€§ "᎔ᔗ'Ëą ᔇᔉᔉⁿ ᔃ ËĄá”’âżá” ᔈᔃʞ Êžá”‰Ëąá”—á”‰Êł ᔈᔃʞ ᔃⁿᔈ ʷᔉ ᔃ˥˥ âżá”‰á”‰á”ˆá”‰á”ˆ Êłá”‰Ëąá”—â€§ ʞᔒᔘ á¶œá”’á”˜ËĄá”ˆ Ëąá”ƒÊž ʷᔉ ᔃ˥˥ ᔈᔒᶻᔉᔈ ᔒᶠᶠ Ê·Ê°á”‰âżá¶œá”‰ ʷᔉ ᔍᔒᔗ ᔇᔃᶜᔏ‧‧‧" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż âżá”‰Êłá”›á”’á”˜ËąËĄÊž á”—á”’ËĄá”ˆ ʰⁱᔐ á”âżá”’Ê·â±âżá” ʰᔉ Ê·á”’âż'á”— ËĄâ±á”á”‰ á”—á”’ Ê°á”‰á”ƒÊł ᔃᔇᔒᔘᔗ ⁱᔗ ᔇᔘᔗ á”ƒËĄËąá”’ ˹ᔃⁱᔈ Ëąá”’á”á”‰Ê·Ê°á”ƒá”— á”–á”ƒÊłá”— ᔒᶠ ᔗʰᔉ á”—Êłá”˜á”—Ê°â€§ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ Ê°á”’Ê·á”‰á”›á”‰Êł'Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ á¶œá”ƒá”—á¶œÊ°â±âżá” ᔒⁿ‧ "ᎌʰ ᔃⁿᔈ ʞᔒᔘ ᶠᔉ˥˥ Êłâ±á”Ê°á”— á”—á”’ ˹˥ᔉᔉᔖ á¶ â±ÊłËąá”— ᔉᔛᔉⁿ á”‡á”‰á¶ á”’Êłá”‰ ʷᔉ ˹ᔉᔗ ᶠᔒᔒᔗ ⁱⁿ ᔗʰᔉ Êłá”’á”’á”âžŽ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż! á¶œá”’á”˜ËĄá”ˆ ⁿᔒᔗ ᔍᔉᔗ ʞᔒᔘ á”—á”’ ʷᔃᔏᔉ ᔃ˹ ʞᔒᔘ'ᔛᔉ á¶ á”ƒËĄËĄá”‰âż á”ƒËąËĄá”‰á”‰á”– Ëąâżá”’Êłâ±âżá” ᔃⁿᔈ Ëąá”—á”ƒâżá”ˆâ±âżá” á”˜á”–Êłâ±á”Ê°á”— ËĄá”‰á”ƒâżâ±âżá” ᔒⁿ ᔐᔉ Ëąá”’ ʷᔉ ᔈᔉᶜⁱᔈᔉᔈ á”—á”’ á¶œá”ƒËĄËĄ ⁱᔗ ᔃ âżâ±á”Ê°á”—â€§â€§" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á”—á”’ËĄá”ˆ ʷⁱᔗʰ ᔃ ËĄá”ƒá”˜á”Ê° ᔃ˹ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą ᔉʞᔉ Ê·â±á”ˆá”‰âżá”‰á”ˆâ€§ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ᶠᔃᶜᔉ á”–á”ƒËĄá”á”‰á”ˆ Ê°á”‰á”ƒÊłâ±âżá” ʰⁱᔐ ᔗᔉ˥˥ Ê°á”‰Êł Ê°á”˜Ëąá”‡á”ƒâżá”ˆ âżá”’Ê· ᶠᔉ˥ᔗ Ê°á”˜á”â±ËĄâ±á”ƒá”—á”‰á”ˆâ€§ ᎏ˹ Ëąá‘«á”˜â±á”ˆÊ·á”ƒÊłá”ˆ ᔃʷᔒᔏᔉ ᔘᔖ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰ ᔇᔒᔇ Ëąá”ƒÊ· áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą á”ˆâ±Ëąá¶œá”’á”á¶ á”’Êłá”—â€§ ᎎᔉ'Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ á”‰âżá”—â±Êłá”‰ËĄÊž Ëąá”˜Êłá”‰ Ê·Ê°Êž ᔇᔘᔗ ʰᔉ Ê·á”ƒâżá”—á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ Ê°á”‰ËĄá”– ʰⁱᔐ‧ "áŽșá”’ âżá”‰á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ ᶠᔉᔉ˥ ᔇᔃᔈ ᔇᔉ á¶œá”ƒá”˜Ëąá”‰ Êžá”’á”˜Êł Ëąâżá”’Êłá”‰Ëą Ê·á”‰Êłá”‰ á”‡á”ƒÊłá”‰ËĄÊž á”ƒá”˜á”ˆâ±á”‡ËĄá”‰â€§â€§â€§" "á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰ ᔇᔒᔇ Ê·Ê°Êž á”ˆá”’âż'á”— ʞᔒᔘ ᔍᔒ ˹ᔉᔉ ⁱᶠ ᔗʰᔉʞ ʰᔃᔛᔉ á”á”‰á”ƒËĄ'Ëą á”’á¶ á¶ á”‰Êł'Ëą ᔒⁿ ᔗʰᔉ á”‡Êłá”’á¶œÊ°á”˜Êłá”‰'˱‧‧‧" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ˹ᔃⁱᔈ➎ á”âżá”’Ê·â±âżá” á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á”˜âżâ±âżá”—á”‰âżá”—â±á”’âżá”ƒËĄËĄÊž Ê·á”’ÊłËąá”‰âżá”‰á”ˆ Ê°á”’Ê· áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᶠᔉ˥ᔗ‧ "ᎌʰ➎ ʞᔃʞ!" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ê·á”‰âżá”— á”—á”’ ᔖᔘᔗ Ê°á”‰Êł Ê°á”ƒâżá”ˆ ᔒⁿ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą ᔇᔃᶜᔏ Ê·Ê°â±ËĄËąá”— á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᔍᔒᔗ ᔗʰᔉ á”‡Êłá”’á¶œÊ°á”˜Êłá”‰â€§ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔃᔛᔒⁱᔈᔉᔈ ᔉʞᔉ á¶œá”’âżá”—á”ƒá¶œá”—â€§ "ᔀʰᔉʞ ᔍᔒᔗ ˹ᔒᔐᔉ á”á”‰ËĄá”– ËąÊ°á”ƒá”á”‰Ëą!" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á”‰ËŁá¶œËĄá”ƒâ±á”á”‰á”ˆâ€§ "á”†á”’á”˜âżá”ˆ ᔍᔒᔒᔈ!" "᎔'ËĄËĄ ᔍᔒ ᔍᔉᔗ ʞᔒᔘ ᔉᔃᶜʰ ᔃ á”á”‰ËĄá”– ËąÊ°á”ƒá”á”‰; ᔇᔉ Êłâ±á”Ê°á”— ᔇᔃᶜᔏ!" ᔆᔃⁱᔈ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âżâ€§ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”á”’á”—á”—á”‰âż ᔒᶠᶠ ᔒᶠ ᔒᔘᔗ ᔒᶠ ᔇᔉᔈ ˹ᔗⁱ˥˥ á¶ á”‰á”‰ËĄâ±âżá” á”ƒÊ·á”Ê·á”ƒÊłá”ˆâ€§ "ᔂʰᔃᔗ'Ëą ⁱⁿ á”á”‰ËĄá”– ËąÊ°á”ƒá”á”‰Ëą?" áŽŹËąá”Ëą á”†á‘«á”˜â±á”ˆÊ·á”ƒÊłá”ˆâ€§ "ᔀʰᔉʞ ᔍᔉᔗ ÊČᔘⁱᶜᔉ á¶ Êłá”’á” ˹ᔒᔐᔉ á”á”‰ËĄá”– á”†á‘«á”˜â±á”ˆÊ·á”ƒÊłá”ˆâ€§ ᎌʰ ᔐᔃʞ ᔇᔉ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ʞᔒᔘ á¶œá”ƒâż ˹ᔉ˥˥ ˹ᔒᔐᔉ á”ˆÊłâ±âżá”Ëą á”˜Ëąâ±âżá” á”á”‰ËĄá”–â€œ" Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ Ëąá”ƒâ±á”ˆâ€§ "ʞᔒᔘ á”âżá”’Ê· ʷʰᔃᔗ ᎔ ᔐⁱᔍʰᔗ á¶œá”’âżËąâ±á”ˆá”‰Êł á”—ÊłÊžâ±âżá” ⁱᔗ‧‧" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”—á”’ËĄá”ˆ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᔃ˹ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ᶜᔃᔐᔉ ᔇᔃᶜᔏ‧ 'áŽŸá”‰ÊłÊ°á”ƒá”–Ëą ᔍⁱᔛᔉ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą ᔃ Êłá”˜âż á¶ á”’Êł Ê°â±Ëą á”á”’âżá”‰ÊžâžŽ ⁱᶠ ⁿᔒᔗ ÊČá”˜Ëąá”— á¶ á”’Êł á”—á”’ ᔏᔉᔉᔖ ʰⁱᔐ ᔒⁿ Ê°â±Ëą ᔗᔒᔉ˹' áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔗʰᔒᔘᔍʰᔗ‧ áŽ°á”‰ËĄâ±á¶œâ±á”’á”˜Ëą!
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new plaren karen plankton code page 437
SWEET CWEAM pt. 1 Karen stood outside the dental clinic. Plankton had been in surgery for what felt like an eternity. The door swung open, and a nurse with a kind smile beckoned her inside. "You can go in now," she said softly. Karen followed the nurse down the hallway. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for what lay ahead. In the recovery room, Plankton was still unconscious, his face a mask of peace. A line of drool had escaped the corner of his mouth. Karen felt a twinge of guilt for not being there to hold his hand during the surgery. The nurse checked his vital signs and nodded to Karen. "You can sit with him now." Karen pulled a chair next to the hospital bed. Her hand found his, and she squeezed gently. Plankton's eye flickered open. He tried to focus, but his eye wouldn't cooperate. "Karen?" he murmured, his voice thick with anesthesia. Her hand tightened around his, and her screen swam into view. "I'm here, sweetie," she whispered, her screen glistening with relief. Plankton blinked several times, his mouth feeling like it was stuffed with cotton. The pain was a distant echo, muted by the drugs still coursing through his veins. He managed a nod, his eyelid growing heavy again. Karen offered a small, reassuring smile. "How are you feeling?" she asked, her voice wrapped in a gentle lilt. Plankton's mouth felt like it had been invaded by an alien species, a strange numbness spreading through his jaw. He tried to form words, but all that came out was a muffled grunt. The nurse chuckled, a sound that was both soothing and slightly irritating. "It's normal," she said, patting his arm. "The anesthesia can make it difficult to talk." He tried to sit up, but his body wouldn't respond. It was as if he was trapped in a thick fog, unable to move. The nurse noticed his struggle and moved quickly to his side. "Easy now, Mr. Plankton," she said, placing a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder. "You're still under the influence of the anesthesia. Take your time." Plankton nodded, his head lolling back onto the pillow. His eye darted around the room, trying to make sense of his surroundings. His mind felt like it was floating in a bubble. "Wha... happened?" he slurred, his tongue thick and unwieldy. The nurse chuckled kindly. "You had your wisdom teeth removed, Mr. Plankton. You're going to be feeling a bit loopy for a while." The words swirled in his head, and slowly, the fog began to lift. Wisdom teeth? Removed? Plankton's hand shakily went to his face, gently prodding the puffy skin around his mouth. A childlike bewilderment washed over him. "Teesh?" he murmured, his voice smaller than he remembered. Karen nodded, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Wisdom teeth," she repeated, her voice a soft caress in the sterile air. "You'll be okay, Plankton." He squinted, trying to understand, and finally managed to mumble, "Wheh?" Karen leaned closer, her face a soft blur above him. "Wisdom teeth," she said, enunciating each syllable as if speaking to a toddler. "They took out your wisdom teeth." The words sank into Plankton's consciousness like a stone in a murky pond. Teeth? Wisdom? The nurse had said something about it, but it still didn't make much sense. He felt like he had forgotten how to piece together coherent thoughts. He looked at his wife with wide, confused eye, like a small child lost in a crowded supermarket. Karen, sensing his desperation, spoke slowly and clearly, as if recounting a bedtime story. "You went to the dentist," she began, her voice soothing. "They had to take out four of your teeth." Plankton's single functioning eye went even wider. "Foe?" he whispered, the shock reverberating through his fuzzy brain. "Don't worry," Karen soothed, stroking his forehead. "You were asleep. You didn't feel a thing."
new sweet cweam plaren 1
Ꮃᔉᔗ ᔁᔖ âœá”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ á¶ á”ƒâżá¶ â±á¶œâŸ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą á¶œá”’á”á”–á”˜á”—á”‰Êł ʷⁱᶠᔉ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ᔍᔒᔗ ᔘᔖ á¶ Êłá”’á” Ê°á”‰Êł Ëąá”‰á”ƒá”— âżá”’á”—â±á¶œâ±âżá” áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą âżá”’Ê· á¶ á”ƒËĄËĄá”‰âż á”ƒËąËĄá”‰á”‰á”– ⁱⁿ á¶œÊ°á”ƒâ±Êłâ€§ ᔆʰᔉ á”á”‰âżá”—ËĄÊž ËąÊ°á”’á”’á” Ê°â±Ëą ËąÊ°á”’á”˜ËĄá”ˆá”‰Êł Ëąâ±á”Ê°á”—ËĄÊžâ€§ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”âżá”‰Ê· Ê°á”‰â€™Ëą ᔒᔘᔗ ËĄâ±á”á”‰ ᔃ ËĄâ±á”Ê°á”—â€§ áŽžá”’á”’á”â±âżá” ᔃᔗ Ê°á”‰Êł Ê°á”˜Ëąá”‡á”ƒâżá”ˆ Ê°á”‰â€™Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ Ëąá”—â±ÊłÊłâ±âżá” ⁱⁿ ᔗʰᔉ ËąËĄâ±á”Ê°á”—á”‰Ëąá”—, Ê°â±Ëą ᔐᔒᔘᔗʰ ᶠᔉ˥˥ ᔒᔖᔉⁿ‧ "ʞᔒᔘ ᔍᔒᔗᔗᔃ ᔍᔉᔗ á”—á”’ ᔇᔉᔈ➎ Ëąá”’ ʞᔒᔘ á¶œá”ƒâż á¶œá”’âżá”—â±âżá”˜á”‰ á”—á”’ ˹˥ᔉᔉᔖ‧ ᎔'ËĄËĄ ˥ᔉᔗ ʞᔒᔘ Êłá”‰Ëąá”— á”ƒá¶ á”—á”‰Êłâ€§ á¶œá”ƒâż ʞᔒᔘ ʷᔃᔏᔉ á”‰âżá”’á”˜á”Ê° á”—á”’ ᔍᔉᔗ á”’Êł á”á”˜Ëąá”— ᎔ á¶œá”ƒÊłÊłÊž ʞᔒᔘ?" áŽșá”’á”—Ê°â±âżá”â€§ "ᔂᔉ˥˥ ᎔'ᔐ á¶œá”ƒÊłÊłÊžâ±âżá” ʞᔒᔘ á”—Ê°á”‰âżâ€§ ᎔'ᔐ ⁿᔒᔗ á”á”’âżâżá”ƒ á”ˆâ±Ëąá”—á”˜Êłá”‡ ʞᔒᔘ ⁱᶠ ⁱᔗ'Ëą Ê°á”ƒÊłá”ˆá”‰Êł á”—á”’ Êłá”’á”˜Ëąá”‰ ʞᔒᔘ Ëąâ±âżá¶œá”‰ ᎔ á¶œá”ƒâż á”‰á”ƒËąâ±ËĄÊž ᔖᔘᔗ ʞᔒᔘ á”ÊžËąá”‰ËĄá¶ â€§â€§" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż âżá”’Ê· á”–á”˜á”—Ëą áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ⁱⁿ ᔇᔉᔈ➎ Ê·â±á”–â±âżá” Ê°â±Ëą á”ˆÊłá”’á”’ËĄ ᔒᶠᶠ ʰⁱᔐ‧ “ᎎᔃᔛᔉ ᔃ âżâ±á¶œá”‰ ËąËĄá”‰á”‰á”–â€§â€§â€đ‘đžđšđ 𝐭𝐱𝐩𝐞: 𝟏 𝐩𝐱𝐧.
new plaren Karen/Sheldon J. Plankton sheldon j. plankton get up
á”€Êłá”‰á”ƒá”— Êžá”’á”˜ÊłËąá”‰ËĄá¶  âœá”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ á¶ á”ƒâżá¶ â±á¶œâŸ ᎔ᔗ'Ëą ᔗʰᔉ Ê·á”‰á”‰á”á”‰âżá”ˆ ᔒᶠ á”†á‘«á”˜â±á”ˆÊ·á”ƒÊłá”ˆ'Ëą á”‡â±Êłá”—Ê°á”ˆá”ƒÊž ᔃⁿᔈ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ Ê·á”ƒâżá”—á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ ᔍᔒ á¶œá”‰ËĄá”‰á”‡Êłá”ƒá”—á”‰â€§ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ëąá”ƒÊ· ᔗʰᔉᔐ ᔇᔒᔗʰ ᔃⁿᔈ ᶜᔃᔘᔍʰᔗ ᔘᔖ á”—á”’ ᔗʰᔉᔐ‧ 'áŽłá”’á”’á¶ Êž áŽłá”’á”’á”‡á”‰ÊłËą? áŽŸá”‰ÊłÊ°á”ƒá”–Ëą ᔗʰᔉʞ á”ƒá¶œá¶œâ±á”ˆá”‰âżá”—á”ƒËĄËĄÊž Êłá”‰á”›á”‰á”ƒËĄ ᔗʰᔉ ᔖᔃᔗᔗʞ â±âżá”Êłá”‰á”ˆâ±á”‰âżá”—Ëą á”’á”›á”‰Êł á”—Ê°á”‰â±Êł â±á¶œá”‰â»á¶œÊłá”‰á”ƒá”' áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔗʰᔒᔘᔍʰᔗ‧ ᔀʰᔉʞ ᔈᔉᶜⁱᔈᔉᔈ á”—á”’ ËąÊ°á”ƒÊłá”‰ ᔃ á”—Êłâ±á”–ËĄá”‰ á”á”’á”’á”‡á”‰Êł á”‡á”‰ÊłÊłÊž Ëąá”˜âżÊłâ±Ëąá”‰â€§ "᎔'ᔐ á”ËĄá”ƒá”ˆ ʞᔒᔘ ᶜᔃᔐᔉ ʷⁱᔗʰ ᔘ˹ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż!" ˹ᔃⁱᔈ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡â€§ "á”†á”˜Êłá”‰â€§" "ᎎᔃᔖᔖʞ á”‡â±Êłá”—Ê°á”ˆá”ƒÊž!" áŽŸá”ƒá”—Êłâ±á¶œá” á”†á”—á”ƒÊł Ê·á”ƒËĄá”á”‰á”ˆ ⁱⁿ‧ "ᎎᔉʞ➎ ᎟ᔃᔗ!" "᎔ á”á”˜á”‰ËąËą ᎔'ËĄËĄ á”—ÊłÊž ᔃ ᔇⁱᔗᔉ ᔒᶠ‧‧‧ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€œ" á”†á‘«á”˜â±á”ˆÊ·á”ƒÊłá”ˆ Ëąá”ƒÊ· ʰⁱᔐ á”‰á”ƒá”—â±âżá” ᔗʰᔉ Ëąá”˜âżá”ˆá”ƒá”‰ ᔗʰᔉʞ á”á”‰á”ƒâżá”— á”—á”’ ËąÊ°á”ƒÊłá”‰â€§ "ᔂʰʞ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€§â€§â€§" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ËĄá”’á”’á”á”‰á”ˆ ᔃᔗ ʰⁱᔐ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊłá”—â±âżá” á”—á”’ ᶠᔉᔉ˥ ᔗʰᔉ Ëąá”˜á”á”ƒÊł Êłá”˜ËąÊ°â€§ "á¶œá”ƒâż ᎔ ˥ᔉᔗ Ëąá‘«á”˜â±á”ˆÊ·á”ƒÊłá”ˆ ʰᔃᔛᔉ ˹ᔒᔐᔉ âżá”’Ê·? ᎔ á”á”‰á”ƒâż ʰᔉ ⁱ˹ ᔗʰᔉ á”‡â±Êłá”—Ê°á”ˆá”ƒÊž ᔇᔒʞ‧‧‧" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á”ƒËąá”Ëąâ€§ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ëąá”ƒá”— á”ˆá”’Ê·âż ᔒⁿ ᔗʰᔉ á”—á”ƒá”‡ËĄá”‰ ᔃ˹ ʷⁱᔗʰ ᔃ ËĄá”ƒá”˜á”Ê°â€§ "᎔ᔗ'Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ ᔍᔒᔒᔈ á”—á”’ ᔉᔃᔗ Ëąá”’ á¶ á”ƒËąá”— ˹ᔉᔉ‧‧" "á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᎔ á”—Ê°â±âżá” ʷᔉ'ᔈ á¶œá”ƒâż ᔍᔒ➎ ᔃ˹ ᎔ ᔃᔐ ⁿᔒᔗ Ê°á”˜âżá”ÊłÊž á”—á”’ á”‡á”‰á”â±âż ʷⁱᔗʰ ⁱⁿ ᔗʰᔉ á¶ â±ÊłËąá”— á”–ËĄá”ƒá¶œá”‰â€§â€§" á”†á‘«á”˜â±á”ˆÊ·á”ƒÊłá”ˆ á”—á”’ËĄá”ˆâ€§ "ʞᔒᔘ á¶œá”ƒâż ʰᔃᔛᔉ ᔗʰᔉ â±á¶œá”‰â»á¶œÊłá”‰á”ƒá” ⁱᶠ ʞᔒᔘ Ê·á”ƒâżá”—âžŽ áŽŸá”ƒá”—Êłâ±á¶œá”â€§â€§â€§" áŽŸá”ƒá”—Êłâ±á¶œá” âżá”’á”ˆá”ˆá”‰á”ˆ ᔃⁿᔈ Ëąá”â±ËĄá”‰á”ˆ ᔃ˹ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡'Ëą Ëąá”‰á”–á”ƒÊłá”ƒá”—â±âżá” áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á¶ Êłá”’á” ⁱᔗ‧ "᎔ ËĄâ±á”á”‰ ᔍᔒᔒᶠʞ á”á”’á”’á”‡á”‰ÊłËą ᔃⁿᔈ Ëąá”˜âżá”ˆá”ƒá”‰Ëąâ€§â€§â€§" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”â±á”á”ËĄá”‰Ëąâ€§ "áŽźÊžá”‰ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡â€§" á”†á‘«á”˜â±á”ˆÊ·á”ƒÊłá”ˆ ˥ᔉᶠᔗ‧ "᎔ á”á”˜á”‰ËąËą áŽłá”’á”’á¶ Êž áŽłá”’á”’á”‡á”‰Êł'Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ Ê·á”’Êłá” ᔒᔘᔗ á¶ á”’Êł ʰⁱᔐ‧" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ʷⁱᔖᔉᔈ ˹ᔒᔐᔉ á”ˆÊłá”’á”’ËĄ ᔒᶠᶠ ᔒᶠ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔃ˹ ᔗʰᔉʞ ˥ᔉᶠᔗ‧ "᎞ᔉᔗ'Ëą ᔍᔒ‧‧‧" "᎔'ᔈ Ê·á”ƒâżâżá”ƒâ€§â€§â€§" "áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ʞᔒᔘ ʰᔃᔈ á”á”’Êłá”‰ á”—Ê°á”ƒâż á”‰âżá”’á”˜á”Ê° á”ˆá”‰ËąËąá”‰Êłá”—!" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ Êłá”‰á¶œá”ƒËĄËĄá”‰á”ˆ Ê°á”’Ê· á”†á”ƒâżá”ˆÊž ˹ᔃⁱᔈ ËąÊ°á”‰'ᔈ ᔇᔉ Ê°á”ƒá”›â±âżá” ᔃ á”â±ÊłËĄËą âżâ±á”Ê°á”— ʷⁱᔗʰ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âżâžŽ ᔃⁿᔈ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᔈⁱᔈⁿ'á”— á”—Êłá”˜Ëąá”— á”—á”’ ËĄá”‰á”ƒá”›á”‰ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”ƒËĄá”’âżá”‰ ᔇʞ Ê°â±á”Ëąá”‰ËĄá¶ â€§ "ᎎᔃᔖᔖʞ á”‡â±Êłá”—Ê°á”ˆá”ƒÊž ᔗᔒ‧‧‧" "áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ʷᔉ á”ƒÊłá”‰ ʰᔒᔐᔉ ᔃᔗ ᔗʰᔉ ᶜʰᔘᔐ ᔇᔘᶜᔏᔉᔗ âżá”’Ê·â€§" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ Ê°á”‰ËĄá”–á”‰á”ˆ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔒⁿ á”—á”’ ᔗʰᔉ ᶜᔒᔘᶜʰ ᔃⁿᔈ Ëąá”ƒá”— ᔇʞ ʰⁱᔐ‧ "᎔'ᔈ á”ƒËąËąá”˜á”á”‰ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”—á”’ËĄá”ˆ ʞᔒᔘ ËąÊ°á”‰ Ê·á”‰âżá”— á”—á”’ ˹ᔉᔉ á”†á”ƒâżá”ˆÊžâ€§â€§â€§" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ Ê·â±á”–á”‰Ëą ᔒᶠᶠ á”á”’Êłá”‰ á”ˆÊłá”’á”’ËĄâ€§ "᎔ Ê·á”ƒâżá”— á”á”’Êłá”‰ ⁱᶜᔉ á¶œÊłá”‰á”ƒá”!" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”á”ƒâżá”ƒá”á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ Ëąá”ƒÊžâ€§ "ʞᔒᔘ'ᔛᔉ ʰᔃᔈ ˹ᔒᔐᔉ ᔃⁿᔈ ʞᔒᔘ'Êłá”‰ âżá”’Ê· ⁿᔒᔗ ⁱⁿ ᔗʰᔉ Ëąá”—á”ƒá”—á”‰ ᔗᔒ‧‧‧" "ʞᔒᔘ á”âżá”’Ê·âžŽ ᎔ âżá”‰á”›á”‰Êł ʰᔃᔈ Ëąá”˜á¶œÊ° ᔃ ᔍᔒᔒᔈ ᔇᔉ˹ᔗ á¶ Êłâ±á”‰âżá”ˆâ€§â€§â€§" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”—á”’ËĄá”ˆ ʰⁱᔐ‧ "᎔ ˥ᔒᔛᔉ ⁱᔗ Ê·Ê°á”‰âż ʷᔉ'Êłá”‰ á”—á”’á”á”‰á”—Ê°á”‰Êł á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰ ᔇᔒᔇ‧‧‧" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᶠᔉ˥ᔗ Ëąá”˜Êłá”–Êłâ±Ëąá”‰á”ˆ ᔃᔗ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą á¶œá”’âżá¶ á”‰ËąËąâ±á”’âż ʞᔉᔗ ʰᔉ á”âżá”‰Ê· ᔃ áŽłá”’á”’á¶ Êž áŽłá”’á”’á”‡á”‰Êł'Ëą Ëąá”˜âżá”ˆá”ƒá”‰ á¶œá”ƒâż ⁱᔐᔖᔃᶜᔗ‧ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔍᔃᔛᔉ á”â±ËąËąá”‰Ëą Ê°â±Ëą Ê°á”ƒâżá”ˆ ᔃ˹ ʰᔉ á”‰á”á”‡Êłá”ƒá¶œá”‰á”ˆ ⁱⁿ ᔃ ʰᔘᔍ‧ "áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâžŽ ᎔‧‧‧" "᎔'ᔈ á”’âżËĄÊž ˥ᔉᔗ á¶œËĄá”’Ëąá”‰ ᔖᔉᔒᔖ˥ᔉ á”âżá”’Ê· ⁱᔗ ᔇᔘᔗ ᎔'ᔐ ᔃ ˥ⁱᔗᔗ˥ᔉ ˹ᔉⁿ˹ⁱᔗⁱᔛᔉ‧ áŽ¶á”˜Ëąá”— á”ˆá”’âż'á”— ᔗᔉ˥˥ ᔗʰᔉ á”Êłá”˜Ëąá”—Êž á”Êłá”ƒá”‡ Ê·á”’Êłá”á”‰ÊłËąâ€§ ʞᔒᔘ'Êłá”‰ á”ƒá”á”ƒá¶»â±âżá” á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰ ᔇᔒᔇ ᔃⁿᔈ ᎔ á”á”‰á”ƒâż ⁱᔗ‧" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ËĄá”’á”’á”á”‰á”ˆ ᔃᔗ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ⁱⁿ Ëąâ±ËĄá”‰âżá¶œá”‰â€§ "Ꮀⁱᔈ ᎔ ᔈᔒ ˹ᔒᔐᔉ á”—Ê°â±âżá” Ê·Êłá”’âżá”? ᎔'ᔐ Ëąá”’ÊłÊłÊžâ€§â€§" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ËĄá”’á”’á”Ëą ËĄâ±á”á”‰ ʰᔉ'ᔈ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊłá”— á¶œÊłÊžâ±âżá”â€§ "᎔ á”—Ê°â±âżá” ʞᔒᔘ'Êłá”‰ ÊČá”˜Ëąá”— ᶠⁱⁿᔉ➎ Ëąâ±ËĄËĄÊž!" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ê°á”‰ËĄá”ˆ Ê°â±Ëą Ê°á”ƒâżá”ˆ ᔃ˹ ʰᔉ Ê°á”‰á”ƒÊłá”ˆ Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á¶œá”’á”á”–ËĄâ±á”á”‰âżá”— ʰⁱᔐ‧ "᎔'ᔛᔉ á”ƒËĄÊ·á”ƒÊžËą ËĄá”’á”›á”‰á”ˆ Êžá”’á”˜Êł ᔛᔒⁱᶜᔉ➎ á¶œá”ƒâż Ëąâ±âżá” á”—á”’ ᔐᔉ‧‧‧" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á”âżá”‰Ê· áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ê·á”’á”˜ËĄá”ˆ ⁿᔒᔗ á”‰á”›á”‰Êł ᔃᔈᔐⁱᔗ Ëąá”˜á¶œÊ° âżá”’Êłá”á”ƒËĄËĄÊžâ€§ ᎏ˹ ᔃ á”á”ƒá”—á”—á”‰Êł ᔒᶠ ᶠᔃᶜᔗ➎ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á”âżá”‰Ê· ʰᔉ'ᔈ ᶠᔉᔉ˥ Ëąá”’ á”‰á”á”‡á”ƒÊłÊłá”ƒËąËąá”‰á”ˆ ⁱᶠ ʰᔉ ᔉᔛᔉⁿ Êłá”‰á”á”‰á”á”‡á”‰Êłá”‰á”ˆ! ᎎᔉ Êłá”ƒÊłá”‰ËĄÊž á”â±á”›á”‰Ëą Ê°â±Ëą á¶œá”’á”á”–á”˜á”—á”‰Êł ʷⁱᶠᔉ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ê°á”˜á”Ëą ᔃⁿᔈ/á”’Êł á”â±ËąËąá”‰Ëą! á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á¶ á”’á”˜âżá”ˆ Ê°â±á”Ëąá”‰ËĄá¶  á¶œËĄá”‰á”ƒâżâ±âżá” ᔘᔖ á”á”’Êłá”‰ á”ˆÊłá”’á”’ËĄ á”’âżËĄÊž ËĄá”‰á”ƒá”›â±âżá” áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ê·Ê°á”‰âż áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą á¶ â±âżá”ƒËĄËĄÊž ᔈᔒᶻᔉᔈ ᔒᶠᶠ á¶ á”’Êł âżâ±á”Ê°á”—â€§ ᔀʰᔉʞ ᔈⁱᔈ ⁿᔒᔗ â±âżá”—á”‰Êłá”ƒá¶œá”— á”˜âżá”—â±ËĄ ᔗʰᔉ âżá”‰Ê· ʷᔉᔉᔏ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊłá”—Ëąâ€§ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᔈⁱᔈⁿ'á”— á”âżá”’Ê· ⁱᶠ Ê°á”’Ê· ʰᔉ'ᔈ ⁿᔉˣᔗ ᶠᔃᶜᔉ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”ƒá¶ á”—á”‰Êł! ᎏⁿᔈ Ëąá‘«á”˜â±á”ˆ Ê·á”ƒÊłá”ˆ Ëąá”ƒÊ· Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡'Ëą á”ƒá¶œá”—â±âżá” á”á”’Êłá”‰ ÊČᔘᔐᔖʞ á”—Ê°á”ƒâż á”˜Ëąá”˜á”ƒËĄâ€§ "á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰â€§â€§â€§" "᎔ ÊČá”˜Ëąá”— ᔈⁱᔈⁿ'á”— á”âżá”’Ê· ʷʰᔃᔗ á”—á”’ á”‰ËŁá”–á”‰á¶œá”— Ê·Ê°á”‰âż ᎔ ᔗᔒᔒᔏ ʰⁱᔐ ᔇᔃᶜᔏ!" ᎎᔉ â±âżá”—á”‰ÊłÊłá”˜á”–á”—á”‰á”ˆ ᔃ˹ á”†á‘«á”˜â±á”ˆÊ·á”ƒÊłá”ˆ á”—Ê°á”‰âż á”—á”˜Êłâżá”‰á”ˆ ᔇᔃᶜᔏ á”ƒÊłá”’á”˜âżá”ˆâ€§ ᔆᔒ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᶠᔃᶜᔉᔈ ᔗʰᔉ á”Êłá”˜Ëąá”—Êž á”Êłá”ƒá”‡ ᔇᔘᔗ ⁿᔒᔗ á”—á”’ Ëąá”—á”‰á”ƒËĄ ᔗʰᔉ â±âżá”Êłá”‰á”ˆâ±á”‰âżá”—Ëąâ€§ "᎔'ᔐ á”á”’â±âżá” ⁱⁿ‧‧‧" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ê·á”ƒâżá”—á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ ÊČá”˜Ëąá”— ËąÊ·á”ƒËĄËĄá”’Ê· Ê°â±Ëą á”–Êłâ±á”ˆá”‰ ᔃⁿᔈ ᔍᔉᔗ ⁱᔗ ᔃ˥˥ á”’á”›á”‰Êł ʷⁱᔗʰ‧ ᎎᔉ á”—á”’ËĄá”‰Êłá”ƒá”—á”‰Ëą Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á”á”’Êłá”‰ á”—Ê°á”ƒâż á”’á”—Ê°á”‰ÊłËąâžŽ ʰᔉ'ᔈ ᔃᔈᔐⁱᔗ á”—á”’ Ê°â±á”Ëąá”‰ËĄá¶ â€§ áŽŹá¶ á”—á”‰Êł ᔍᔒᔒᶠʞ á”á”’á”’á”‡á”‰ÊłËąâžŽ ᔃ˥˥ ʰᔉ'ᔈ á”›á”ƒá”á”˜á”‰ËĄÊž Êłá”‰á”á”‰á”á”‡á”‰Êłá”‰á”ˆ á”‰âżá”ˆâ±âżá” ᔘᔖ ᔇᔃᶜᔏ ᔃᔗ ᔗʰᔉ ᶜʰᔘᔐ ᔇᔘᶜᔏᔉᔗ‧ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ËĄá”’á”’á”á”‰á”ˆ Ëąá”’ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊłá”—ËĄá”‰á”ˆ Ëąá”‰á”‰â±âżá” áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ê·á”ƒËĄá” â±âżá”ˆá”’á”’ÊłËąâ€§ 'ᎌʰ➎ á”Êłá”‰á”ƒá”—' á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᔗʰᔒᔘᔍʰᔗ âżá”‰Êłá”›á”’á”˜Ëąâ€§ "᎔'ᔐ ᔒᶠᶠ ᔗʰᔉ á¶œËĄá”’á¶œá” ᔏⁱᔈ ᔇᔘᔗ ᎔➎ ʷᔉ âżá”‰á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ á”—á”ƒËĄá”â€§â€§" "á”†á”˜Êłá”‰ ᔇᔘᔗ ᎔'ËĄËĄ ᔗᔉ˥˥ ᔐʞ ᔇᔒ˹˹ ᎔'ᔐ á”á”’â±âżá” ᔒⁿ á”‡Êłá”‰á”ƒá” Êłá”‰á”ƒËĄ á¶ á”ƒËąá”—!" ᔆᔃⁱᔈ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡â€§ 'áŽźá”ƒá¶œá” á”—á”’ âżá”’Êłá”á”ƒËĄ ᎔ ˹ᔉᔉ' á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᔗʰᔒᔘᔍʰᔗ ᔃ˹ ʰᔉ Ê·á”‰âżá”— á”—á”’ áŽčÊłâ€§ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą ᔒᶠᶠⁱᶜᔉ‧ 'Ꮀᔒᔉ˹ Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ˹ᔉᔉᔐ âżá”‰Êłá”›á”’á”˜Ëą á”’Êł ᔃᔐ ᎔ Ê°á”’á”–á”‰á¶ á”˜ËĄËĄÊž â±á”á”ƒá”â±âżâ±âżá” ⁱᔗ' áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”ƒËąá”á”‰á”ˆ Ê°â±á”Ëąá”‰ËĄá¶ â€§ "᎞ᔉᔗ'Ëą ᔍᔒ á”’á”˜á”—Ëąâ±á”ˆá”‰â€§â€§â€§" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”—á”’ËĄá”ˆ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᔃ˹ ʰᔉ ᶜᔃᔐᔉ ᔇᔃᶜᔏ‧ "ᔆᔒ ʷʰᔃ‧‧‧" "᎔'ËĄËĄ ᔇᔉ á¶ â±ÊłËąá”—!" ᎎᔉ â±âżá”—á”‰ÊłÊłá”˜á”–á”—á”‰á”ˆâ€§ "ᔆᔒ ᎔‧‧‧" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ëąâ±á”Ê°á”‰á”ˆâžŽ ⁿᔒᔗ ËĄâ±á”â±âżá” Ëąá”˜á¶œÊ° á”›á”˜ËĄâżá”‰Êłá”ƒá”‡â±ËĄâ±á”—Êžâ€§ ᎎᔉ ʰᔒᔖᔉᔈ ʰᔉ ᔈⁱᔈ ⁿᔒᔗ ᔈᔒ á”’Êł Ëąá”ƒÊž Ëąá”’á”á”‰á”—Ê°â±âżá” Ê°á”˜á”â±ËĄâ±á”ƒá”—â±âżá”â€§ "᎔'ᔐ ⁿᔒᔗ Ëąá”˜Êłá”‰ ʷʰᔃᔗ'Ëą ᔇᔉᔉⁿ ˹ᔃⁱᔈ ᔃ˥˥ ËĄá”ƒËąá”— âżâ±á”Ê°á”—âžŽ ᎔ á”ˆá”’âż'á”— á”âżá”’Ê· Ê°á”’Ê· á”—á”’ ᔖᔘᔗ ⁱᔗ ᔇᔘᔗ ᎔'ᔐ ⁿᔒᔗ Ëąá”˜Êłá”‰ ᎔'ᔈ ᔉᔛᔉⁿ Ê·á”ƒâżâżá”ƒ á”âżá”’Ê· ʷʰᔃᔗ➎ Ê·á”‰ËĄËĄâžŽ ᎔'ᔐ Ëąá”ƒÊžâ±âżá” ᎔ ʰᔒᔖᔉ âżá”’á”—Ê°â±âżá” ᔒᔈᔈ‧‧‧" "áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ʰᔉʞ á”ˆá”’âż'á”— Ê·á”’ÊłÊłÊž ᔃᔇᔒᔘᔗ ⁱᔗ! ᎔ á”âżá”’Ê· ⁱᔗ'Ëą ÊČá”˜Ëąá”— ⁱᶜᔉ⁻ á¶œÊłá”‰á”ƒá” á”—á”ƒá”â±âżá” á”’á”›á”‰Êł; ᎔'ᔛᔉ ʰᔃᔈ ⁱᔗ Ê°á”ƒá”–á”–á”‰âż á”ÊžËąá”‰ËĄá¶  Ëąá”’ ᎔ á”âżá”’Ê·! ᎔ á”âżá”’Ê· ʞᔒᔘ ᔃⁿᔈ ᎔ ʰᔒᔖᔉ ʞᔒᔘ á”ˆá”’âż'á”— ᶠᔉᔉ˥ á”ƒÊ·á”Ê·á”ƒÊłá”ˆâ€§" "ᎌʰ ᔏⁱᔈ á”–ËĄá”‰á”ƒËąá”‰ ᔗᔉ˥˥ ᔐᔉ ᎔‧‧‧" "᎔ ᔗᔒᔒᔏ ʞᔒᔘ ᔇᔃᶜᔏ á”—á”’ Êžá”’á”˜Êł ʰᔒᔐᔉ á¶ á”’Êł ᔗʰᔉ âżâ±á”Ê°á”—â€§" "áŽłá”’á”’á”ˆ Ëąá”’ ᎔ ᔈⁱᔈⁿ'á”— ᔐᔃᔏᔉ ᔃ ᶠᔒᔒ˥ ᔒᶠ á”ÊžËąá”‰ËĄá¶ â€§â€§â€§" "᎔ á”ˆá”’âż'á”— á”âżá”’Ê· ʷʰᔃᔗ ʞᔒᔘ'ᔈ á¶œá”’âżËąâ±á”ˆá”‰Êł á¶ á”’á”’ËĄâ±ËąÊ° ᔇᔘᔗ ᎔'ᔐ ᶠⁱⁿᔉ‧ ᎔ á”ƒá¶œá”—á”˜á”ƒËĄËĄÊž ËĄâ±á”á”‰á”ˆ Ëąá”‰á”‰â±âżá” ʞᔒᔘ ᔃ˥˥ ˹ᔒᶠᔗ ᔃⁿᔈ ËąÊ·á”‰á”‰á”—âžŽ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”â€§â€§â€§" "ᔆᔒᶠᔗ ᔃⁿᔈ ËąÊ·á”‰á”‰á”—â€œ" "áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ⁿᔒ á”’á”—Ê°á”‰Êł á”–á”‰ÊłËąá”’âż á”âżá”’Ê·Ëą Ëąá”’ ᎔'ᔐ ᶠⁱⁿᔉ á”á”‰á”‰á”–â±âżá” ⁱᔗ á”‡á”‰á”—Ê·á”‰á”‰âż á”˜Ëąâ€§ ᎔ᶠ ʞᔒᔘ Ê·á”ƒâżá”— ᔐᔉ á”—á”’ Ëąâ±âżá” ʞᔒᔘ á”—á”’ ˹˥ᔉᔉᔖ á”ƒá”á”ƒâ±âż ÊČá”˜Ëąá”— ᔍⁱᔛᔉ ᔐᔉ ᔃ á¶œá”ƒËĄËĄâ€§ Ꮀᔒⁿ'á”— ᶠᔉᔉ˥ á”ƒá¶ Êłá”ƒâ±á”ˆ! ᎔ á”âżá”’Ê· ⁱᔗ á”á”˜Ëąá”—'ᔛᔉ ᔗᔒᔒᔏ Ëąá”—Êłá”‰âżá”á”—Ê° á”—á”’ ᔉᔛᔉⁿ ᶜᔒᔐᔉ á”—á”’ á”ƒËąá” ᔐᔉ ᔗᔒᔈᔃʞ‧ ᎔ ᔉⁿÊČá”’Êž Ëąá”‰á”‰â±âżá” ʞᔒᔘ ᔗᔒ➎ ᔃⁿᔈ ᎔ á”ˆá”’âż'á”— Ê·á”ƒâżá”— á”’ËĄá”ˆ ᔐᔃⁿ áŽ±á”˜á”á”‰âżá”‰ á”á”‰á”—á”—â±âżá” ᔘ˹ ⁱⁿ á”—Êłá”’á”˜á”‡ËĄá”‰ Ëąá”’ ᔍᔒᔗᔗᔃ ᔍᔒ!" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰ ᔇᔒᔇ ʷᔃᔛᔉᔈ➎ ᔃⁿᔈ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”ƒá¶œá”—á”˜á”ƒËĄËĄÊž ʷᔃᔛᔉᔈ ᔇᔃᶜᔏ➎ ˹ᔗⁱ˥˥ á”‰á”á”‡á”ƒÊłÊłá”ƒËąËąá”‰á”ˆ ᔃᔗ ËĄá”ƒËąá”— âżâ±á”Ê°á”— ᔇᔘᔗ á”ƒËĄËąá”’ ʰᔃᔖᔖʞ ᔃᔇᔒᔘᔗ Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡â€§â€§ 'áŽŒËĄá”ˆ ᔐᔃⁿ áŽ±á”˜á”á”‰âżá”‰? ᎏ˥˹ᔒ Ëąâ±âżá” á”—á”’ ˹˥ᔉᔉᔖ➎ á”ƒá”á”ƒâ±âż?' áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ʷᔃᔗᶜʰᔉᔈ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᔍᔒ ᔇᔃᶜᔏ ⁱⁿ ᔗʰᔉ á”Êłá”˜Ëąá”—Êž á”Êłá”ƒá”‡â€§ "áŽłá”’á”’á”ˆ á”—Ê°â±âżá” áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż'Ëą ᔒᔘᔗ á”’Êł ᎔'ᔈ âżá”‰á”›á”‰Êł Ê°á”‰á”ƒÊł ᔗʰᔉ á”‰âżá”ˆ ᔒᶠ ⁱᔗ‧‧‧" á”†á”˜á”ˆá”ˆá”‰âżËĄÊž áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á¶ á”’á”˜âżá”ˆ Ê°â±á”Ëąá”‰ËĄá¶  âżá”‰á”ƒÊłËĄÊž á”á”‰á”—á”—â±âżá” Ëąá”—á”‰á”–á”–á”‰á”ˆ ᔒⁿ‧ "ᔂᔉ'Êłá”‰ ᔇᔃᶜᔏ➎ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż!" ᎎᔉ á”—á”˜Êłâżá”‰á”ˆ á”ƒÊłá”’á”˜âżá”ˆ á”—á”’ ˹ᔉᔉ á”†á”ƒâżá”ˆÊž ËĄá”‰á”ƒá”›á”‰ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âżâ€§ "ᔂʰʞ á”ƒÊłá”‰ ʞᔒᔘ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊłâ±âżá” ᔃᔗ ᔗʰᔉ Êłá”‰Ëąá”—á”ƒá”˜Êłá”ƒâżá”—? ᔀᔉ˥˥ ᔐᔉ➎ ᔈⁱᔈ ʞᔒᔘ ᔈᔒ Ëąá”’á”á”‰á”—Ê°â±âżá” á”–Êłá”’á”ˆá”˜á¶œá”—â±á”›á”‰ Ê·Ê°á”‰âż ᎔ Ê·á”ƒËą á”á”’âżá”‰?" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ˹ᔃⁱᔈ ᔃ˹ ʰᔉ Ê·á”ƒËĄá”á”‰á”ˆ ʰᔒᔐᔉ ʷⁱᔗʰ Ê°á”‰Êłâ€§ "ᔀʰᔉ á”˜Ëąá”˜á”ƒËĄâ€§â€§â€§" '᎔ á”á”‰á”ƒâżâžŽ ⁿᔒᔗ ËĄâ±á”á”‰ ᎔ á”ƒá”–á”–á”ƒÊłá”‰âżá”—ËĄÊž á”‰âżá”ˆá”‰á”ˆ ᔘᔖ Ê°á”ƒá”›â±âżá” Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ Ëąâ±âżá” á”—á”’ ᔐᔉ➎ ˹ᔒ‧‧‧' áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔗʰᔒᔘᔍʰᔗ á”—á”’ Ê°â±á”Ëąá”‰ËĄá¶ â€§ áŽŹá¶ á”—á”‰Êł Ëąá‘«á”˜â±á”ˆÊ·á”ƒÊłá”ˆ ᔍᔒᔗ ᔒᶠᶠ Ê·á”’Êłá” ʰᔉ á¶ á”’á”˜âżá”ˆ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔃᔗ Ê°â±Ëą á”ˆá”’á”’Êłâ€§ "ᎎⁱ á”†á‘«á”˜â±á”ˆÊ·á”ƒÊłá”ˆ; ᎔ Ê·á”ƒâżá”—á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ ᔐᔃᔏᔉ ⁱᔗ ᔘᔖ á”—á”’ ʞᔒᔘ ⁱᶠ ᎔ Êłá”˜â±âżá”‰á”ˆ Êžá”’á”˜Êł á”‡â±Êłá”—Ê°á”ˆá”ƒÊž á”ˆâ±âżâżá”‰ÊłâžŽ Ëąá”’ ᎔ ᔍᔒᔗ ʞᔒᔘ ˹ᔒᔐᔉ á”—â±á¶œá”á”‰á”—Ëą á”—á”’ áŽ·á”‰ËĄá”–Êž ᮳‧" "ᔂᔒʷ; á”—Ê°á”ƒâżá”Ëą!"
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Wednesday 19 October 2016 Making Black Ice Cream! Ingredients: 2 cups heavy whipping cream 1 tin sweetened condensed milk Pinch of sea salt Black gel food dye Monin caramel flavour syrup I whipped the cream until it was stiff with a stick mixer, but an electric beater would have been better. Then I poured the condensed milk onto it, the pinch of sea salt, and flavour syrup to taste. I folded it together carefully, before adding (what turned out to be) a generous amount of black gel food dye. I found that whipping the mixture, instead of stirring, helped the colour to combine with the other ingredients better. After 24 hours this should have definitely been frozen, but thanks to my freezer being as asshole, the big reveal of my creation was a fail. The taste was alright, although it mostly tasted of condensed milk. In future, I would use a stronger flavouring agent, and perhaps activated charcoal in addition to food colouring to create a darker colour. I would also make sure the freezer door was closed properly! Bah! 'Til next time, thanks for visiting! Would you try black ice cream?
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á”†Ê°á”‰á”ˆá”ˆâ±âżá” ᎞ⁱᔍʰᔗ âœá”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ á¶ á”ƒâżá¶ â±á¶œâŸ á”Ëąâ±âżá” ᔃ Êłá”’á”–á”‰, á”†á‘«á”˜â±á”ˆÊ·á”ƒÊłá”ˆâ€™Ëą ᔒⁿ ᔃ ËĄá”ƒá”ˆá”ˆá”‰Êł á”–á”˜á”—á”—â±âżá” ᔘᔖ ᔃ á”–á”’â±âżá”—á”‰á”ˆ ËĄâ±á”Ê°á”— á¶ â±ËŁá”—á”˜Êłá”‰ ⁱⁿ ᔗʰᔉ áŽ·Êłá”˜Ëąá”—Êž áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡ ᔃ˹ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᶜᔃᔐᔉ ᔇʞ‧ áŽźá”˜á”— ᔃ˥ᔃ˹ ᔗʰᔉ á¶œÊ°á”ƒâżá”ˆá”‰ËĄâ±á”‰Êłâ€™Ëą á”—á”’ ʰᔉᔃᔛʞ ᔃⁿᔈ ᶠᔉ˥˥‧ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ËĄá”’á”’á”á”‰á”ˆ ᔘᔖ á”—á”’ ˹ᔉᔉ ⁱᔗ á”ˆÊłá”’á”– á”—á”’ ʰⁱᔐ‧ áŽźá”˜á”— á”—Ê°á”‰âż ʰᔉ ᶠᔉ˥ᔗ âżá”’á”—Ê°â±âżá” ᔃᔗ ᔃ˥˥, á¶ á”’Êł Ê°â±á”—á”—â±âżá” Ê°â±Ëą ʰᔉᔃᔈ á”âżá”’á¶œá”â±âżá” ʰⁱᔐ á”˜âżá¶œá”’âżËąá¶œâ±á”’á”˜Ëąâ€§ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᶠᔉ˥˥ ᔇᔃᶜᔏ, á”ƒá”á”ƒâ±âż Ê°â±á”—á”—â±âżá” Ê°â±Ëą ʰᔉᔃᔈ á”’âżá¶œá”‰ á”ƒá”á”ƒâ±âż ᔃ˹ ʰᔉ ᶠᔉ˥˥‧ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ Êłá”ƒâż á”—á”’ ʰⁱᔐ âżá”’Ê· ᔃ˹ ʰᔉ ᔐᔃᔈᔉ ⁿᔒ ᔐᔒᔛᔉᔐᔉⁿᔗ ᔃᔗ á”ƒËĄËĄâ€§ â€œáŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€§â€§â€ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á¶œÊłâ±á”‰Ëą ᔃ˹ ʰᔉ á¶œËĄá”‰á”ƒÊłá”‰á”ˆ ᔗʰᔉ Ëąá”˜ÊłÊłá”’á”˜âżá”ˆâ±âżá”Ëą ᔃⁿᔈ á”—Ê°á”‰âż Êłá”‰á”á”’á”›á”‰á”ˆ á”ˆá”‰á”‡Êłâ±Ëą á¶ Êłá”’á” ᔒⁿ á”—á”’á”– áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€™Ëą ʰᔉᔃᔈ‧ ᔀʰᔉʞ á¶œá”ƒËĄËĄá”‰á”ˆ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€™Ëą á¶œá”’á”á”–á”˜á”—á”‰Êł ʷⁱᶠᔉ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âżâ€§ áŽ±á”›á”‰âżá”—á”˜á”ƒËĄËĄÊž áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á¶ á”’á”˜âżá”ˆ Ê°â±á”Ëąá”‰ËĄá¶  Ê·á”ƒá”â±âżá” ᔘᔖ‧ “ᎌʰ á”†Ê°á”‰ËĄá”ˆá”’âżâ€§â€§â€ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ëąá”ƒÊžËą á”—á”’ ʰⁱᔐ ᔃ˹ ʰᔉ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊłá”—á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ Êłá”’á”˜Ëąá”‰â€§ ᔆᔗⁱ˥˥ Ê°á”˜Êłá”—â±âżá”, áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔐᔃᔈᔉ ᔒᔘᔗ Ê°â±Ëą Ëąá”˜ÊłÊłá”’á”˜âżá”ˆâ±âżá”Ëą âżá”’Ê·â€§ “ᎎᔘʰ ” â€œáŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ˥ᔉᔗ’˹ ᔍᔉᔗ ʞᔒᔘ ᔇᔃᶜᔏ á”—á”’ ᔗʰᔉ ᶜʰᔘᔐ ᔇᔘᶜᔏᔉᔗ âżá”’Ê·â€§â€ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ëąá”ƒÊžËą, á”—á”ƒá”â±âżá” Ê°â±Ëą Ê°á”ƒâżá”ˆâ€§ ‘ᔂʰᔃᔗ ⁱ˹ á”á”’â±âżá” ᔒⁿ? ᔂᔃⁱᔗ ᔗʰᔉʞ ᔍᔒᔗᔗᔃ âżá”‰Ê· ËĄâ±á”Ê°á”—â±âżá” á¶ â±ËŁá”—á”˜Êłá”‰â€§ ᎔ Ëąá”ƒÊ· ⁱᔗ, ᔃⁿᔈ âżá”’á”—Ê°â±âżá”â€§ ᔂʰᔃᔗ Ê°á”ƒá”–á”–á”‰âżá”‰á”ˆ?’ ᎎᔉ ᔗʰᔒᔘᔍʰᔗ, á”—á”’ Ê°â±á”Ëąá”‰ËĄá¶ â€§ “ᔁᔍʰ ” áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€™Ëą Ëąá”˜á”–á”–á”’Êłá”—á”‰á”ˆ ᔇʞ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ᔃ˹ ᔗʰᔉʞ Ê·á”‰âżá”— á”—á”’ Ê°â±Ëą ᔇᔉᔈ‧ “ᔆᔒ ᎔ ᶜᔃᔐᔉ Ê·Ê°á”‰âż á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ â±âżá¶ á”’Êłá”Ëą ᔐᔉ ᔃ ËĄâ±á”Ê°á”— ᶠᔉ˥˥ ᔒⁿ ʞᔒᔘ ᔃⁿᔈ Ëąá”á”ƒËąÊ° á”ƒá”á”ƒâ±âżËąá”— Êžá”’á”˜Êł ʰᔉᔃᔈ‧ Ꮃᔒᔗ ⁱᔗ ᔃ˥˥ ᔒᔘᔗ á”‡á”‰á¶ á”’Êłá”‰ ᔃⁿᔈ âżá”’Ê· ʞᔒᔘ ᔍᔒᔗᔗᔃ Êłá”‰á¶œá”’á”›á”‰Êłâ€§â€ â€œáŽ±ËŁá”–ËĄá”ƒâ±âżËą ᔗʰᔉ á”‡á”ƒâżá”ˆá”ƒá”á”‰Ëąâ€§â€ á”†á”ƒÊžËą áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż, âżá”’Ê· á”á”‰á”—á”—â±âżá” á”—á”’ Ê°â±Ëą ᔇᔉᔈ‧ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”âżá”‰Ê· Ê°á”‰â€™Ëą á¶ á”‰á”‰ËĄâ±âżá” á”’á”›á”‰Êł ËĄá”’á”ƒá”ˆá”‰á”ˆ Êłâ±á”Ê°á”— âżá”’Ê·â€§ “᎔ ᔍᔒᔗ ʞᔒᔘ ˹ᔒᔐᔉ Ê·á”ƒá”—á”‰Êł á”—á”’ á”ˆÊłâ±âżá” ᔃⁿᔈ ˹ᔒᔐᔉ á”‡á”’á”’á”Ëą ᔒᶠ Êžá”’á”˜ÊłËąâ€§ ʞᔒᔘ ᔒᔘᔍʰᔗᔃ ᔗᔃᔏᔉ ⁱᔗ á”‰á”ƒËąÊžâ€§ ᎞ᔉᔗ Êžá”’á”˜Êł ᔇᔒᔈʞ ᔍᔉᔗ á”‰á”ƒËąá”‰á”ˆ ᔃ˹ ËĄá”’âżá” ᔃ˹ âżá”‰á¶œá”‰ËąËąá”ƒÊłÊžâ€§â€ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔖᔘᔗ Ê°â±Ëą ʰᔉᔃᔈ ᔒⁿ á”–â±ËĄËĄá”’Ê· âżá”’Ê·â€§ â€œá¶ á”’Êł ᔃᔗ ËĄá”‰á”ƒËąá”— ᔗᔒᔈᔃʞ ᔃⁿᔈ á”—á”’á”á”’ÊłÊłá”’Ê·â€Šâ€ â€œáŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ᎔’ᔐ á”á”’âżâżá”ƒ âżá”‰á”‰á”ˆ ˹ᔒᔐᔉ á”ˆá”ƒÊžËą ᎔ á”âżá”’Ê·â€Šâ€ â€œÊžá”‰Ëą ÊČá”˜Ëąá”— Êłá”‰ á”ƒËąËąá”˜Êłâ±âżá” ʞᔒᔘ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€§â€ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ëąá”ƒÊžËą, á”‡á”ƒá¶œá”â±âżá” ᔒᔘᔗ ᔒᶠ ᔗʰᔉ Êłá”’á”’á”â€§ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ˥ᔉᶠᔗ ᔗʰᔉ á”ˆá”’á”’Êł á¶œÊłá”ƒá¶œá”á”‰á”ˆ á¶ á”’Êł ʰⁱᔐ‧ ᔆʰᔉ á”âżá”‰Ê· áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ê·â±ËĄËĄ ᔇᔉⁿᔉᶠⁱᔗ á¶ Êłá”’á” á”ƒËĄá”’âżá”‰ ᔗⁱᔐᔉ‧ ᎔ᔗ’˹ ʷʰᔃᔗ ʰᔉ âżá”‰á”‰á”ˆá”‰á”ˆ âżá”’Ê· ᔃⁿᔈ ËąÊ°á”‰ ᔈⁱᔈ á”–Êłá”’á”›â±á”ˆá”‰ ʰⁱᔐ ʷⁱᔗʰ á”›á”ƒÊłâ±á”’á”˜Ëą Ê·á”ƒâżá”—Ëą ᔒⁿ ᔗʰᔉ á”—á”ƒá”‡ËĄá”‰ ᔇʞ Ê°â±Ëą ᔇᔉᔈ‧ ᔆʰᔉ ᔈⁱᔈ ᔈᔉᶜⁱᔈᔉ á”—á”’ ᶜʰᔉᶜᔏ ˹ᔒᔐᔉ ᔗⁱᔐᔉ á”ƒá¶ á”—á”‰Êł á”—á”’ ˹ᔉᔉ‧ áŽșá”’Ê· á”–á”‰á”‰á”â±âżá” á”—Ê°Êłá”’á”˜á”Ê° ᔗʰᔉ á”ˆá”’á”’Êł, áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż âżá”’á”—â±á¶œá”‰á”ˆ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᶠᔉ˥˥ á”ƒËąËĄá”‰á”‰á”–, âżá”’Ê· âżá”ƒá”–á”–â±âżá”â€§ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ Ëąá”—á”’á”–á”–á”‰á”ˆ ᔇʞ á”ƒá¶ á”—á”‰Êł Ê·á”’Êłá”â€§ â€œáŽŽá”‰â€™Ëą á”ƒËąËĄá”‰á”‰á”– âżá”’Ê·â€§â€ “᎔ ᶜᔃᔐᔉ ᔇʞ á”—á”’ ˹ᔉᔉ ⁱᶠ ᎔’ᔈ Ê°á”‰ËĄá”– ᔒᔘᔗ á”’Êł á”á”’Êłá”ƒËĄ Ëąá”˜á”–á”–á”’Êłá”—â€§â€ áŽșá”’á”— Ê·á”ƒâżá”—â±âżá” á”—á”’ á”ˆâ±ËąÊłá”˜á”–á”— áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€™Ëą âżá”ƒá”– á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ˥ᔉᶠᔗ‧ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ⁿᔉˣᔗ ʷᔒᔏᔉ Ê·Ê°á”‰âż áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”—á”ƒá”–Ëą ʰⁱᔐ ᔒⁿ ᔗʰᔉ ËąÊ°á”’á”˜ËĄá”ˆá”‰Êłâ€§ ᎎᔉ ᔗʷⁱᔗᶜʰᔉᔈ ⁱⁿ á”ˆâ±Ëąá¶œá”’á”á¶ á”’Êłá”— ᔃᔗ ᔗʰᔉ ᔗᔒᔘᶜʰ, á”’á”–á”‰âżâ±âżá” Ê°â±Ëą ᔉʞᔉ‧ â€œá”†á”’ÊłÊłÊž, ËąÊ·á”‰á”‰á”—Ëą; ᎔ ÊČá”˜Ëąá”— ᔍᔒᔗᔗᔃ Êłá”‰á”–ËĄá”ƒá¶œá”‰ ᔗʰᔉ á”‡á”ƒâżá”ˆá”ƒá”á”‰ âżá”’Ê·â€§â€ áŽŹá¶ á”—á”‰Êł á”ˆá”’â±âżá” Ëąá”’, áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á¶œÊłá”’á”˜á¶œÊ°á”‰á”ˆ á”ˆá”’Ê·âż á”—á”’ ʰⁱᔐ‧ “᎔’ᔐ Ëąá”’ÊłÊłÊž áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âżâ€§â€§â€ â€œá”†Ê°á”‰ËĄá”ˆá”’âż áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż, ʞᔒᔘ’ᔛᔉ âżá”’á”—Ê°â±âżá” á”—á”’ á”ƒá”–á”’ËĄá”’á”â±Ëąá”‰ á¶ á”’Êł ᔇᔘᔗ ⁱᔗ’˹ á¶ â±âżá”‰â€§â€ ᎎᔉ ᔍᔒᔗ Ê°á”‰Êł Ê°á”ƒâżá”ˆ ᔃⁿᔈ Ê°á”‰ËĄá”ˆ ⁱᔗ‧ “ᎌʰ, ËąÊ·á”‰á”‰á”—Ëąâ€§â€§â€ “᎔ ˥ᔒᔛᔉ ʞᔒᔘ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âżâ€§ ᎔ á”âżá”’Ê· ᎔ á”ˆá”’âżâ€™á”— Ëąá”ƒÊž ⁱᔗ á”‰âżá”’á”˜á”Ê° ᔇᔘᔗ ᎔ ᔈᔒ‧‧” “᎔ ˥ᔒᔛᔉ ʞᔒᔘ ᔗᔒ‧ ᎔’ᔐ á”á”’âżâżá”ƒ ᔍᔒ á”—á”’ ËąËĄá”‰á”‰á”–â€§â€ â€œáŽłá”’á”’á”ˆ âżâ±á”Ê°á”—â€§â€ ᔆʰᔉ á”’âżËĄÊž ˥ᔉᔗ ᔍᔒ ᔒᶠ Ê°â±Ëą Ê°á”ƒâżá”ˆ Ê·Ê°á”‰âżá¶œá”‰ ʰᔉ Ëąâżá”’Êłá”‰á”ˆâ€§ â€œáŽłá”’á”’á”ˆ âżâ±á”Ê°á”— áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€§â€§â€ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ê·Ê°â±Ëąá”–á”‰ÊłËą á”—á”’ Ê°â±Ëą ËąËĄá”‰á”‰á”–â±âżá” á¶ á”’Êłá”â€§ ᔆʰᔉ á”âżá”‰Ê· âżá”’Ê·â€™Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ ᔗʰᔉ ᔗⁱᔐᔉ á”—á”’ ᔍⁱᔛᔉ ᔍᔒᔒᔈ âżâ±á”Ê°á”— á”â±ËąËąá”‰Ëą, á¶ á”’Êł Ê°â±Ëą ᔇᔒᔈʞ ᶠᔉ˥ᔗ ᑫᔘⁱᔗᔉ á”‰âżá”’á”˜á”Ê° ᔒᶠ Ëąá”—â±á”á”˜ËĄá”ƒá”—â±á”’âż á¶ á”’Êł ᔗʰᔉ ᔈᔃʞ‧ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ëąâ±á”Ê°Ëą, ËĄá”‰á”ƒá”›â±âżá” Ê°â±Ëą á”ˆá”’á”’Êł á¶œÊłá”ƒá¶œá”á”‰á”ˆâ€§ ᎔ⁿ ᔗʰᔉ ⁿᔉˣᔗ á”á”’Êłâżâ±âżá”, áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż âżá”’Ê· Êłá”‰á¶ Êłá”‰ËąÊ°á”‰á”ˆ á¶ Êłá”’á” Ê°á”‰Êł ˹˥ᔉᔉᔖ ᔗᔒ‧ ᔆʰᔉ Ê·á”‰âżá”— á”—á”’ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€™Ëą á”ˆá”’á”’Êł ᔃⁿᔈ Ê°á”‰á”ƒÊłá”ˆ Ëąâżá”’Êłâ±âżá”, Ëąá”’ ËąÊ°á”‰ ˥ᔉᔗ ʰⁱᔐ ᔇᔉ‧ ᎏ˹ ʰᔉ ʷᔒᔏᔉ ᔘᔖ, áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”—á”˜Êłâżá”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ Ê·Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ˥ᔉᶠᔗ ᔒⁿ Ê°â±Ëą á”—á”ƒá”‡ËĄá”‰â€§ ᎎᔉ á”Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą ᔃ ᔇᔒᔒᔏ á”—á”’ Êłá”‰á”ƒá”ˆâ€§ “ᎌʰ ʰᔉʞ ᔍᔒᔒᔈ á”á”’Êłâżâ±âżá”â€Šâ€ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ëąá”ƒÊžËą ᔃ˹ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ⁿᔉˣᔗ á¶œÊ°á”‰á¶œá”Ëą ᔒⁿ ʰⁱᔐ‧ â€œáŽŽá”‰ËĄËĄá”’ ËąÊ·á”‰á”‰á”—Ëąâ€§ ᎞ᔉᔗ ᔐᔉ á”âżá”’Ê· ⁱᶠ ᎔ á¶œá”ƒâż Ê°á”‰ËĄá”– ʞᔒᔘ á”’Êł ᔍᔉᔗ ʞᔒᔘ ” â€œáŽ”â€™ËĄËĄ ˥ᔉᔗ ʞᔒᔘ á”âżá”’Ê· áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âżâ€§â€ “ᎌʰ ËĄá”ƒËąá”— âżâ±á”Ê°á”— Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰ ᔇᔒᔇ ᶜᔃᔐᔉ ᔇʞ ᔃⁿᔈ á”ƒËąá”á”‰á”ˆ ᔃᔇᔒᔘᔗ ʞᔒᔘ‧” “ᎎᔉ ᔈⁱᔈ?” “᎔ ˥ᔉᔗ ʰⁱᔐ ËĄá”‰á”ƒá”›á”‰ á”‡á”‰á¶œá”ƒá”˜Ëąá”‰ Êžá”’á”˜â€™Êłá”‰ Êłá”‰Ëąá”—â±âżá”â€§ ᎔ᶠ ʞᔒᔘ’ᔈ ËĄâ±á”á”‰, ᎔ á¶œá”ƒâż á¶œá”ƒËĄËĄ ʰⁱᔐ‧‧” “᎔’ᔐ ᶠⁱⁿᔉ á¶ á”’Êł Êłâ±á”Ê°á”— âżá”’Ê·â€§â€ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż âżá”’á”ˆá”ˆá”‰á”ˆ ᔃⁿᔈ ᔇᔃᶜᔏᔉᔈ ᔒᔘᔗ ᔒᶠ ᔗʰᔉ Êłá”’á”’á” á”‡á”‰á¶ á”’Êłá”‰ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ê·á”‰âżá”— ᔇᔃᶜᔏ á”—á”’ Êłá”‰á”ƒá”ˆâ±âżá” ᔇᔒᔒᔏ âżá”’Ê·â€§ áŽ±á”›á”‰âżá”—á”˜á”ƒËĄËĄÊž ᔃ˹ ËąÊ°á”‰ á¶œÊ°á”ƒâżá”á”‰á”ˆ ᔒᔘᔗ á”‡á”ƒâżá”ˆá”ƒá”á”‰Ëą áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ˥ᔉᔗ Ê°á”‰Êł Ëąá”—á”ƒÊžâ€§ â€œá¶œá”ƒâż ᎔ ˹ⁱᔗ?” áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż âżá”’á”ˆá”ˆá”‰á”ˆ á”—Ê°á”‰âż ᔖᔘᔗ Ê°â±Ëą Ê°á”ƒâżá”ˆ á”—á”’ Ê°â±Ëą ʰᔉᔃᔈ‧ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á¶ ËĄá”˜á¶ á¶ á”‰á”ˆ ᔗʰᔉ á”–â±ËĄËĄá”’Ê·Ëąâ€§ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ëąá¶œá”’á”’á”—á”‰á”ˆ ᔘᔖ á¶œËĄá”’Ëąá”‰Êł á”—á”’ Ê°á”‰Êł âżá”’Ê·â€§ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ëąá”â±ËĄá”‰á”ˆ, ᔃ˹ ËąÊ°á”‰ á”˜âżá”ˆá”‰ÊłËąá”—á”’á”’á”ˆ ʰᔉ á¶œá”ƒâż ᔇᔉ á”ƒá”›á”‰ÊłËąá”‰ á”—á”’ ᔗᔒᔘᶜʰ‧ ᎏᔗ ᔗⁱᔐᔉ˹ ᔗʰᔉʞ’ᔈ ʰᔘᔍ ᔇᔘᔗ ËąÊ°á”‰ Êłá”‰Ëąá”–á”‰á¶œá”—á”‰á”ˆ Ê°á”‰Êł Ê°á”˜Ëąá”‡á”ƒâżá”ˆ á”‰âżá”’á”˜á”Ê° á”—á”’ ˥ᔉᔗ ʰⁱᔐ ᔇᔉ ᔗʰᔉ ᔒⁿᔉ á”—á”’ á”‰âżá”á”ƒá”á”‰ á”ƒâżÊž á¶œá”’âżá”—á”ƒá¶œá”— á¶ â±ÊłËąá”—â€§ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔍᔃᔛᔉ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ê°â±Ëą ᔇᔒᔒᔏ Ëąá”’ ËąÊ°á”‰â€™á”ˆ Êłá”‰á”ƒá”ˆ á”—á”’ ʰⁱᔐ‧ áŽźÊž ᔗʰᔉ á”‰âżá”ˆ ᔒᶠ, Ê°â±Ëą ʰᔉᔃᔈ ᶠᔉ˥ᔗ ʰᔉᔃᔛʞ‧ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ËĄá”’á”’á”á”‰á”ˆ ᔃᔗ ʰⁱᔐ, Êłá”‰á”ƒËĄâ±Ëąâ±âżá” Ê°á”‰â€™Ëą á”á”’â±âżá” á”—á”’ ˹˥ᔉᔉᔖ‧ áŽ±á”›á”‰âżá”—á”˜á”ƒËĄËĄÊž ËąÊ°á”‰ ᔈⁱᔈ á”—á”’ ʞᔉᔗ á”ˆâ±á”ˆâżâ€™á”— á”â±âżá”ˆâ€§ Ꮀᔉ˹ᔖⁱᔗᔉ ʰᔉᔃᔈ á”ƒá¶œÊ°á”‰Ëą ᔗᔒᔈᔃʞ, áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᶠᔉ˥ᔗ ᔍᔒᔒᔈ‧ đ–đšđ«đ 𝐜𝐹𝐼𝐧𝐭: 𝟳𝟼𝟯
new Karen/Sheldon J. Plankton Karen (SpongeBob) Karen & SpongeBob SquarePants optimistic ending Sleep & Naps plaren shedding light
á¶ Êłá”ƒá”—á”‰Êłâżâ±Ëąá”ƒá”—â±á”’âż âœá”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ á¶ á”ƒâżá¶ â±á¶œâŸ Pt. 4 “áŽčÊłâ€§ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą ᎔ ᔍᔒᔗ á”—á”’ ᔍᔒ á”—á”’ ᔇᔉᔈ ᔇʞᔉ!” á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ Ê°á”ƒâżá”Ëą ᔘᔖ ᔗʰᔉ á”–Ê°á”’âżá”‰â€§ ᎎᔉ âżá”‰á”›á”‰Êł ËĄâ±á”á”‰á”ˆ á¶œá”’âżá¶ ËĄâ±á¶œá”— ᔃⁿᔈ Ê°á”‰â€™Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ ᔒⁿᔉ á”—á”’ ˥ⁱᔉ‧ “ᔂᔉ ᔇᔒᔗʰ âżá”‰á”‰á”ˆ Êłá”‰Ëąá”—â€Šâ€ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ á¶ â±ËŁá”‰á”ˆ ᔃ Ê·á”ƒÊłá” á”‡ËĄá”ƒâżá”á”‰á”—â€§ “᎞ᔉᔗ ᔐᔉ á”âżá”’Ê· ⁱᶠ ʞᔒᔘ âżá”‰á”‰á”ˆ á”ƒâżÊžá”—Ê°â±âżá” ᔃᔗ á”ƒËĄËĄâ€Šâ€ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ Ëąá”ƒâ±á”ˆâ€§ â€œá”€Ê°á”ƒâżá” ʞᔒᔘ ” áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ˹ᔃⁱᔈ, ⁿᔒᔗ á”˜Ëąá”˜á”ƒËĄËĄÊž ËąÊ°á”’Ê·â±âżá” á”ƒá¶ á¶ á”‰á¶œá”—â±á”’âżâ€§ ᔆᔗⁱ˥˥ ⁱᔗ’˹ ᔗʰᔉ ËĄá”‰á”ƒËąá”— ʰᔉ á¶œá”’á”˜ËĄá”ˆ ᔈᔒ ᔃ˹ á”—á”’ á”—Ê°á”ƒâżá” ᔗʰᔉ ᔏⁱᔈ Ê·Ê°á”’â€™Ëą á¶œá”˜ÊłÊłá”‰âżá”—ËĄÊž á”‡á”‰Ëąâ±á”ˆá”‰ ʰⁱᔐ á”ƒËĄÊłá”‰á”ƒá”ˆÊž ËąËĄá”‰á”‰á”–â±âżá”â€§ ᎎᔉ á”âżá”‰Ê· ⁱᔗ’˹ ⁿᔒᔗ Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡Ëą á”’Ê·âż á¶ á”ƒá”˜ËĄá”—, á”ƒËĄá”—Ê°á”’á”˜á”Ê° á”‰á”á”‡á”ƒÊłÊłá”ƒËąËąá”‰á”ˆ Ê·Ê°á”‰âż ʰᔉ á”‰á”›á”‰âżá”—á”˜á”ƒËĄËĄÊž Êłá”‰á”ƒËĄâ±Ëąá”‰á”ˆ ʷʰᔃᔗ Ê°á”ƒËą Ê°á”ƒá”–á”–á”‰âżá”‰á”ˆ á”’âżá¶œá”‰ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ á”—á”’ËĄá”ˆ ʰⁱᔐ ʷʰᔃᔗ á”’á¶œá¶œá”˜ÊłÊłá”‰á”ˆâ€§ ᎎᔉ âżá”‰á”›á”‰Êł Ê·á”ƒâżá”—Ëą á”—á”’ ᶠᔉᔉ˥ á”›á”˜ËĄâżá”‰Êłá”ƒá”‡ËĄá”‰ ᔇᔘᔗ ʰᔉ á”ƒá”–á”–Êłá”‰á¶œâ±á”ƒá”—á”‰á”ˆ ᔗʰᔉ ᔏⁱᔈ  á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ ᔃʷᔒᔏᔉ á”‰á”ƒÊłËĄÊž á”—á”’ Ëąá”˜âżÊłâ±Ëąá”‰, áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ËĄá”‰á”ƒâżâ±âżá” ᔒⁿ á”ƒá”á”ƒâ±âżËąá”— ʰⁱᔐ ˹ᔗⁱ˥˥ ËąËĄá”‰á”‰á”–â±âżá”â€§ ᎎᔉ Êłá”‰á¶œá”ƒËĄËĄá”‰á”ˆ Êžá”‰Ëąá”—á”‰Êłá”ˆá”ƒÊžâ€™Ëą ᔉᔛᔉⁿᔗ˹‧ áŽčÊłâ€§ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą ᔃⁿᔈ ᔗʰᔉ á¶œÊłá”’Ê·á”‡á”ƒÊłâ€§ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”á”’âżá¶œá”á”‰á”ˆ ᔒᔘᔗ, á¶œá”’ËĄá”ˆâ€§ ᔀʰᔉ á¶ á”‰á”ƒÊłâ€§ ᔀʰᔉ á”á”ƒËąá”–Ëąâ€§ ᔀʰᔉ ᔉᔐᔒᔗⁱᔒⁿ‧ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ Ëąâ±á”Ê°á”‰á”ˆâ€§ ᎎᔉ á”ˆâ±á”ˆâżâ€™á”— á”âżá”’Ê· ⁱᶠ Ê·Ê°á”‰âż ʰᔉ’ᔈ á”ƒá”—á”—á”‰âżá”ˆ Ê·á”’Êłá” á”ƒá”á”ƒâ±âż, ᔃ˹ ʰᔉ Ê·á”ƒâżá”—Ëą áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”—á”’ ᔇᔉ á”‡á”‰á”—á”—á”‰Êł á”‡á”‰á¶ á”’Êłá”‰ Êłá”‰Ëąá”˜á”â±âżá” ËąÊ°â±á¶ á”—Ëąâ€§ áŽŒÊł ᔃᔗ ËĄá”‰á”ƒËąá”— á”—á”’ Ê·Ê°á”‰âż áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”á”‰á”—Ëą ᔇᔃᶜᔏ‧ ᔂʰⁱᶜʰ á”‰á”›á”‰Êłâ€™Ëą á¶ â±ÊłËąá”—â€§ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ Ê·á”ƒËą Ê·á”ƒâżá”—â±âżá” á”—á”’ á¶œá”ƒËĄËĄ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”—á”’ ᔗᔉ˥˥ Ê°á”‰Êł á”ƒËĄá”—Ê°á”’á”˜á”Ê° ʰᔉ ᶠᔉ˥ᔗ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔐⁱᔍʰᔗ ⁿᔒᔗ ᔇᔉ ʰᔃᔖᔖʞ‧ ᔆᔒ ʰᔉ Ëąâżá”‰á”ƒá”Ëą ᔒᔘᔗ ⁱⁿ ᔃ á”ˆâ±á¶ á¶ á”‰Êłá”‰âżá”— Êłá”’á”’á” á”—á”’ á¶œá”ƒËĄËĄ Ê°á”‰Êłâ€§ â€œáŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âżâ€Šâ€ â€œá”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡?” áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ê·á”ƒËą Ëąá”˜Êłá”–Êłâ±Ëąá”‰á”ˆ Ê·Ê°á”‰âż ËąÊ°á”‰ Ê°á”‰á”ƒÊłá”ˆ ʰⁱᔐ Ëąá”–á”‰á”ƒá”â±âżá” á‘«á”˜â±á”‰á”—ËĄÊžâ€§ “᎔ á”âżá”’Ê· ⁱᔗ’˹ á”—á”’ á”‰á”ƒÊłËĄÊž ᔇᔘᔗ ᎔ Ê·á”ƒâżá”—á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ â±âżá¶ á”’Êłá” ʞᔒᔘ ᔃᔇᔒᔘᔗ Ëąá”’á”á”‰á”—Ê°â±âżá” ʞᔒᔘ ᔐⁱᔍʰᔗ âżá”‰á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ á”âżá”’Ê·â€Šâ€ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á”—á”’ËĄá”ˆ Ê°á”‰Êł á”‰á”›á”‰ÊłÊž á”—Ê°â±âżá”â€§ â€œá”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡, á”—Ê°á”ƒâżá” ʞᔒᔘ Ëąá”’ ᔐᔘᶜʰ ËĄá”’á”’á”â±âżá” ᔒᔘᔗ á¶ á”’Êł ʰⁱᔐ! ᎎᔉ ᔐⁱᔍʰᔗ ⁿᔒᔗ Ê·á”ƒâżá”— ᔐᔉ á”—á”’ á”–á”‰Ëąá”—á”‰Êł ʰⁱᔐ ᔃᔇᔒᔘᔗ ⁱᔗ ᔗʰᔒ ” “᎔ á”âżá”’Ê·; ᎔ ÊČá”˜Ëąá”— ᔗʰᔒᔘᔍʰᔗ ⁱᔗ âżá”‰á¶œá”‰ËąËąá”ƒÊłÊž á”—á”’ ᔗᔉ˥˥ ʞᔒᔘ ” áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ʷᔒᔏᔉ ᔃ˹ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᶜᔃᔐᔉ ᔇᔃᶜᔏ ⁱⁿ ᔗʰᔉ Êłá”’á”’á”â€§ â€œá”‚Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰ ʞᔒᔘ Êłá”˜âżâżâ±âżá” ᔒᶠᶠ á”—á”’?” ᎎᔉ á‘«á”˜á”‰Ëąá”—â±á”’âżá”‰á”ˆâ€§ “ᎌʰ ᎔’ᔈ ÊČá”˜Ëąá”— ᔗᔒᔒᔏ á¶œá”ƒÊłá”‰ ᔒᶠ Ëąá”’á”á”‰á”—Ê°â±âżá”; ⁱᔗ’˹ ⁿᔒ ᔇⁱᔍᔍⁱᔉ!” á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á¶œÊ°á”˜á¶œá”ËĄá”‰á”ˆâ€§ ᔆᔒ á”ƒá¶ á”—á”‰Êł á¶ â±âżâ±ËąÊ°â±âżá” á”‡Êłá”‰á”ƒá”á¶ á”ƒËąá”—, ᔗʰᔉʞ Ê°á”‰á”ƒÊłá”ˆ ᔃ á”âżá”’á¶œá” ᔃᔗ ᔗʰᔉ á”ˆá”’á”’Êłâ€§ ᎔ᔗ’˹ áŽŸá”ƒá”—Êłâ±á¶œá” á”ƒá”á”ƒâ±âż ʷⁱᔗʰ ᔗʰᔉ Ëąá”ƒá”á”‰ á¶œá”’ËĄËĄá”‰á¶œá”—â±á”‡ËĄá”‰ á”—á”’ÊžËą ᔃ˹ Êžá”‰Ëąá”—á”‰Êłá”ˆá”ƒÊžâ€§ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ ˥ᔉᔗ ʰⁱᔐ ⁱⁿ‧ To be cont. pt. 5
new krabbobton patbob bobplank plaren fraternisation
ᎌᔘᔗ ᔒᶠ ᔐʞ ᔐⁱⁿᔈ âœá”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ á¶ á”ƒâżá¶ â±á¶œâŸ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą á¶œá”’á”á”–á”˜á”—á”‰Êł ʷⁱᶠᔉ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ê·á”‰âżá”— ʷⁱᔗʰ á”†á”ƒâżá”ˆÊž á”—á”’ á”€á”‰ËŁá”ƒËą Ëąá”’ ʰᔉ á¶ á”’á”˜âżá”ˆ Ê°â±á”Ëąá”‰ËĄá¶  á”‡á”’Êłá”‰á”ˆâ€§ ᎎᔉ á”—Ê°á”‰âż Ëąá”ƒÊ· á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᔃⁿᔈ áŽŸá”ƒá”—Êłâ±á¶œá”â€§ "ᎎᔉʞ ʷᔃⁱᔗ ᔘᔖ‧‧‧" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ëąá”ƒÊžËąâ€§ ᎎᔉ ᶜᔃᔘᔍʰᔗ ᔘᔖ ᔃⁿᔈ á”—á”’ËĄá”ˆ ᔃᔇᔒᔘᔗ Ê°â±Ëą Ëąâ±á”—á”˜á”ƒá”—â±á”’âżâ€§ "ᔂᔉ'Êłá”‰ ÊČá”˜Ëąá”— á”á”’â±âżá” á”—á”’ ᔍᔒᔒᶠʞ á”á”’á”’á”‡á”‰ÊłËą! ʞᔒᔘ Ê·á”ƒâżâżá”ƒ ᔍᔒ ᶜᔒᔐᔉ ʷⁱᔗʰ ᔘ˹?" "á”†á”˜Êłá”‰â€§" ᔆᔒ ᔗʰᔉʞ Ê·á”‰âżá”—â€§ "á”€Êłâ±á”–ËĄá”‰ á”á”’á”’á”‡á”‰Êł á”‡á”‰ÊłÊłÊž Ëąá”˜âżÊłâ±Ëąá”‰? ᎔'ᔐ ⁿᔒᔗ Ëąá”’ Ëąá”˜Êłá”‰ ʞᔒᔘ‧‧‧" "᎔'ᔐ ÊČá”˜Ëąá”— á”á”’âżâżá”ƒ á”—ÊłÊž ⁱᔗ‧‧" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż â±âżá”—á”‰ÊłÊłá”˜á”–á”—á”‰á”ˆâ€§ "áŽźá”˜á”— ⁱᔗ'Ëą ᔗʰᔉ ᔐᔒ˹ᔗ‧‧‧" "ᔆᔒ ᔍᔒᔒᔈ!" "á”†ËĄá”’Ê· á”ˆá”’Ê·âż! ᎔ᔗ'Ëą ᔖᔃᶜᔏᔉᔈ ʷⁱᔗʰ Ëąá”˜á”á”ƒÊłâ€§â€§" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ˹ᔗⁱ˥˥➎ á”ƒá¶ á”—á”‰Êł â±á”âżá”’Êłâ±âżá”âžŽ ᔃᔗᔉ ᔃ˥˥ ᔒᶠ ⁱᔗ‧ ᎌᶠ á¶œá”’á”˜ÊłËąá”‰âžŽ á”—Êłâ±á”–ËĄá”‰ á”á”’á”’á”‡á”‰Êł á”‡á”‰ÊłÊłÊž Ëąá”˜âżÊłâ±Ëąá”‰; ᔗʰᔉ á”‡á”‰á”›á”‰Êłá”ƒá”á”‰ ʷⁱᔗʰ ᔗʰᔉ ᔐᔒ˹ᔗ Ëąá”˜á”á”ƒÊł ⁱⁿ ⁱᔗ‧‧ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔍᔒᔗ ʰⁱᔗ ᔇʞ ᔗʰᔉ Ëąá”˜á”á”ƒÊł Êłá”˜ËąÊ° á‘«á”˜â±á¶œá”ËĄÊž á”ƒá”–á”–á”ƒÊłá”‰âżá”— Ê°á”’Ê· ËĄá”’á”’á”–Êžâ€§ ᎎᔉ á”â±á”á”ËĄá”‰á”ˆ á”˜âżËĄâ±á”á”‰ Ê°â±Ëą ᔘ˹ᔘᔃ˥ ËĄá”ƒá”˜á”Ê°á”—á”‰Êłâ€§ ᎎᔉ Ëąá‘«á”˜á”‰á”ƒËĄá”‰á”ˆâžŽ ʷⁱᔗʰ á”‰ËŁá¶œâ±á”—á”‰á”á”‰âżá”—â€§ "᎔'ËĄËĄ Ëąá”â±á”– ᔐʞ á”—Êłâ±á”–ËĄá”‰ á”á”’á”’á”‡á”‰Êł á”‡á”‰ÊłÊłÊž Ëąá”˜âżÊłâ±Ëąá”‰ ᎟ᔃᔗ‧‧‧" "Êžá”’á”˜Êł ᔘ˹ᔘᔃ˥?" "ᔂᔉ˥˥ ᎔ âżá”‰á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ ˥ᔉᔗ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ëąá”ƒá¶ á”‰ ᔃⁿᔈ á¶œá”ƒÊłá”‰á¶ á”˜ËĄâ€§â€§â€§" á¶œá”˜ÊłÊłá”‰âżá”—ËĄÊž ᔗʰᔉʞ Ëąá”ƒÊ· ʰⁱᔐ ᔃᶜᔗ á”˜âżâżá”ƒá”—á”˜Êłá”ƒËĄËĄÊž á¶œá”ƒÊłá”‰á¶ Êłá”‰á”‰â€§ ᔀᔒ ᔈⁱᶻᶻʞ á”—á”’ ᔉᔛᔉⁿ Ëąá”—á”ƒâżá”ˆ ᔘᔖ Êłâ±á”Ê°á”— áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ê·á”’á”‡á”‡ËĄá”‰á”ˆâžŽ á¶ ËĄá”ƒâ±ËĄâ±âżá” Ê°â±Ëą á”ƒÊłá”ËąâžŽ ˹ᔗⁱ˥˥ ᔍⁱᔈᔈʞ‧ "᎔ á”ˆá”’âż'á”— á”—Êłá”˜Ëąá”— á”—á”’ ËĄá”‰á”ƒá”›á”‰ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔇʞ Ê°â±á”Ëąá”‰ËĄá¶  Ëąá”’ á”–á”‰ÊłÊ°á”ƒá”–Ëą ʷᔉ'ËĄËĄ á”ƒâżá”’á”—Ê°á”‰Êł ᔗⁱᔐᔉ‧‧‧" "᎔'ᔐ ˹ᔗⁱ˥˥ á”á”’âżâżá”ƒ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊž ᔗʰᔒᔘᔍʰ➎ ᔇᔘᔗ ᔇʞᔉ!" áŽŸá”ƒá”—Êłâ±á¶œá” ʷᔃᔛᔉᔈ ᔃ˹ ᔗʰᔉʞ ˥ᔉᶠᔗ ᔍᔒᔒᶠʞ á”á”’á”’á”‡á”‰ÊłËąâ€§ "ᔂʰʞ ᔈᔒ ʷᔉ ËĄá”‰á”ƒá”›á”‰â€§â€§â€§" "ʞᔒᔘ á”âżá”’Ê·âžŽ ᎔ á”—Ê°â±âżá” ʷᔉ'ᔈ ÊČá”˜Ëąá”— á”‡á”‰á”—á”—á”‰Êł ᔍᔒ á”—á”’ ᔗʰᔉ ᶜʰᔘᔐ ᔇᔘᶜᔏᔉᔗ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€§" "Ꮁᔃᔗ ᶜʰᔘᔐ?" "áŽșá”’ ʞᔒᔘ ˥ⁱᔛᔉ‧‧‧" "᎔ Ê·á”ƒâżâżá”ƒ ᔇᔉ ʷⁱᔗʰ ʞᔒᔘ!" "᎔'ËĄËĄ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊž ᔗʰᔉ âżâ±á”Ê°á”—â€§â€§â€§" "ʞᔃʞ!" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᔗᔒᔒᔏ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”—á”’ Ê°â±Ëą á”‡á”‰á”ˆÊłá”’á”’á”â€§ "᎟ᔉ˹ᔗ á¶ Êłâ±á”‰âżá”ˆËąâžŽ ᔇᔒᔗʰ ᔒᶠ ᔘ˹ á¶ á”’Êłá”‰á”›á”‰Êł!" "ʞᔒᔘ'Êłá”‰ ⁿᔒᔗ á”—Ê°â±âżá”â±âżá” Ëąá”—Êłá”ƒâ±á”Ê°á”— Êłâ±á”Ê°á”— âżá”’Ê·â€§â€§â€§" "᎔ ᔐᔃᔈᔉ Ê·Êłâ±á”—â±âżá” ⁱⁿ ᔐʞ ᔇᔒᔒᔏ ËąÊ°á”‰ËĄá¶  ᔃ ᔇᔒᔒᔏ!" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”–á”’â±âżá”—á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ ᔃ ÊČá”’á”˜Êłâżá”ƒËĄâ€§ "ʞᔒᔘ á”á”‰á”ƒâżâžŽ ËĄâ±á”á”‰ ᔃ á”ˆâ±á”ƒÊłÊž?" "áŽŒá”–á”‰âż ᔃⁿᔈ Êłá”‰á”ƒá”ˆ ⁱᔗ; ᔒᔖᔉⁿ ⁱᔗ ᔒᔖᔉⁿ!" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᔈⁱᔈ➎ ᔃⁿᔈ Ëąá”ƒÊ· ⁿᔒᔗᔉ˹ ᔒᶠ á”›á”ƒÊłâ±á”’á”˜Ëą á”–ËĄá”ƒâżËąâ€§ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á”‰ËŁá”–á”‰á¶œá”—á”‰á”ˆ Ëąá¶œÊ°á”‰á”á”‰Ëą á”’Êł á”‰ËŁá”–á”‰Êłâ±á”á”‰âżá”—Ëą ᔇᔘᔗ Ëąá”ƒÊ· ᔃ Ëąá¶œÊłá”ƒá”–á”‡á”’á”’á” ᔒᶠ á”–Ê°á”’á”—á”’Ëąâ€§ ᔆᔒᔐᔉ á¶ Êłá”’á” á¶œÊ°â±ËĄá”ˆÊ°á”’á”’á”ˆ ᔇᔘᔗ á”ƒËĄËąá”’ ᔒᶠ ᔃ˥˥ ᔗʰᔉ á”–â±á¶œá”—á”˜Êłá”‰Ëą á”—á”ƒá”á”‰âż ʷⁱᔗʰ Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᔃ˹ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔖᔘᔗ 'á¶ Êłâ±á”‰âżá”ˆËą' ᔃᔇᔒᔛᔉ ⁱᔗ➎ á”—á”ƒá”â±âżá” ᔘᔖ ᔗʰᔉ ᔖᔃᔍᔉ! "ᔂʰʞ‧‧‧" "᎔ ᔍᔒᔗᔗᔃ á”–Ê°á”’á”—á”’ á”ƒËĄá”‡á”˜á” ᔒᶠ ᔖᔉᔒᔖ˥ᔉ ⁱⁿ ᔐʞ ˥ⁱᶠᔉ ᔇᔘᔗ ˥ᔉᶠᔗ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą ᔒᔘᔗ; ᎔ ʰᔃᔛᔉ ⁱᔗ á”á”’Ëąá”—ËĄÊž ËĄá”’á¶œá”á”‰á”ˆ ᔃⁿᔈ ⁿᔒᔗ ᔉᔛᔉⁿ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”âżá”’Ê·Ëą ᔃᔇᔒᔘᔗ ⁱᔗ; ᎔'ᔛᔉ ⁱᔗ ᔒᔘᔗ á”‡á”‰á¶œá”ƒá”˜Ëąá”‰ ᎔ ᶠᔉ˥ᔗ á”‡á”’Êłá”‰á”ˆ á”‰á”ƒÊłËĄâ±á”‰Êł!" "᎔'ᔛᔉ ᔃ á¶ á”‰á”‰ËĄâ±âżá” ʞᔒᔘ'Êłá”‰ ⁿᔒᔗ á”á”’âżâżá”ƒ Ê·á”ƒâżâżá”ƒ ËąÊ°á”’Ê· ᔐᔉ ⁱᶠ Êžá”’á”˜Êł âżá”’Êłá”á”ƒËĄ ˹ᔉ˥ᶠ‧‧" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á”—Êłá”ƒâ±ËĄá”‰á”ˆ ᔒᶠᶠ ᔃ˹ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔍᔃᔛᔉ ʰⁱᔐ ᔃ ʰᔘᔍ‧ "ʞᔒᔘ âżá”‰á”‰á”ˆ Êłá”‰Ëąá”— áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€§" "áŽźá”˜á”— ᎔⁻᎔'ᔐ ⁿᔒᔗ á”—â±Êłá”‰á”ˆ; ᎔ á”ˆâ»á”ˆá”’âżâ€™á”— Ê·á”ƒâżâżá”ƒâ€§â€§â€§" "ʞᔒᔘ á¶œá”ƒâż á”‡á”ƒÊłá”‰ËĄÊž ᔏᔉᔉᔖ Êžá”’á”˜Êł ᔉʞᔉ ᔒᔖᔉⁿ!" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á”ƒÊłá”á”˜á”‰á”ˆ Ê°â±Ëą á”–Êłá”’á”—á”‰Ëąá”—á”‰á”ˆ ᔇᔘᔗ âżá”’á”—â±á¶œá”‰á”ˆ ʰⁱᔐ á¶ á”ƒËĄËĄâ±âżá” á”ƒËąËĄá”‰á”‰á”–âžŽ Ëąá”’ ʰᔉ ᔗᔘᶜᔏᔉᔈ ʰⁱᔐ ⁱⁿ ᔇᔉᔈ‧‧ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ʷᔒᔏᔉ ᔘᔖ ᔗʰᔉ ⁿᔉˣᔗ á”á”’Êłâżâ±âżá” á”ƒá¶ á”—á”‰Êł Ê°á”ƒá”›â±âżá” ᔗᔘᶜᔏᔉᔈ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ⁱⁿ‧ ᎎᔉ ˹˥ᔉᔖᔗ ᔒⁿ ᔗʰᔉ á¶ ËĄá”’á”’Êł ᔇʞ Ê°â±Ëą ᔇᔉᔈ‧ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ Ëąá”ƒÊ· ʰᔉ'Ëą ˹ᔗⁱ˥˥ á”ˆá”‰á”‰á”–ËĄÊž ËąËĄá”‰á”‰á”–â±âżá” ᔃⁿᔈ ˥ᔉᶠᔗ á¶ á”’Êł Ê·á”’Êłá”â€§ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ Ê·Êłá”’á”—á”‰ '᎔ ʰᔃᔛᔉ á”á”’âżá”‰ âżá”’Ê·âžŽ á¶ Êłá”’á” á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡âžŽ ʰᔒᔖᔉ ʞᔒᔘ Êłá”‰Ëąá”—á”‰á”ˆ Ê·á”‰ËĄËĄ' Ëąá”—â±á¶œá”Êž ⁿᔒᔗᔉ á”‡á”‰á¶ á”’Êłá”‰â€§â€§ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᶠᔉ˥ᔗ á¶œá”’âżá¶ ËĄâ±á¶œá”—á”‰á”ˆâžŽ á”âżá”’Ê·â±âżá” áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ á”˜Ëąá”˜á”ƒËĄËĄÊž Ëąá”’ á”’á”–á”‰âżËĄÊž á”ƒá¶ á¶ á”‰á¶œá”—â±á”’âżá”ƒá”—á”‰â€§ '᎔ ᔈᔒ ⁿᔒᔗ á”âżá”’Ê· ʷʰᔃᔗ ʰᔉ ᔐⁱᔍʰᔗ Êłá”‰á”á”‰á”á”‡á”‰Êł ᔇᔘᔗ ᎔ ᶠᔉᔉ˥ ᔇᔃᔈ ⁿᔒᔗ ᔃᔗ ËĄá”‰á”ƒËąá”— Ê·â±á”–â±âżá” ˹ᔒᔐᔉ Ê°â±Ëą á”’Ê·âż á”ˆÊłá”’á”’ËĄ' Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᔗʰᔒᔘᔍʰᔗ ʷⁱᔗʰ ᔃ Ëąâ±á”Ê°â€§ "áŽŽá”˜ÊłÊłÊž ᔘᔖ!" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ Ê°á”‰á”ƒÊłá”ˆ ᔃ Êžá”‰ËĄËĄâžŽ á”—ÊłÊžâ±âżá” á”—á”’ â±á”âżá”’Êłá”‰ Ê·á”’ÊłÊłÊžâ±âżá” ᔃᔇᔒᔘᔗ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€§ "áŽŒÊłá”ˆá”‰Êł ᔘᔖ!" ᎎᔉ Ëąá”ƒÊžËą ᔃ˹ ʰᔉ á¶ â±âżâ±ËąÊ°á”‰á”ˆ á”á”ƒá”â±âżá” ᔃ ᔖᔃᔗᔗʞ➎ ᔇᔘᔗ ˹ᔗⁱ˥˥ ÊČâ±á”—á”—á”‰ÊłÊž ᔃᔇᔒᔘᔗ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€§ 'ᔆᔒ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ê·á”ƒâżá”—Ëą á”—á”’ ᔇᔉ ᔐʞ á¶ Êłâ±á”‰âżá”ˆâžŽ ᔇᔘᔗ ᎔ ᔈᔒ ⁿᔒᔗ Ê·á”ƒâżá”— á”—á”’ ᔐᔃᔏᔉ ⁱᔗ Ê·á”‰â±Êłá”ˆ ᔇʞ Ëąá”‰á”‰á”â±âżá”ËĄÊž ᔒᔘᔗ ᔒᶠ ᔗʰᔉ á”‡ËĄá”˜á”‰ ÊČá”˜Ëąá”—â€§â€§â€§' á”†á”˜á”ˆá”ˆá”‰âżËĄÊž Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡'Ëą á”—Ê°á”’á”˜á”Ê°á”—Ëą á”—Êłá”ƒâ±ËĄá”‰á”ˆ ᔒᶠᶠ ᔃ˹ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ê°â±á”Ëąá”‰ËĄá¶  ᶜᔃᔐᔉ ⁱⁿ á”—Ê°Êłá”’á”˜á”Ê° ᔗʰᔉ á”ˆá”’á”’ÊłËąâžŽ Ëąá”‰á”‰á”â±âżá”ËĄÊž á”‡á”ƒËąÊ°á¶ á”˜ËĄâ€§ "ᎎᔉʞ➎ ᔏⁱᔈ; ᎔ âżá”‰á”‰á”ˆ ᔘ˹ á”—á”’ á”—á”ƒËĄá”âžŽ ᔇᔘᔗ á”ƒËĄá”’âżá”‰â€§â€§" Ëąá”ƒÊžËą áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔃ˹ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᶠᔉ˥ᔗ á”–á”ƒâżâ±á¶œá”á”‰á”ˆâžŽ ᔇᔘᔗ á”ËĄá”ƒá”ˆ ʰᔉ'Ëą âżá”’Ê· á”‡á”‰á”—á”—á”‰Êłâ€§ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ˥ᔉᔗ Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á¶ á”’ËĄËĄá”’Ê· ʰⁱᔐ ᔒᔘᔗ‧ "áŽșá”’Ê· á”—Ê°á”‰âż; ᎔ á”ˆá”’âż'á”— á”âżá”’Ê· á”’Êł Êłá”‰á”á”‰á”á”‡á”‰Êł ᔃ˥˥ ᔒᶠ ʷʰᔃᔗ'Ëą ˹ᔃⁱᔈ➎ ËĄá”ƒËąá”— âżâ±á”Ê°á”—â€§â€§â€§" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ëąâ±á”Ê°á”‰á”ˆâ€§ "᎔ á”ˆá”’âż'á”— ᔉᔛᔉⁿ Êłá”‰á¶œá”ƒËĄËĄ ⁱᶠ ᔍᔒᔒᶠʞ á”á”’á”’á”‡á”‰ÊłËą ᔍᔒᔒᔈ➎ ᔇᔘᔗ á¶ â±ÊłËąá”— ᎔ Ê·á”ƒâżâżá”ƒ Ëąá”ƒÊž Ëąâ»Ëąá”’ÊłÊłÊž ⁱᶠ‧‧‧" "áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€§â€§â€§" "᎔'ᔐ ⁿᔒᔗ á¶ â±âżâ±ËąÊ°á”‰á”ˆ!" ᎎᔉ ˹ᔃⁱᔈ➎ ⁱⁿ Ê°â±Ëą ᔘ˹ᔘᔃ˥ ᔗᔒⁿᔉ ᔒᶠ Ëąá”–á”‰á”ƒá”â±âżá”â€§ "á”†á”’ÊłÊłÊž ⁱ⁻ⁱᶠ ËĄá”ƒËąá”— âżâ±á”Ê°á”— ⁱᶠ ʷʰᔃᔗ á”á”˜Ëąá”—'ᔛᔉ Ê°á”ƒá”–á”–á”‰âżá”‰á”ˆâ€§ ᎔ ÊČá”˜Ëąá”— âżá”‰á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ ᔐᔃᔏᔉ Ëąá”˜Êłá”‰ ⁱᶠ ᔗʰᔉ Ëąá”˜âżá”ˆá”ƒá”‰ ᔈⁱᔈ‧‧‧" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ëąá”ƒÊ· Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡'Ëą á”‰ËŁá”–Êłá”‰ËąËąâ±á”’âż ᔒᶠ á¶œá”’âżá¶ ËĄâ±á¶œá”—á”‰á”ˆ á¶ á”‰á”‰ËĄâ±âżá”Ëąâ€§ "ᔂʰᔃᔗ➎ ᔏⁱᔈ“" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ Êłá”‰á”á”‰á”á”‡á”‰Êłá”‰á”ˆ ᔗʰᔉ ÊČá”’á”˜Êłâżá”ƒËĄ ᔃⁿᔈ Ê°á”’Ê· Ê°á”’âżá”‰Ëąá”— áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔃᶜᔗᔉᔈ Ê·Ê°á”‰âż ⁿᔒᔗ Ëąâ±ËĄËĄÊžâ€§ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ëąá”—á”ƒÊłá”—á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ ᔍᔉᔗ Ê·á”’ÊłÊłâ±á”‰á”ˆ âżá”’Ê·â€§ "á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á”—á”ƒËĄá” á”—á”’ ᔐᔉ! ᔀᔉ˥˥ ᔐᔉ ʷʰᔃᔗ'Ëą ᔍᔒᔗ ʞᔒᔘ; á”’Ê° á”Êłá”‰á”ƒá”—âžŽ ʷʰᔃᔗ ᔈⁱᔈ ᎔ ᔈᔒ‧‧‧" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ËąÊ°â±á¶ á”—á”‰á”ˆ ËąËĄâ±á”Ê°á”—ËĄÊžâ€§ "ᔂᔉ˥˥ ᎔'ᔛᔉ ᔍᔒᔗ ᔐʞ á¶ á”ƒâ±Êł ËąÊ°á”ƒÊłá”‰ ᔒᶠ Ëąá”˜á”á”ƒÊł Êłá”˜ËąÊ°â€§â€§â€§" "á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᔍᔉᔗ ᔒⁿ ʷⁱᔗʰ ⁱᔗ!" "ʞᔒᔘ á”ˆÊłá”’á”’ËĄ Ê·Ê°á”‰âż ʞᔒᔘ ˹˥ᔉᔉᔖ!" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡'Ëą á”‡ËĄá”˜Êłá”—â±âżá” ᔒᔘᔗ âżá”’Ê·â€§ áŽčᔒᔘᔗʰ ᔃᔍᔃᔖᔉ➎ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą Ëąá”—á”ƒÊłá”—ËĄá”‰á”ˆ ᔇʞ ᔗʰᔉ ᔒᔘᔗ á”‡á”˜ÊłËąá”— á¶ Êłá”’á” Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡â€§ "ᔂʰᔃᔗ“" ᎎᔉ Êžá”‰ËĄËĄá”‰á”ˆ ᔃ˹ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ Êłá”ƒâż ᔇᔃᶜᔏ á”—á”’ Ê·á”’Êłá”â€§ 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: đŸœđŸ·đŸż
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2017/05 How to Make Goth Ice Cream at Home May 12, 2017 — This “goth” ice cream is not made with food coloring. Instead, it gets its deep, dark color from activated charcoal, making it very unique indeed. How to Make Goth Ice Cream at Home Posted on May 12, 2017 Vanilla Mint Activated Charcoal Ice Cream 2 cups heavy cream 1 cup milk 2/3 cup sugar 1/4 cup activated charcoal 1 1/2 tsp vanilla extract 1 1/2 tsp peppermint extract In a small saucepan, combine heavy cream, milk and sugar. Bring to a simmer, stirring to dissolve the sugar. When sugar has dissolved, remove from heat and whisk in activated charcoal, vanilla extract and peppermint extract. Transfer to a bowl or large measuring cup, cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate until cold. When mixture is cold, pour into your ice cream maker and freeze as directed. Freeze churned ice cream for at least an hour before scooping to firm it up. Makes about 1 quart.
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᎞ⁱᔗʰᔖ Part 1 âœá”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ á¶ á”ƒâżá¶ â±á¶œâŸ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż'Ëą ᔃ á¶œá”’á”á”–á”˜á”—á”‰Êłâ€§ Ꮀᔉ˹ᔖⁱᔗᔉ á”‡á”‰â±âżá” ˹ᔉⁿᔗⁱᔉⁿᔗ ËąÊ°á”‰'Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ ᔃⁿ á”’Êłá”á”ƒâżâ±á¶œ á”‡á”‰â±âżá”â€§ ᔆʰᔉ á¶œá”ƒâż ᶠᔉᔉ˥ Ê°á”‰Êł á”’Ê·âż ᔉᔐᔒᔗⁱᔒⁿ˹ ᔃⁿᔈ á”–á”‰ÊłËąá”’âżá”ƒËĄâ±á”—ÊžâžŽ ᔇᔘᔗ á”˜âżá”ƒá”‡ËĄá”‰ á”—á”’ á”–Êłá”’á¶œá”‰ËąËą ᔗᔒᔘᶜʰ á”’Êł á”–Êłá”‰ËąËąá”˜Êłá”‰ ËĄâ±á”á”‰ ËĄâ±á”›â±âżá” ᔖᔉᔒᔖ˥ᔉ‧ ᔆʰᔉ'Ëą á¶œá”ƒá”–á”ƒá”‡ËĄá”‰ ᔒᶠ 'Ëąâ±á”Ê°á”—' ᔃⁿᔈ 'Ê°á”‰á”ƒÊłâ±âżá”' ᔇᔘᔗ ⁿᔒᔗ ⁱⁿ ᔗʰᔉ Ëąá”ƒá”á”‰ ʷᔃʞ á”–Êłá”’á¶œá”‰ËąËąá”‰á”ˆâ€§ ᎏⁿᔈ ËąÊ°á”‰ á”˜âżá”ˆá”‰ÊłËąá”—á”ƒâżá”ˆËą á”ˆâ±á”›á”‰ÊłËąâ±á”—Êžâ€§ á”†Ê°á”‰ËĄá”ˆá”’âż áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”‰ËŁÊ°â±á”‡â±á”—Ëą Ê°â±Ëą á”’Ê·âż ᔉᔐᔒᔗⁱᔒⁿ˹ ᔃⁿᔈ ˹ᔉⁿ˹ᔉ˹ á”ƒËĄËąá”’â€§ ᎎᔉ'Ëą á”˜âżâ±á‘«á”˜á”‰â€§ ᔆʰᔉ'Ëą ËĄá”‰á”ƒÊłâżá”— Ê°á”’Ê· á”—á”’ á”ˆá”‰á¶œâ±á”–Ê°á”‰Êł Ê°â±Ëą á”’Ê·âż âżá”‰á”‰á”ˆËąâžŽ á”‡á”‰â±âżá” Ê·á”ƒâżá”—Ëą á”–Êłá”‰á¶ á”‰Êłá”‰âżá¶œá”‰Ëąâ€§ Ꮀᔉ˹ᔖⁱᔗᔉ á”‡á”‰â±âżá” á”ˆâ±á¶ á¶ á”‰Êłá”‰âżá”— Ê·á”ƒÊžËą ËąÊ°á”‰ á”âżá”‰Ê· áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą á”ˆá”‰âżá”—á”ƒËĄ á”ƒá”–á”–á”’â±âżá”—á”á”‰âżá”— âżá”’Ê· á”á”‰á”—á”—â±âżá” ⁱⁿ Ëąá”˜Êłá”á”‰ÊłÊž á¶ á”’Êł Êłá”‰á”ƒÊł ᔐᔒ˹ᔗ á”á”’ËĄá”ƒÊłËą Êłá”‰á”á”’á”›á”‰á”ˆâ€§ ᎏⁿᔈ ʰᔉ'Ëą á”á”‰á”ˆâ±á¶œâ±âżá”‰ á”—á”’ ˹˥ᔉᔉᔖ‧ á”†â±âżá¶œá”‰ ËąÊ°á”‰'Ëą ᔃ á¶œá”’á”á”–á”˜á”—á”‰ÊłâžŽ ᔗʰᔉʞ ˥ᔉᔗ Ê°á”‰Êł Ëąá”—á”ƒÊž á”ˆá”˜Êłâ±âżá” ᔗʰᔉ á”‰âżá”—â±Êłá”‰ ᔗⁱᔐᔉ Ê·Ê°â±ËĄËąá”— ⁱⁿ Ëąá”˜Êłá”á”‰ÊłÊžâ€§ Ꮁᔛᔉⁿ ᔗʰᔒᔘᔍʰ ʰᔉ'Ëą á”˜âżá”ƒÊłá”’á”˜Ëąá”ƒá”‡ËĄá”‰ ËąÊ°á”‰ ᔐᔃᔈᔉ Ëąá”˜Êłá”‰ á”—á”’ Ê°á”’ËĄá”ˆ Ê°â±Ëą Ê°á”ƒâżá”ˆ ᔃ˹ ᔗʰᔉʞ Ê·á”’Êłá”á”‰á”ˆâ€§ ᔆᔒ âżá”’Ê·âžŽ á¶ â±âżâ±ËąÊ°â±âżá” ᔗʰᔉʞ Ëąá”—á”’á”–á”–á”‰á”ˆ á”ƒá”ˆá”â±âżâ±Ëąá”—Êłá”ƒá”—â±á”’âż ᔒᶠ â±âżá”ˆá”˜á¶œâ±âżá” á”ƒâżá”ƒá”‰Ëąá”—Ê°á”‰Ëąâ±á”ƒâ€§ "Ꮀᔒⁿᔉ➎ á”†Ê°á”‰ËĄá”ˆá”’âżâ€§â€§" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ëąá”ƒÊžËąâžŽ Ê·â±á”–â±âżá” ᔘᔖ ˹ᔒᔐᔉ á”ˆÊłá”’á”’ËĄâ€§ "ᎏ˥˥ á¶ â±âżâ±ËąÊ°á”‰á”ˆ!" ᔀʰᔉʞ ᔖᔘᔗ ᔍᔃᔘᶻᔉ ⁱⁿ Ê·Ê°á”‰âżá¶œá”‰ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔒᔖᔉⁿ˹ Ê°â±Ëą ᔉʞᔉ‧ áŽŹá¶ á”—á”‰Êł ᔃ ᔐᔒᔐᔉⁿᔗ➎ ʰᔉ Êłá”‰á”ƒá¶œÊ°á”‰Ëą Ê°â±Ëą á”ƒÊłá”Ëą ᔒᔘᔗ‧ "ᎎᔉʰ‧‧" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ˥ᔉᔗ˹ Ê°â±Ëą á”ƒÊłá”Ëą ᔇᔃᶜᔏ á”ˆá”’Ê·âżâ€§ "ʞᔒᔘ'Êłá”‰ á¶ Êłá”‰á”‰ á”—á”’ ᔍᔒ!" "ᎎᔉʷʷᔒ“" "ᎎⁱ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€§" "Êžá”’á”˜Êł á¶œá”’á”á”–á”˜á”—á”‰Êł ʷⁱᶠᔉ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ê·â±ËĄËĄ Ê°á”‰ËĄá”– ʞᔒᔘ‧" "᎔ ᔐᔃʷʷⁱᔉᔈ?" "Ꮀᔒⁿ'á”— Ê·á”’ÊłÊłÊž ᔇᔘᔗ ⁱᔗ'Ëą âżá”’Êłá”á”ƒËĄ á¶ á”’Êł á”—á”’ ᔍᔉᔗ ÊČá”˜á”á”‡ËĄá”‰á”ˆ ᔘᔖ‧" "á”€Ê°á”ƒâżá” ʞᔒᔘ‧ ᎞ᔉᔗ'Ëą ᔍᔒ!" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ê°á”‰ËĄá”–Ëą Ê°á”‰Êł Ê°á”˜Ëąá”‡á”ƒâżá”ˆ ËĄá”‰á”ƒâż ᔘᔖ‧ "ᔂᔘᶻ?" ᔆʰᔉ'Ëą á¶œá”ƒÊłÊłÊžâ±âżá” ʰⁱᔐ ᔇᔃᶜᔏ á”—á”’ á”—Ê°á”‰â±Êł á”–ËĄá”ƒá¶œá”‰â€§ ᎎᔉ ᔏᔉᔖᔗ á”ƒËĄá”á”’Ëąá”— á¶ á”ƒËĄËĄâ±âżá” á”ƒËąËĄá”‰á”‰á”– ᔃ˹ ËąÊ°á”‰ Ê°á”‰ËĄá”ˆ ʰⁱᔐ‧ "᎔ ᔗʰᔉᔉ ʞᔒᔘ; ᎔ ᔗʰᔉᔉ á¶œá”’ËĄá”’á”˜ÊłËą!" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”âżá”‰Ê· ʰᔉ'ᔈ âżá”‰á”›á”‰Êł ᔃᶜᔗ ËĄâ±á”á”‰ ʰᔉ'Ëą Êłâ±á”Ê°á”— âżá”’Ê·âžŽ ˹ᔗⁱ˥˥ á¶œá”’á”â±âżá” ᔒᔘᔗ ᔒᶠ á”ƒâżá”ƒá”‰Ëąá”—Ê°á”‰Ëąâ±á”ƒâ€§ "á”€ÊłÊž ⁿᔒᔗ á”—á”ƒËĄá”â±âżá” á”—á”’ ᔐᔘᶜʰ ʞᔒᔘ Ê·â±ËĄËĄ ᶠᔉᔉ˥ Ê·á”’ÊłËąá”‰ ⁱⁿ Êžá”’á”˜Êł ÊČᔃʷ➎ ⁿᔒᔗ á”—á”’ ᔐᔉⁿᔗⁱᔒⁿ Ê°á”’Ê· á”‰á”á”‡á”ƒÊłÊłá”ƒËąËąá”‰á”ˆ ʞᔒᔘ‧‧‧" "᎔ Ê·á”’Êłá”—Ê° ⁱⁿ ᔐʞ ᔗʰᔃʷ?" "Ꮀᔉⁿᔗⁱ˹ᔗ˹ á”–á”‰Êłá¶ á”’Êłá”á”‰á”ˆ ᔃ á”–Êłá”’á¶œá”‰á”ˆá”˜Êłá”‰ á¶ á”’Êł Êžá”’á”˜Êł á”—á”‰á”‰á”—Ê°â±á”‰Ëą ʷⁱᔗʰ Êžá”’á”˜Êł ᔐᔒᔘᔗʰ Ê°á”’âżâ€§â€§" "ᶠᔉᔉ˥ âżá”˜á¶ á¶ â±âżâ€™ ʷⁱᶠᶠ ᔐʞ ᔐᔒᔘᶠ‧‧‧" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ëąá”ƒÊžËąâ€§ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż'Ëą Ê°á”ƒâżá”ˆËą á¶œá”’á”›á”‰Êłá”‰á”ˆ ⁱⁿ á”ËĄá”’á”‡Ëą ᔒᶠ á”ˆÊłá”’á”’ËĄ ⁿᔒᔗ Ëąá”—á”’á”–á”–â±âżá”â€§ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔏᔉᔖᔗ ᔒⁿ á”—ÊłÊžâ±âżá” á”—á”’ á¶œËĄá”ƒá”– ᔃⁿᔈ ᔐᔃᔏᔉ ⁿᔒⁱ˹ᔉ➎ á”‡á”˜á”‡á”‡ËĄÊž ᔃⁿᔈ á”â±á”á”ËĄâ±âżá”â€§ áŽŹÊłÊłâ±á”›â±âżá” ᔇᔃᶜᔏ➎ ËąÊ°á”‰ ᶠᔉᔈ ʰⁱᔐ ˹ᔒᔐᔉ ⁱᶜᔉ á¶œÊłá”‰á”ƒá” á”ƒá¶ á”—á”‰Êł Êłá”‰á”á”’á”›â±âżá” ᔃ˥˥ ᔗʰᔉ ᔍᔃᔘᶻᔉ‧ á”†á”˜á”ˆá”ˆá”‰âżËĄÊž ᔃ á”–á”‰ÊłËąá”’âż'Ëą ᔃᔗ ᔗʰᔉ á”ˆá”’á”’Êłâ€§ "᎔'ËĄËĄ ᔍᔉᔗ ⁱᔗ‧" á”†á”ƒâżá”ˆÊž ᔃⁿᔈ ᎎᔃⁿⁿᔃ➎ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż'Ëą ᔇᔉ˹ᔗ á¶ Êłâ±á”‰âżá”ˆËąâžŽ ᔈᔉᶜⁱᔈᔉᔈ á”—á”’ Ëąá”—á”’á”– ᔇʞ á”˜âżá”ƒâżâżá”’á”˜âżá¶œá”‰á”ˆâ€§ "᎔˹ âżá”’Ê· ᔃ ᔇᔃᔈ ᔗⁱᔐᔉ‧‧‧" "áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âżâ€œ" ᔀʰᔉʞ ᔇᔒᔗʰ á¶ á”’ËĄËĄá”’Ê· áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”—á”’ ᔗʰᔉ ᔇᔉᔈ Êłá”’á”’á” á”—á”’ ˹ᔉᔉ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á¶ â±âżâ±ËąÊ°á”‰á”ˆ ⁱᶜᔉ á¶œÊłá”‰á”ƒá” ᔃⁿᔈ ˹ᔗⁱ˥˥ Ëąâ±á”—á”—â±âżá” ᔘᔖ‧ "áŽŸÊ·á”‰á”ƒËąá”‰ ᔒʰ➎ ᎔ ᶠᔒᔘᔍʰᔗ ʞᔒᔘ ˥ᔉᶠᔗ ᔐᔉ!" ᎎᔉ Ëąá”ƒÊžËąâ€§ "᎔'ᔐ á”ƒá¶ Êłá”ƒâ±á”ˆ á”—á”’ á”ƒËąá”â€§â€§" "᎔ á”ˆá”’âż'á”— á”—Ê°â±âżá” ᎔'ᔛᔉ ᔐᔉᔗ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”–á”‰ÊłËąá”’âżá”ƒËĄËĄÊž ʞᔉᔗ ᔇᔘᔗ‧‧‧" "᎔'ᔐ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż'Ëą Ê°á”˜Ëąá”‡á”ƒâżá”ˆ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż! ᔆʰᔉ Ëąá”ƒÊžËą ᎔'ᔐ ᔐᔃʷʷⁱᔉᔈ!" "á”‚â±Ëąá”ˆá”’á” á”—á”’á”’á”—Ê° Êłá”‰á”á”’á”›á”ƒËĄâ€§" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”‰ËŁá”–ËĄá”ƒâ±âżËąâ€§ "᎔ ʰᔃᔇ á”—á”‰á”‰á”—Ê°â±á”‰Ëą? ᔂʰᔉʷᔉ á”ˆá”‰âżá”—â±Ëąá”—?" "ᔆᔒ ʰᔉ'Ëą ˹ᔗⁱ˥˥ á”ˆá”‰á¶ â±âżâ±á”—á”‰ËĄÊž ᔒᔘᔗ ᔒᶠ ⁱᔗ➎ ᎔ á¶œá”ƒâż ᔗᔉ˥˥‧‧" á”†á”ƒâżá”ˆÊž Ëąá”ƒÊžËąâ€§ "ʞᔒᔘ ᔗʰᔉᔉ➎ ᶜᔃᔐᔉ á”—á”’ ᔗʰᔉᔉ ᔐᔉ? ᎔ ʷᔘᔛ ʞᔒᔘ ᔃ˥˥➎ Ëąá”’ ᔐᔘᶜʰ!" "᎔ᔗ'Ëą á”á”‰á”—á”—â±âżá” ËĄá”ƒá”—á”‰ ᔃⁿᔈ ᎔ ᔇᔉ˥ⁱᔉᔛᔉ á”’Êłá”á”ƒâżâ±á¶œ á”‡á”‰â±âżá”Ëą á”á”˜Ëąá”— ᔍᔉᔗ Êłá”‰Ëąá”—â€§â€§" ᎎᔃⁿⁿᔃ Ëąá”ƒÊžËąâžŽ á”–á”ƒá”—á”—â±âżá” ʰⁱᔐ ᔒⁿ Ê°â±Ëą ËąÊ°á”’á”˜ËĄá”ˆá”‰ÊłâžŽ Ëąá”‰á”‰á”â±âżá”ËĄÊž Ëąá”—á”ƒÊłá”—ËĄâ±âżá” ʰⁱᔐ‧ "á”†á”’ÊłÊłÊž!" "᎔ᔗ'Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ Êžá”’á”˜Êł á¶ á”ƒá”˜ËĄá”— ᎎᔃⁿⁿᔃ➎ ʰᔉ'Ëą ˹ᔉⁿ˹ⁱᔗⁱᔛᔉ á”—á”’ ᔗᔒᔘᶜʰ ᔉᔛᔉⁿ ᔗʰᔒᔘᔍʰ ʰᔉ Ëąá”ƒÊ· ʞᔒᔘ á¶œá”’á”â±âżá”â€§ ᎎᔒʷ ᔈᔒ ʞᔒᔘ ᶠᔉᔉ˥?" "ᔀⁱʷᔉᔈ‧‧‧" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”—á”˜á¶œá”Ëą ʰⁱᔐ ⁱⁿ Ê°â±Ëą ᔇᔉᔈ ⁱⁿ ᔗʰᔉ Êłá”’á”’á” ᔗʰᔉʞ ËąÊ°á”ƒÊłá”‰á”ˆâžŽ Ê·â±ËąÊ°â±âżá” á¶ á”’Êł ʰⁱᔐ á”—á”’ âżá”ƒá”– á”‡á”‰á¶ á”’Êłá”‰ á¶œá”’âżËąâ±á”ˆá”‰Êłâ±âżá” Êłá”‰á”–ËĄá”ƒá¶œâ±âżá” ᔍᔃᔘᶻᔉ á”ƒá”á”ƒâ±âżâ€§ á”†á”˜Êłá”‰ á”‰âżá”’á”˜á”Ê°âžŽ ʰᔉ'Ëą á¶ á”ƒËĄËĄá”‰âż á”ƒËąËĄá”‰á”‰á”–âžŽ ᔐᔒᔘᔗʰ Ê°á”ƒâżá”â±âżá” ᔒᔖᔉⁿ ᔃ˹ ʰᔉ á”ˆÊłá”’á”’ËĄËą/Ëąâżá”’Êłá”‰Ëąâ€§ ᎔ᔗ'Ëą ËĄá”ƒá”—á”‰âžŽ Ëąá”’ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔐⁱᔍʰᔗ ˹˥ᔉᔉᔖ á”—Ê°Êłá”’á”˜á”Ê° á”—á”’ á”á”’Êłâżâ±âżá”â€§ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż'ᔈ á¶ â±á”á”˜Êłá”‰ ʰᔉ ᔐⁱᔍʰᔗ ᶠᔉᔉ˥ á¶ Êłá”˜Ëąá”—Êłá”ƒá”—á”‰á”ˆ ⁱᶠ á¶œá”’âżá¶ á”˜Ëąá”‰á”ˆ ᔃⁿᔈ á”–á”ƒâ±âżá”‰á”ˆâ€§ "᎔ á”á”˜á”‰ËąËą ʷᔉ'ËĄËĄ ᔍᔒ âżá”’Ê·â€§ áŽźÊžá”‰!" ᔀʰᔉʞ ˥ᔉᶠᔗ ᔗʰᔉ ᶜʰᔘᔐ ᔇᔘᶜᔏᔉᔗ‧ ᔀʰᔉ ⁿᔉˣᔗ ᔈᔃʞ➎ ʰᔉ Ê·á”ƒá”á”‰Ëą ᔘᔖ ʷⁱᔗʰ ᔃᶜʰᔉᔈ Ëąá”’Êłá”‰âżá”‰ËąËą ʷⁱᔗʰ á”ˆÊłá”’á”’ËĄâ€§ 'á”‚Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰ ᔃᔐ ᎔?' áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”âżá”‰Ê· ʰᔉ Ê·á”‰âżá”— á”—á”’ ᔍᔉᔗ Ê·â±Ëąá”ˆá”’á” ᔗᔉᔉᔗʰ á”—á”ƒá”á”‰âż ᔒᔘᔗ➎ ᔃⁿᔈ Êłá”‰á¶œá”’á”âżâ±Ëąá”‰á”ˆ ᔗʰᔉ ᔇᔉᔈ Êłá”’á”’á” ʰᔉ'Ëą ËąÊ°á”ƒÊłá”‰á”ˆ ʷⁱᔗʰ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âżâ€§ 'ᔂʰᔃᔗ ⁱ˹ á”á”’â±âżá” ᔒⁿ?' "ᎌʷ‧" 'áŽŹÊ° ᔐʞ á”á”˜á”Ëąâ€§ áŽłá”ƒÊ°! ᔂʰᔃᔗ Ê°á”ƒá”–á”–á”‰âżá”‰á”ˆ?' "á”†Ê°á”‰ËĄá”ˆá”’âż?" ᔆʰᔉ ᶜᔃᔐᔉ á”—á”’ ʰⁱᔐ‧ ᔀʰᔉ á”á”‰á”ˆâ±á¶œâ±âżá”‰'Ëą Ê·á”’Êłâż ᔒᶠᶠ ᔇʞ âżá”’Ê·â€§ áŽŒâżËĄÊž áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”âżá”‰Ê· ʰᔉ'Ëą á”—á”’ ᔍᔉᔗ ᔗʰᔉ á”–Êłá”’á¶œá”‰á”ˆá”˜Êłá”‰ á”ˆá”’âżá”‰âžŽ ⁿᔒᔗ á”’á”—Ê°á”‰ÊłËąâ€§ "ʞᔒᔘ Ê°á”˜âżá”ÊłÊž á¶ á”’Êł á”ƒâżÊž ˹ᔒᶠᔗ ᶠᔒᔒᔈ?" "᎔ᶜᔉ ᶜʷᔉᔃᔐ➎ ᔇᔘ’ ⁿᔒᔗ á”—á”’ Ê°á”˜âżá”Ê·Êž ᶠᔒʷ ᔃ á”á”‰á”ƒËĄ ʞᔉᔗ‧" 'ᔀᔒ á”–á”ƒâ±âżá¶ á”˜ËĄ á¶ á”’Êł ᔐᔉ á”—á”’ á”—á”ƒËĄá” âżá”’Êłá”á”ƒËĄËĄÊž ᔃⁿᔈ ᎔ Ëąá”’á”˜âżá”ˆ ËĄâ±á”á”‰ ᔃ á”—á”’á”ˆá”ˆËĄá”‰Êł!' "᎔ á”á”‰á”á”‡á”‰Êł Ëąá”‰á”‰â±âżá” ᔗʰᔉ á”ˆá”‰âżá”—â±Ëąá”—â€§â€§" "á”†Ê°á”‰ËĄá”ˆá”’âż ⁱᔗ'Ëą ᶠⁱⁿᔉ➎ ᔃⁿᔈ ⁱᶜᔉ á¶œÊłá”‰á”ƒá” ʞᔒᔘ ᔃᔗᔉ Êžá”‰Ëąá”—á”‰Êłá”ˆá”ƒÊžâ€§" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ëąâ±á”Ê°Ëąâ€§ 'Ꮀⁱᔈ ᎔ ᔇⁱᔗᔉ ᔐʞ á”—á”’âżá”á”˜á”‰?' "ᔆᔒ ʷʰᔃᔗ ᔈᔒ ʞᔒᔘ Êłá”‰á¶œá”ƒËĄËĄ?" "áŽłá”’â±âżá” ⁱⁿ ᔗʰᔉ Ëąá”˜Êłá”á”‰ÊłÊžâžŽ Ê°á”’ËĄá”ˆâ±âżá” ʞᔒᔘʷ Ê°á”ƒâżá”ˆ ᔇ'á¶ á”’Êłá”‰ ᔃⁿᔈ ᔃ˹ ᎔ ʷᔒᔏᔉ á”ƒá¶ á”—á”‰Êłâ€§ ᎔ á¶ â±âżá” ʞᔒᔘ á¶œá”ƒÊłÊłâ±á”‰á”ˆ ᔐᔉ ᔇᔃᶜᔏ á”—á”’ ᔗʰᔉ ᶜʰᔘᔐ ᔇᔘᶜᔏᔉᔗ á”—á”’ ᔗʰᔉ Êłá”’á”’á”?" 'ᔆᔒ ʰᔉ ⁱ˹ ⁿᔒᔗ ËąËĄá”˜ÊłÊłâ±âżá” Ê°â±Ëą Ê·á”’Êłá”ˆËą ᔃ˹ ᔐᔘᶜʰ ᔃ˹ Êžá”‰Ëąá”—á”‰Êłá”ˆá”ƒÊž' áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Êłá”‰á”ƒËĄâ±Ëąá”‰á”ˆâžŽ Ê·â±á”–â±âżá” á”ˆÊłá”’á”’ËĄâ€§ "᎔ á”ˆá”’âż'á”— á”âżá”’Ê· ʷʰᔃᔗ ᔉ˥˹ᔉ‧" "ᔂᔉ ᶜᔃᔐᔉ Ëąá”—Êłá”ƒâ±á”Ê°á”— ᔇᔃᶜᔏ ʷⁱᔗʰᔒᔘᔗ Êłá”˜âżâżâ±âżá” ⁱⁿ á”—á”’ á”ƒâżÊž ᔖᔉᔒᔖ˥ᔉ ʞᔒᔘ á”–á”‰ÊłËąá”’âżá”ƒËĄËĄÊž á”âżá”’Ê·â€§" "áŽłá”’á”’á”ˆâ€§" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ᔒᔐⁱᔗᔗᔉᔈ ᎎᔃⁿⁿᔃ ᔃⁿᔈ á”†á”ƒâżá”ˆÊž; ËĄá”˜á¶œá”â±ËĄÊž ʰᔉ ˹ᔉᔉᔐ˹ á”—á”’ ʰᔃᔛᔉ á¶ á”’Êłá”á”’á”—á”—á”‰âżâ€§ "ᎏᔐ ᎔ á”ˆÊłá”’á”’ËĄâ±âżá”â€œ" 'Êžá”‰Ëąâ€§' "áŽșá”’á”— ᔇᔃᔈ‧‧" 'Êžá”‰Ëą Ëąá”’ ᔐᔘᶜʰ‧' áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ê·â±á”–á”‰Ëą ⁱᔗ‧ "ᔂʰᔃᔗ Ëąá”’á”˜âżá”ˆËą ᔍᔒᔒᔈ á”—á”’ ʞᔒᔘ Êłâ±á”Ê°á”— âżá”’Ê·?" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”ƒËąá”Ëąâ€§ "áŽłá”’â±âżá” á”—á”’ ËąÊ·á”‰á”‰á”–â€§â€§" "᎔ ˹ᔉᔉ‧ ᔀᔃᔏᔉ ᔃ˥˥ ᔗʰᔉ ᔗⁱᔐᔉ ʞᔒᔘ âżá”‰á”‰á”ˆâ€§â€§" "áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ᎔➎ á”—Ê°á”ƒâżá” ʞᔒᔘ‧ ᎔ á”á”‰á”ƒâż ⁱᔗ‧" "áŽ¶á”˜Ëąá”— á”âżá”’Ê· ᎔ ˥ᔒᔛᔉ ʞᔒᔘ‧" "ᔆᔒ ᔈᔒ ᎔‧‧" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ê·á”‰âżá”— á”—á”’ ˹˥ᔉᔉᔖ‧ to be cont. Pt. Two
new plaren lithp wisdom tooth split into parts wisdom teeth
Dr. McDermott's dental office. Plankton had been in surgery for wisdom teeth. The receptionist, a young woman named "Samantha," was going up to Karen. "Your husband is to be taken to the recovery," she said, her voice gentle and soothing. Karen nodded. Samantha led her down. Plankton was laid out on a narrow bed, his mouth open slightly. "He's still under," Samantha whispered, "but going to start bringing him out of it now. Waking is a gradual process so.." Karen nodded. She watched as a nurse approached, deftly adjusting tubes and machines connected to him. The nurse flicked a switch and began to decrease the flow. The anesthesia diminished. Plankton's chest continued to rise and fall rhythmically, his eye remained closed. Karen reached out and took his hand, her thumb brushing against his. She squeezed gently, hoping it might provide some comfort, or at least a thread of familiarity, as he began his journey back to consciousness. A few moments later, Plankton's hand twitched ever so slightly in response. "It's ok honey," she whispered, though she knew he couldn't hear. A nurse, named Margaret, offered an assuring smile. "It's normal for it to take time. Just keep talking to him, it'll help." Karen leaned closer, her voice barely above a murmur. "Remember our first date?" she began. Plankton's snore was the only response. "Don't worry, he'll come around soon. Anesthesia can take a while to wear off. And when he does, he'll be groggy. It's like waking up from a deep sleep." Her thoughts drifted to Plankton's snoring, a comforting sound. She squeezed his hand again, trying to will him to wake with her touch. Then, to her surprise, she heard a murmur. "Mm, chum... so... much... chum..." The nurse, Margaret, gave her a knowing look. "It's common for patients to talk in their sleep as they come out of it. Sometimes they say the darndest things." Karen smiles. "Chum?" she repeated, "Is that what you're dreaming about?" "Needff... chum..." "You're ok," she whispered, her voice filled with relief. "You're just dreaming, sweetie." "Chum... I... I nee to... get ith," he slurred. Karen's smile grew, his nonsensical words bringing a small spark of comfort. "You're dreaming about work," she said, stroking his forehead with the back of her hand. The nurse, Margaret, checked the monitors and nodded. "His vitals look good. He'll be fine," she assured. "Remember the first time you made me a Patty?" she asked, her voice soothing. Plankton's grip on her hand tightened slightly, his chest rising and falling with even breaths. "Ith... Ith was’at..." he mumbled. It wasn't often she heard him express his feelings so openly, especially not about her. "What was it, honey?" she prompted, a soft smile playing on her lips. "Youw... youwre the... the besht... the... besht..." his voice trailed off again into snores. Karen chuckled with affection. It was clear he was talking about her, despite the garbled speech. She leaned in closer. "I'm right here," she whispered. Plankton's sleep-talk grew, his grip on her hand tightening. "Pro-tec... the secret... chum... fwom... Plankton..." "You're safe," she said, her voice a soothing whisper. "You don't have to worry about the recipe now." Plankton's slurred words continued. "Fwom... Plankton... ith... ith... my... my... hearth..." It was almost as if he was speaking to it, whispering sweet nothings in his sleep. "Your... your heart?" she repeated uncertainly, trying to make sense of his words. Plankton's chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, his hand still clutching hers tightly. A faint moan escaped Plankton's lips, and his eye began to flutter open. His eye searched the room, unfocused and glazed. He blinked slowly, a look of confusion spreading across his face. The nurse stood by, monitoring, ready to intervene if needed. "Karen?" he croaked, his voice slurred from the anesthesia. She squeezed his hand tighter and leaned in, her voice as gentle as a lullaby. "Hi, sweetie. It's all over now. You're in the recovery room." Plankton's eye searched hers, still clouded with sleep. "Wha... wha' happen'd?" he managed to ask. "You had your wisdom teeth removed," Karen said softly. "You're ok now." Plankton's eye grew clearer as his mind slowly surfaced from the depths of unconsciousness. He blinked again, looking around the room. "Why... why awe youw smiling?" "You were talking in your sleep," she said, trying to keep the amusement out of her voice. "It was just sweet." Plankton's eye searched hers. "Wha'did I shay?" "You said a lot of things," she replied, her smile lingering. "But the most important part was that you said I was the best." The corner of Plankton's mouth twitched into a weak smile. "Yeah?" he murmured, his voice still slurred. "Well, thath's twue." With Margaret's help, Karen managed to get Plankton into a more upright position. His head lolled slightly before he found his bearings, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. "How do you feel?" Karen asked, her voice full of concern. "Woozy," Plankton mumbled. With Margaret's guidance, Karen helped Plankton to stand, his legs wobbly. He leaned heavily on her, the anesthesia still clouding his movements. She felt his weight and knew that he would need her support to navigate the short walk to the car. "Let's go slow," she said, her voice steady and calm. Plankton nodded, his eye still half-lidded with sleep. They shuffled along the hallway, each step a victory over his grogginess. As they approached the door leading to the parking lot, Plankton swayed. Karen tightened her grip, for his head lolled to the side, and she caught him. "Whoa, honey," she said. Plankton's legs buckled slightly, and his head dropped to her shoulder, his weight pressing against her. Karen steadied him, her arms wrapping around to keep him upright. His breathing was deep and even, eye fighting to stay open. "You can't sleep now," she said, trying to keep the laughter from her voice. "We're not even home yet." With Margaret's help, they made their way to the car, Karen's arm supporting Plankton's weight. "Let's get you buckled in," she said, guiding him to the passenger seat. Plankton complied, his movements still sluggish and uncoordinated. With a gentle push, Karen secured the seatbelt across his chest. His head lolled back against the headrest, and for a moment, she thought he might fall back asleep, but managed to keep his eye open as she starts the engine. As she pulled out of the parking lot, Plankton's eye drifted shut. "We're almost home." Karen says as Plankton's head lolled back against the headrest. She took a hand off the wheel to pat his leg reassuringly. "You can sleep when we get there." Yet Plankton's snores filled the car, punctuating the silence. Karen couldn't help but look over at him, his face relaxed and peaceful in sleep. "Wake up, sweetie," Karen whispered, gently shaking Plankton. He stirred, his eye blinking open with difficulty. "We're home," she said. Plankton groaned. "Careful," she warned. They shuffled inside, Karen guiding him. The smell of home hit them, a mix of saltwater and the faint scent of cooking from the restaurant next door. "Come on, honey," she said, half-guiding, half-carrying him to their bedroom. Karen helped him lie downs. He let out a deep sigh. "Thathks," he murmured, his voice barely audible. Karen settled Plankton into bed, his head resting on the soft pillows, his body limp and heavy with the weight of the anesthesia. She took his other hand and squeezed gently. As they lay there, she noticed a small pool of drool forming at the corner of his mouth. Karen couldn't help but laugh softly, the tension of the day dissipating. She reached for a tissue from the bedside table and gently wiped the drool away. Plankton snuffled, his eye shooting open for a moment before closing again. "Don't worry," she whispered, stroking his forehead. "You're safe. You can go back to sleep now." Plankton's head lolled to the side, and drool grew more insistent, a silent testament to his deep slumber. Karen grabbed another tissue, wiping the saliva that trickled down his chin, his snores rumbling. With each tissue, the intimacy grew, the act of caring for him in this vulnerable state somehow endearing. She felt a tenderness for him that was usually overshadowed by their daily squabbles and the relentless pursuit of the Krabby Patty's secret recipe. As Plankton's snores grew softer, his grip on her hand loosened. Karen gently pulled her hand free and covered him with the blanket. She took a moment to gaze at his peaceful face. It was a side of him she rarely saw, and she found it surprisingly comforting. She leaned over and kissed him softly on the forehead, whispering, "I love you, even when you're drooling." Karen knew Plankton would be out for hours, so she decided to use the time to prepare a light meal for when he woke. She moved quietly to the kitchen, not wanting to disturb him. She rummaged, looking for something soft that wouldn't irritate his sore mouth. In the fridge, she found a bowl of Plankton's favorite jellyfish jello, a treat she had made the night before knowing he wouldn't be able to eat much solid food. Then, she pulled out a loaf of bread and a jar of jelly, carefully making a few soft, fluffy sandwiches that she hoped would be easy for him to chew. Next, she grabbed a few of Plankton's favorite books from the living room. She placed them on the bedside table, along with a glass of water, within arm's reach. She took a deep breath, feeling a sense of peace settle over her as she listened to his rhythmic snores. Despite the stress of the day, she was grateful for the quiet moments like these.
new plaren AI Story Generator wisdom tooth
Ꮀᔉⁿᔗⁱ˹ᔗ ᎏᔖᔖᔒⁱⁿᔗᔐᔉⁿᔗ âœá”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ á¶ á”ƒâżá¶ â±á¶œâŸ Part 1 áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą á¶œá”’á”á”–á”˜á”—á”‰Êł ʷⁱᶠᔉ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ᔈᔉᶜⁱᔈᔉᔈ á”—á”’ ʷᔃᔏᔉ ʰⁱᔐ âżá”’Ê· á¶ á”’Êł Ê°â±Ëą á”ˆá”‰âżá”—â±Ëąá”— á”ƒá”–á”–á”’â±âżá”—á”á”‰âżá”—â€§ ᎎᔉ'Ëą á”˜Ëąá”˜á”ƒËĄËĄÊž ᔘᔖ á”‡á”‰á¶ á”’Êłá”‰ Ê°á”‰Êł ᔃⁿᔈ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊžËą ᔘᔖ ËĄá”ƒá”—á”‰ á”ƒá¶ á”—á”‰Êł ËąÊ°á”‰â€§ áŽźá”˜á”— ᔗʰᔉʞ'Êłá”‰ á”—á”’ ËĄá”‰á”ƒá”›á”‰ á”‰á”ƒÊłËĄÊžâ€§ ᔆʰᔉ Êłá”˜á”‡Ëą Ê°â±Ëą ᔇᔃᶜᔏ‧ "á”†Ê°á”‰ËĄá”ˆá”’âżâ€§" ᎎⁱ˹ ᔉʞᔉ á”‡Êłá”’Ê· ᔗʷⁱᔗᶜʰᔉᔈ‧ ᔆʰᔉ á”—Ê°á”‰âż âżá”˜á”ˆá”á”‰Ëą ʰⁱᔐ‧ "ᔂᔃᔏᔉ ᔘᔖ! áŽŹÊłá”‰ ʞᔒᔘ ᔃʷᔃᔏᔉ?" áŽŽá”‰Êł Ê°á”˜Ëąá”‡á”ƒâżá”ˆ ᔒᔖᔉⁿ˹ Ê°â±Ëą ᔉʞᔉ‧ "áŽłá”’á”—á”—á”ƒ ᔍᔒ á”—á”’ ᔗʰᔉ á”ˆá”‰âżá”—â±Ëąá”—â€§" Ꮀᔉ˹ᔖⁱᔗᔉ á”‡á”‰â±âżá” á”ƒËĄâ±á”›á”‰âžŽ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż'Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ ᔃⁿ á”’Êłá”á”ƒâżâ±á¶œ á”‡á”‰â±âżá”â€§ ʞᔉᔗ ËąÊ°á”‰ ˹ᔗⁱ˥˥ ᶠᔉ˥ᔗ Ê°á”‰Êł á”’Ê·âż ᔉᔐᔒᔗⁱᔒⁿ˹ ᔃⁿᔈ á”–á”‰ÊłËąá”’âżá”ƒËĄâ±á”—Êž ᔗᔒ‧ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”˜Ëąá”˜á”ƒËĄËĄÊž á”á”‰á”—Ëą á”ˆá”‰âżá”—á”ƒËĄ ᶠ˥ᔒ˹˹ ᔃ˹ ᔗʰᔉʞ Ëąá”‰âżá”ˆ ʰⁱᔐ ᔒᔘᔗ ᔒⁿ Ê°â±Ëą ʷᔃʞ ᔇᔘᔗ âżá”’Ê· ᔒⁿᔉ ᔒᶠ ᔗʰᔉ á”ˆá”‰âżá”—â±Ëąá”—Ëą ᶜᔃᔐᔉ ᔘᔖ á”—á”’ ˹ᔉᔉ Ê°á”‰Êłâ€§ "áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€§â€§â€§" "Êžá”‰Ëą?" 'á”‚Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰ ⁱ˹ ᔐʞ Ê°á”˜Ëąá”‡á”ƒâżá”ˆ ᔃⁿᔈ Ê·Ê°Êž ʞᔒᔘ á¶œá”’á”â±âżá” á”—á”’ ᔐᔉ?' áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ê·á”’ÊłÊłâ±á”‰á”ˆâ€§ "ᔆᔒ ʷᔉ ᔈᔒ Ëąá¶œá”ƒâżËą ᔃⁿᔈ ᔗᔒᔈᔃʞ ʷᔉ á¶ á”’á”˜âżá”ˆ Ê°â±Ëą Ê·â±Ëąá”ˆá”’á” ᔗᔉᔉᔗʰ âżá”‰á¶œá”‰ËąËąá”ƒÊłÊž á”—á”’ Êłá”‰á”á”’á”›á”‰ ᔗʰᔉᔐ‧" 'ᔂʰᔃᔗ“' "᎔ á¶œá”ƒâż ËĄá”‰á”ƒá”ˆ ᔗʰᔉ ʷᔃʞ á”—á”’ Ê·Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰ ʰᔉ'˱‧‧‧" "᎔ á”ˆâ»á”ˆá”’âżâ€™á”— á”âżá”’Ê· ⁱᶠ ᎔ á”˜âżá”ˆá”‰ÊłËąá”—á”ƒâżá”ˆâ€§" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á¶ á”’ËĄËĄá”’Ê·á”‰á”ˆ ᔗʰᔉ âżá”˜ÊłËąá”‰ á”—á”’ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ê·Ê°á”’'Ëą ⁱⁿ ᔗʰᔉ Êłá”‰á¶œËĄâ±âżá”‰Êł ⁱⁿ Êłá”’á”’á”â€§ "á”†Ê°á”‰ËĄá”ˆá”’âż?" "ᎎᔉ˥˥ᔒ ᎔'ᔐ á”†Ê°á”‰ËĄá”ˆá”’âż áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą Ê°Êžá”â±á”‰âżâ±Ëąá”—! áŽșá”’Ê· ʷᔉ ˹ᔉᔉ ᔗʰᔉ á”–Ê°á”’á”—á”’ ᔒᶠ ᔗᔉᔉᔗʰ ʷᔉ ᔗᔒᔒᔏ➎ ᔃⁿᔈ ᔗʰᔉ ᔇᔃᶜᔏ ᔒⁿᔉ˹ á”ƒÊłá”‰ á”á”’ËĄá”ƒÊłËą ⁱⁿ âżá”‰á”‰á”ˆ ᔒᶠ Êłá”‰á”á”’á”›á”ƒËĄâ€§ ᔂᔉ Ê·á”ƒâżâżá”ƒ ᔍᔒ ᔃʰᔉᔃᔈ ᔃⁿᔈ á”’á”–á”‰Êłá”ƒá”—á”‰ ᔇᔘᔗ ʷᔉ ᔒᔘᔗᔗᔃ ᔗᔉ˥˥ ʞᔒᔘ‧ ᔀʰᔉ âżá”˜ÊłËąá”‰ á¶œá”ƒâż ᔍⁱᔛᔉ ʞᔒᔘ ᔃ á”–á”ƒá”á”–Ê°ËĄá”‰á”— ᔒᶠ â±âżËąá”—Êłá”˜á¶œá”—â±á”’âżËąâ€§ áŽźá”‰á¶ á”’Êłá”‰ ʷᔉ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊłá”— áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᎔'ËĄËĄ ᔗᔉ˥˥ ʞᔒᔘ➎ ⁱᔗ'Ëą âżá”’Êłá”á”ƒËĄ á”—á”’ ᔇᔉ á”ƒâżËŁâ±á”’á”˜Ëąâ€§" ᔀʰᔉ Ê°Êžá”â±á”‰âżâ±Ëąá”— Ëąá”ƒÊžËąâ€§ "ᔂᔉ ᔈᔒ Ëąá”˜Êłá”á”‰ÊłÊž ᔃⁿᔈ ʷᔉ Ëąá”–á”‰á¶œâ±á”ƒËĄâ±Ëąá”‰ ᔗᔒ‧ áŽșá”’Ê· Ëąá”‰á”‰â±âżá” ᔗʰᔉ ᔗᔉᔉᔗʰ Ê°á”ƒá”›á”‰âż'á”— á”‰Êłá”˜á”–á”—á”‰á”ˆ á”–á”ƒËąá”— ᔗʰᔉ á”á”˜á”ËąâžŽ ᔗʰᔉ á”–Êłá”’á¶œá”‰á”ˆá”˜Êłá”‰ Ê·â±ËĄËĄ á”á”’Êłá”‰ â±âżá”›á”ƒËąâ±á”›á”‰âžŽ ᔇᔘᔗ ʷᔉ ʰᔃᔛᔉ Ëąá”‰á”ˆá”ƒá”—â±á”’âż ᔒᔖᔗⁱᔒⁿ‧" ᔀʰᔉ âżá”˜ÊłËąá”‰ ˥ᔉᔗ˹ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ê°á”’ËĄá”ˆ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą Ê°á”ƒâżá”ˆâ€§ "᎔ á”—Ê°â±âżá” ⁱⁿ Êžá”’á”˜Êł á¶œá”ƒËąá”‰ ⁱᔗ'ᔈ ᔇᔉ ᔇᔉ˹ᔗ á”—á”’ ᔖᔘᔗ ⁱⁿ ᔃ ᔈᔉᔉᔖ ˹˥ᔉᔉᔖ➎ á¶œá”’âżËąâ±á”ˆá”‰Êłâ±âżá” á¶œâ±Êłá¶œá”˜á”Ëąá”—á”ƒâżá¶œá”‰Ëąâ€§" "ᎎᔃᔛᔉ ʞᔒᔘ á”ƒâżÊž á‘«á”˜á”‰Ëąá”—â±á”’âżËą?" ᔀʰᔉ âżá”˜ÊłËąá”‰ á”ƒËąá”Ëąâ€§ "á¶œá”ƒâż áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ëąá”—á”ƒÊžâ€§â€§â€§" "áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ËąÊ°á”‰ Ê·á”’âż'á”— ËĄá”‰á”ƒá”›á”‰ ᔗʰᔉ á”‡á”˜â±ËĄá”ˆâ±âżá” ᔇᔘᔗ ËąÊ°á”‰'ËĄËĄ ʰᔃᔛᔉ á”—á”’ ᔉˣⁱᔗ ᔗʰᔉ Êłá”’á”’á” Ê·Ê°á”‰âżá¶œá”‰ á”’á”–á”‰Êłá”ƒá”—â±âżá”â€§ áŽșá”’Ê· áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâžŽ ʞᔒᔘ Êłá”‰á”ƒá”ˆÊž?" "᎔'ᔛᔉ á”â±á”›á”‰âż áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ᔃ˥˥ â±âżá¶ á”’Êłá”á”ƒá”—â±á”’âżâ€§" á”†á”ƒÊžËą ᔗʰᔉ âżá”˜ÊłËąá”‰â€§ "ᔂᔉ á”ƒÊłá”‰ á”á”’â±âżá” á”—á”’ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊłá”— á”ƒá”ˆá”â±âżâ±Ëąá”—Êłá”ƒá”—â±á”’âż ᔒᶠ Ëąá”‰á”ˆá”ƒá”—â±á”›á”‰Ëą ᔃⁿᔈ ᔐⁱᔍʰᔗ ˹ᔉᔉᔐ á¶ á”˜âżâżÊž ᔇᔘᔗ ⁱᔗ Ê·â±ËĄËĄ ᔇᔉ á”’á”›á”‰Êł á”‡á”‰á¶ á”’Êłá”‰ ʞᔒᔘ á”âżá”’Ê· ⁱᔗ‧ áŽŒá”˜Êł Ê°á”ƒâżá”ˆÊž á”á”ƒá¶œÊ°â±âżá”‰'Ëą á”á”’âżâżá”ƒ á”—á”˜Êłâż ᔒⁿ ᔃⁿᔈ ʞᔒᔘ Ê·â±ËĄËĄ ᔇᔉ á”á”’âżâ±á”—á”’Êłá”‰á”ˆâ€§" ᔀʰᔉ Ê°Êžá”â±á”‰âżâ±Ëąá”— Ëąá”ƒÊžËą á”‡á”‰á¶ á”’Êłá”‰ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊłá”—â±âżá” ᔘᔖ ᔗʰᔉ á”á”ƒá¶œÊ°â±âżá”‰â€§ "ʞᔒᔘ'Êłá”‰ á”ˆá”’â±âżá” Ëąá”’ ᔍᔒᔒᔈ ÊČᔒᔇ‧" 'ʞᔒᔘ ᶠᔉᔉ˥ âżâ±á¶œá”‰â€§â€§â€§' áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”á”‰á”—Ëą á”ƒËąá”á”‰á”ˆ ᔇᔘᔗ Ê°â±Ëą ᔉʞᔉ'Ëą ⁿᔒ ËĄá”’âżá”á”‰Êł ᔏᔉᔖᔗ ᔒᔖᔉⁿ‧ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”âżá”’Ê·Ëą âżá”’á”—Ê°â±âżá” ᔉ˥˹ᔉ á”’á”—Ê°á”‰Êł á”—Ê°á”ƒâż Ê°â±Ëą ᔉʞᔉ á¶ ËĄá”˜á”—á”—á”‰Êłâ±âżá” ᔃ˹ á”á”‰á”ˆâ±á¶œâ±âżá”‰ á”âżá”’á¶œá”á”‰á”ˆ ʰⁱᔐ ᔒᔘᔗ á¶œá”’ËĄá”ˆâ€§ ᔀʰᔉ âżá”˜ÊłËąá”‰ ˥ᔉᔗ˹ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ᔍᔒ ᔇᔃᶜᔏ á”—á”’ Ê·Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰ ËąÊ°á”‰'Ëą ʷᔃⁱᔗᔉᔈ‧ áŽ±á”›á”‰âżá”—á”˜á”ƒËĄËĄÊž ᔗʰᔉ âżá”˜ÊłËąá”‰ á”á”‰á”—Ëą áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”ƒá”á”ƒâ±âż ᔃ˹ ᔗʰᔉʞ á¶ â±âżâ±ËąÊ°á”‰á”ˆ ᔘᔖ‧ "ᎎᔒʷ‧‧‧" "Êžá”’á”˜Êł Ê°á”˜Ëąá”‡á”ƒâżá”ˆ'Ëą ʞᔉᔗ á”—á”’ ʷᔃᔏᔉ ᔘᔖ➎ ᔇᔘᔗ ᔗʰᔉ Ëąá”˜Êłá”á”‰ÊłÊž Ê·á”‰âżá”— á”–á”‰Êłá¶ á”‰á¶œá”—ËĄÊž á”Êłá”‰á”ƒá”—â€§" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ëąá”ƒÊ· áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ˹ᔗⁱ˥˥ ⁿᔒᔗ á¶œá”’âżËąá¶œâ±á”’á”˜Ëą/ᔃʷᔃᔏᔉ ʞᔉᔗ ᔃⁿᔈ ᔗʰᔉ Ê°Êžá”â±á”‰âżâ±Ëąá”— Ê·â±á”–á”‰Ëą ᔃʷᔃʞ ˹ᔒᔐᔉ á”ˆÊłá”’á”’ËĄâ€§ "ᎎᔉ ᔐⁱᔍʰᔗ á”‡ËĄá”‰á”‰á”ˆ ᔃⁿᔈ á”‡Êłá”˜â±Ëąá”‰ á¶ á”’Êł ˥ᔉ˹˹ á”—Ê°á”ƒâż ᔃ ʷᔉᔉᔏ ᔃⁿᔈ ʰᔉ'Ëą á”‰ËŁá”–á”‰á¶œá”—á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ á”‰ËŁá”–á”‰Êłâ±á”‰âżá¶œá”‰ ˹ᔒᔐᔉ ËąÊ·á”‰ËĄËĄâ±âżá”â€§" "áŽżâ±á”Ê°á”— Ê·Ê°á”‰âż ᎔ ᔍᔉᔗ á”ˆÊłá”’á”’ËĄ á¶œËĄá”‰á”ƒâżá”‰á”ˆ ᔘᔖ á”á”’Êłá”‰ ᔒᶠ ⁱᔗ á¶œá”’á”á”‰Ëą! áŽźá”˜á”— Êžá”‰Ëą ᔃ˥˥ ᔗʰᔉ á”á”‰á”ˆâ±á¶œâ±âżá”‰ ⁱⁿ Ê°â±Ëą ᔇᔒᔈʞ ËąÊžËąá”—á”‰á” ᔐⁱᔍʰᔗ ᔐᔃᔏᔉ ʰⁱᔐ ᔃᶜᔗ ᔘᔖ á¶ á”’Êł ᔃᔇᔒᔘᔗ ᔃ ᔈᔃʞ‧" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Êłá”‰á”ƒá”ˆ ᔗʰᔉ á”–á”ƒá”á”–Ê°ËĄá”‰á”— á”‰ËŁá”–ËĄá”ƒâ±âżâ±âżá” á”ƒá¶ á”—á”‰Êł á¶œá”ƒÊłá”‰ ᔃⁿᔈ Ê°á”’Ê· á”—á”’ á”˜Ëąá”‰ ᔍᔃᔘᶻᔉ‧ ᔆʰᔉ á”âżá”‰Ê· ʰᔉ á”á”˜Ëąá”— ᔇᔉ âżá”˜á”á”‡á”‰á”ˆ ᔐᔒᔘᔗʰ ᔃⁿᔈ á”ƒËĄËąá”’ ËąËĄá”’á”–á”–Êžâ€§ 'á”‚á”ƒá”â±âżá” ᔘᔖ‧‧‧' 'á¶œá”ƒâż ʞᔒᔘ ˥ᔉᔗ ᔐᔉ ˹ᔉᔉ ʞᔒᔘ ᔒᔖᔉⁿ Êžá”’á”˜Êł ᔉʞᔉ?' áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ëąá”˜á”ˆá”ˆá”‰âżËĄÊž Ê°á”‰á”ƒÊłËą ᔃ˹ ʰᔉ'Ëą Ê·á”ƒá”â±âżá” ᔘᔖ‧ "á”‚ÊłÊłá¶» á”‡ÊłÊłÊłá”ˆâ€§â€§" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”‡á”ƒá”‡á”‡ËĄá”‰á”ˆâžŽ á”’á”–á”‰âżâ±âżá” Ê°â±Ëą ᔉʞᔉ‧ "áŽčÊłâżâżâ€§â€§â€§" "áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż?" 'á”‚Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰ ᔃᔐ ᎔' áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”—Êłâ±á”‰á”ˆ Ëąá”ƒÊžâ±âżá”â€§ ᎎᔉ á”—Ê°á”‰âż Êłá”‰á¶œá”’á”âżâ±Ëąá”‰á”ˆ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âżâ€§ "Ꮀᔒ ʞᔒᔘ á”âżá”’Ê· Ê·Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰â€§â€§â€§" "ᔆᔒ ᔗʰᔉ âżá”˜á”á”‡âżá”‰ËąËą ᔃⁿᔈ ᔗʰᔉ á”á”‰á”ˆâ±á¶œâ±âżá”‰ Ê·â±ËĄËĄ ᔐᔃᔏᔉ ⁱᔗ á”á”’Êłá”‰ á”ˆâ±á¶ á¶ â±á¶œá”˜ËĄá”— á”—á”’ á”ƒÊłá”—â±á¶œá”˜ËĄá”ƒá”—á”‰ Ê·á”’Êłá”ˆËąâ€§" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᶠᔉ˥ᔗ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ê°á”‰ËĄá”– ʰⁱᔐ ᔘᔖ á”—á”’ Ê°á”‰Êł ᔃⁿᔈ á”â±á”á”ËĄá”‰Ëą ᔃ˹ ʰᔉ ᶠᔃ˥˥˹ ᔒⁿ Ê°á”‰Êłâ€§ "᎞ᔉᔗ'Ëą ᔖᔘᔗ ᔍᔃᔘᶻᔉ ⁱⁿ á”‡á”‰á¶ á”’Êłá”‰ ʞᔒᔘ ᔍᔒ‧‧" "á”†Ê°á”‰ËĄá”ˆá”’âż ᔍᔒᔒᔈ ÊČᔒᔇ!" ᎎᔉ Ê°á”‰á”ƒÊłËąâžŽ âżá”’Ê· ʷⁱᔗʰ ᔍᔃᔘᶻᔉ‧ ᎎᔉ ËĄá”ƒá”˜á”Ê°Ëą ᔇᔘᔗ ˹ᔒᔐᔉ ʷʰᔃᔗ á”á”˜á¶ á¶ ËĄá”‰á”ˆ á¶ Êłá”’á” ᔗʰᔉ ᔍᔃᔘᶻᔉ‧ "᎞ᔉᔗ'Ëą ᔍᔒ!" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”—á”ƒá”á”‰Ëą áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔇᔃᶜᔏ á”—á”’ ᔗʰᔉ ᶜʰᔘᔐ ᔇᔘᶜᔏᔉᔗ‧ áŽŹá¶ á”—á”‰Êł ËĄá”‰á”ƒá”›â±âżá”âžŽ ËąÊ°á”‰ Ëąá”ƒÊ· áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ËĄá”’á”’á” Ëąá”ƒá”ˆâ€§ "ʞᔒᔘ ᔍᔒᔒᔈ?" "᎔ ᔐⁱ˹˹ áŽ·â»áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âżâ€§â€§â€§" "á”†Ê°á”‰ËĄá”ˆá”’âż ᎔➎ ᎔ ᔃᔐ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âżâ€§" "áŽčÊž ËĄá”’á”›á”‰ËĄÊž áŽ·á”ƒÊłâ± ᎔ ˥ᔒ⁻ᔒᔛᔉ Ê°á”‰Êł!" "áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᎔'ᔐ Êžá”’á”˜Êł áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż!" ᔀᔒ á¶œá”’âżá¶ á”˜Ëąá”‰á”ˆâžŽ ʰᔉ á”—Ê°á”‰âż Êłá”‰á”ƒËĄâ±Ëąá”‰Ëą ËąÊ°á”‰'Ëą áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âżâ€§ "áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰â»â»â»â» áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âżâ€œ" ᔀʰᔉʞ ᔇᔒᔗʰ á”—Ê°á”‰âż á”ƒÊłÊłâ±á”›á”‰ ᔃᔗ ᔗʰᔉ ᶜʰᔘᔐ ᔇᔘᶜᔏᔉᔗ‧ "á”‚Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰'Ëą ᔗʰᔉ á”ˆá”’á”’Êł?" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”‰ËŁá¶œËĄá”ƒâ±á”Ëą ᔃ˹ ËąÊ°á”‰ á”—á”˜á¶œá”Ëą ʰⁱᔐ ⁱⁿ Ê°â±Ëą á”’Ê·âż ᔇᔉᔈ‧ "Ꮃᔉᔗ ˹ᔒᔐᔉ Êłá”‰Ëąá”— âżá”’Ê·â€§" "á”‚Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰'Ëą ᔗʰᔉ á”ˆá”‰âżá”—â±Ëąá”—?" "ᔂᔉ ˥ᔉᶠᔗ‧‧" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ê·â±á”–á”‰Ëą á”ˆÊłá”’á”’ËĄâ€§ ᎎᔉ á¶ ËĄá”ƒá”–Ëą Ê°â±Ëą á”ƒÊłá”Ëąâ€§ "᎔'ᔐ Êłâ±á”ˆâ±âżá” ᔃ á”ˆÊłá”ƒá”á”’âżâ€§â€§" "á¶œá”ƒâż ʞᔒᔘ ËĄá”‰á”ƒâż ᔇᔃᶜᔏ?" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”ˆá”’á”‰Ëą ˹ᔒ➎ ᔉʞᔉ á¶œËĄá”’Ëąâ±âżá” ËąÊ°á”˜á”—â€§ "Ꮀᔒ ʞᔒᔘ ᶠᔉᔉ˥ ËĄâ±á”á”‰ á”—á”’ Êłá”‰á”–ËĄá”ƒá¶œá”‰ ᔗʰᔉ ᔍᔃᔘᶻᔉ‧‧‧" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”ƒËąá”Ëą áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔇᔘᔗ ʰᔉ'Ëą á”—á”’ Ê°á”‰á”ƒá”›â±ËĄÊž á”ƒËąËĄá”‰á”‰á”– âżá”’Ê· ᔃ˹ ËąÊ°á”‰ Ê°á”‰á”ƒÊłËą ʰⁱᔐ Ëąâżá”’Êłá”‰âžŽ ʷʰⁱᶜʰ ËąÊ°á”‰ âżá”‰á”›á”‰Êł Ê°á”‰á”ƒÊłËąâ€§ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ëąá”—á”’á”–á”–á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”ƒËĄá”â±âżá” á”—á”’ ʰⁱᔐ âżá”’Ê· ᔃ˹ Ê°á”‰Êł Ê°á”˜Ëąá”‡á”ƒâżá”ˆ Ëąâżá”’Êłá”‰Ëą ⁱⁿ Ê°â±Ëą ˹˥ᔉᔉᔖ‧ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą ᔐᔒᔘᔗʰ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊžá”‰á”ˆ ᔒᔖᔉⁿ ᔃⁿᔈ á”˜âżá”á”’á”›â±âżá” á”á”‰á”ƒâż ᔗⁱᔐᔉ ᔃⁿᔈ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ˥ᔉᔗ ʰⁱᔐ ᔇᔉ‧ 'ᔆᔒ ËąÊ·á”‰á”‰á”—' áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ᔗʰᔒᔘᔍʰᔗ‧ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”’âżËĄÊž Ëąá”—â±ÊłÊłá”‰á”ˆ ᔃʷᔃᔏᔉ Ê·Ê°á”‰âżá¶œá”‰ ⁱᔗ'Ëą á”ƒá¶ á”—á”‰Êł ⁿᔒᔒⁿ ᔃ˹ Ê°â±Ëą ᔉʞᔉ á¶ ËĄâ±á¶œá”á”‰ÊłËą ᔒᔖᔉⁿ‧ ᎎᔉ ᶠᔉ˥ᔗ ˹ᔒᔐᔉ á”—Ê°â±âżá” ⁱⁿ Ê°â±Ëą ᔐᔒᔘᔗʰ➎ á”‡á”‰â±âżá” ᔗʰᔉ ᔍᔃᔘᶻᔉ ʰᔉ âżá”’Ê· á”—á”ƒá”á”‰Ëą ᔒᔘᔗ‧ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ê°á”‰á”ƒÊłá”ˆ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ëąá”’ ËąÊ°á”‰ ᶜᔃᔐᔉ‧ "á¶œá”ƒÊłá”‰á¶ á”˜ËĄâ€§â€§" "áŽ·â»áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż?" 'Ꮀⁱᔈ ᎔ ⁿᔒᔗ ᔍᔒ á”—á”’ ᔗʰᔉ á”ˆá”‰âżá”—â±Ëąá”—?' áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą ᔐᔒᔘᔗʰ ᶠᔉ˥ᔗ á”ˆâ±á¶ á¶ á”‰Êłá”‰âżá”—âžŽ ᔃⁿᔈ ʰᔉ'Ëą ⁿᔒᔗ Ëąá”˜Êłá”‰ ᔒᶠ ʷʰᔃᔗ'Ëą Ê°á”ƒá”–á”–á”‰âżâ±âżá”â€§â€§ "᎔ á¶œá”ƒâż ᔍᔉᔗ ʞᔒᔘ âżá”‰Ê· ᔍᔃᔘᶻᔉ‧" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”âżá”‰Ê· ʰᔉ'Ëą ˹ᔗⁱ˥˥ ʰᔃᶻʞ➎ ᔇᔘᔗ ᔗʰᔉ á”—Êłá”ƒá¶œá”‰ ᔒᶠ Ëąá”‰á”ˆá”ƒá”—â±á”›á”‰/á”ƒâżá”ƒá”‰Ëąá”—Ê°á”‰Ëąâ±á”ƒ Ê·â±ËĄËĄ ʰᔃᔛᔉ ᔇᔉᔉⁿ Ê·á”’Êłâż ᔒᶠᶠ ᔇʞ á”—á”’á”á”’ÊłÊłá”’Ê· á”á”’Êłâżâ±âżá”â€§ ᔆʰᔉ Êłá”‰á”–ËĄá”ƒá¶œá”‰á”ˆ ᔗʰᔉ ᔍᔃᔘᶻᔉ ᔃⁿᔈ á”ˆâ±Ëąá”–á”’Ëąá”‰á”ˆ ᔒᶠ ᔗʰᔉ Êłá”‰á”ˆ Ëąá”—á”ƒâ±âżá”‰á”ˆ ᔒⁿᔉ˹‧ "᎔ ᔗʰᔉᔉ ʞᔒᔘʷ!" "á¶œÊ°á”ƒá”—á”—á”‰Êłâ±âżá” ᔐᔃʞ Ê°á”˜Êłá”—â€§â€§â€§" "᎔'ᔐ ᔈᔒ ᔍᔉᔗ ᔐʞ ᔗᔉᔉᔈ á¶œÊłá”‰á”ƒâżËą âżá”’Ê·â€§â€§" "ʞᔒᔘ ᔈⁱᔈ‧" "áŽčÊž âżá”‰âżá”ˆâ±Ëą Ê·â±ËĄËĄ ᔈᔒᔒᔈᔃʞ‧ ᎏᔗ ᔗʰᔉ ⁿᔉⁿᔗⁱ˹‧" "á¶œá”ƒâż ʞᔒᔘ á”–á”˜ËąÊ° ᔗʰᔉ ᔍᔃᔘᶻᔉ ᔇᔃᶜᔏ ⁱⁿ? ᔀʰᔉʞ'Êłá”‰ á¶ á”ƒËĄËĄâ±âżá”â€§â€§" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Êłá”‰á”ƒá¶œÊ°á”‰á”ˆâ€§ "áŽ±á”ƒËąÊž!" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ëąâ±á”Ê°Ëąâ€§ ᔆʰᔉ Ëąá”ƒá”— ᔇʞ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔃⁿᔈ Êłá”˜á”‡á”‡á”‰á”ˆ Ê°â±Ëą á”ƒÊłá” ʷⁱᔗʰ Ê°á”‰Êł Ê°á”ƒâżá”ˆâ€§ 'áŽ¶á”˜Ëąá”— ʷᔃⁱᔗ á¶ á”’Êł á”—á”’á”á”’ÊłÊłá”’Ê·' áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ᔗʰᔒᔘᔍʰᔗ á”—á”’ Ê°á”‰ÊłËąá”‰ËĄá¶ â€§ to be cont. pt. two
new split into parts plaren healing and caring dentistcore karen plankton plankaren plankkaren dentist appointment
A JOURNEY TO AUTISM ii (Autistic author) His eye took a moment to focus on her, and when it did, she saw a flicker of confusion, followed by a glimmer of recognition. "Karen?" he repeated, his voice still faint. "Yes, it's me, Plankton. You're ok." But his gaze remained distant, his focus unsteady. "Where...where are we?" "We're at the hospital, sweetheart," Karen said softly, stroking his antenna. "You had an accident." The confusion in Plankton's eye grew, and he tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness forced him back down. "What kind of accident?" His voice was still weak, but there was an urgency to his words that hadn't been there before. Karen took a deep breath, her grip on his hand tightening. "Mr. Krabs...he hit you with a fry pan." The words tasted bitter but she had to tell him the truth. Plankton's eye widened slightly, and she watched as the puzzle pieces of the situation slowly clicked into place in his mind. "Krabby Patty," he murmured, his voice distant. "Yes, Plankton, you were trying to get the recipe again," Karen whispered, aching at the memory. "But it's over now. You need to rest." His eye searched hers, and for a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of his old self, the cunning and ambitious man she had married. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a vacant stare. "Don't... don't remember," he mumbled, his antennas drooping. This wasn't the Plankton she knew, the one who schemed with a glint in his eye and a plan in his pocket. "It's ok, Plankton," she soothed, her voice trembling. She took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. "Do you remember me?" Plankton's gaze remained steady for a moment, and then he nodded slowly. "Karen," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. But the spark of recognition was tinged with confusion, as if he wasn't quite sure how he knew her. Karen's felt like breaking into a million tiny pieces. But she knew she had to stay strong. For Plankton. For them. "You don't remember what happened, do you?" she asked gently. "What else do you remember?" Plankton's antennas twitched slightly, his eye searching hers. "Don't know," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. Karen's chest tightened as she held back a sob. "It's ok," she reassured him, her voice shaky. "Do you remember your name?" she asked, her voice hopeful. He blinked slowly, his gaze fading in and out of focus, his brow furrowing as he concentrated. "Sheldon... Plankton?" The sound of his voice saying his own name brought a small smile to Karen's face. "Yes, that's right," she said, her voice filled with relief. "Do you remember where we live?" she continued, her tone gentle. Plankton's eye searched the ceiling of the hospital room, as if the answer was written there. "The Chum Bucket," he murmured, his voice unsure. Karen nodded, encouraged by his response. "Good, good," she said, smiling weakly. "What about our friends?" Again, the confusion clouded his gaze. "Friends?" he repeated, his voice tentative. "SpongeBob, Sandy...?" "Yes," Karen said, her voice soft. "Do you remember them?" Plankton's expression grew more distressed, his antennas drooping. "Square...SpongeBob. And a squirrel, yes?" He paused, trying to piece together the fragmented memories. Karen nodded, brimming with unshed tears. "Yes, SpongeBob SquarePants and Sandy Cheeks. They're friends." Plankton's antennas twitched as he processed the information, his brow furrowing with the effort. "Friends," he repeated, the word sounding foreign. Karen could see the gears turning in his tiny head, his brain desperately trying to make connections to his past. "Do you remember anything about your life before the accident?" Karen asked, her voice trembling with anticipation. Plankton's eye searched hers, uncertain. "Life...before?" Her heart sank. "You know, our adventures, our home, our love?" He stared at her, his expression unreadable. "Love?" The word was barely a whisper. "Yes, Plankton," she said, her voice cracking. "We love each other. We've been married for a long time, and we've had so many adventures together." She paused, willing the words to resonate with him, to ignite a spark of memory. "Do you remember any of that?" Plankton's gaze remained vacant for a moment before he nodded slightly. "Married," he murmured, as if tasting the word for the first time. "To Karen." His antennas lifted slightly, a glimmer of something familiar flickering in his eye. "Karen Plankton computer wife." "Yes, Plankton," Karen said, her voice thick with emotion. "Does that mean something to you?" she asked, her heart in her throat. He nodded slowly, his antennas waving slightly. "Computer wife," he murmured again, his voice gaining a hint of warmth. "Karen." Karen felt a flicker of hope. "Yes, Plankton, I'm your wife." She leaned closer, her voice gentle. "Do you remember anything about us?" Plankton's antennas twitched as he thought. "Wife," he said slowly, his voice a faint echo of the man she knew. "Wife...Karen. Married July 31, 1999." That was their wedding day, a date they had celebrated every year since. "Yes," she whispered, her voice choking. "We got married on July 31, 1999." The hospital room felt thick with silence as she waited for his next words. Plankton's eye searched the room, his antennas twitching as he tried to piece together the shards of his past. "Plankton, can you tell me about yourself?" Karen asked, her voice gentle. "What do you like to do?" Plankton's antennas twitched as he thought. "Invent," he said, his voice still weak but with a hint of pride. "Science?" The words came out as a question, as if he wasn't quite sure of his own identity. "Yes," Karen said, her voice brightening slightly. "You're a genius inventor. You've made so many wonderful things." She paused, hoping to see some spark of recognition in his eye. "Do you remember any of your inventions?" Plankton's antennas waved in the air, as if searching for the memories that remained elusive. "Inventions," he murmured, his single eye searching the ceiling. "Gadgets...machines." "That's right," Karen encouraged, squeezing his hand. "You've created so many amazing machines. Can you describe one of them?" He blinked, his antennas stilling for a moment. "Chum...Chum Dispenser 3000," he said, his voice picking up a bit. "It makes...makes food for fishies." Karen's smile grew despite the pain. The Chum Dispenser 3000 was one of his earlier inventions, a failed attempt to lure customers to their restaurant, but it was a testament to his ingenuity. "That's wonderful, Plankton," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "How about something more recent?" she prompted, eager to see how much of their shared history remained with him. Plankton's antennas twitched as his brain worked overtime. "Um... the Incredibubble," he said, his voice picking up speed as he talked. "It's a bubble that can shrink things down to microscopic size." Karen felt a jolt of excitement. "That's right!" she exclaimed, squeezing his hand. "You used it to get to find a secret plan." Plankton's gaze remained distant, but there was a hint of curiosity in his eye. "Computer... plan?" "Yes," Karen said, her voice shaking. "We've had so many adventures together, Plankton. We've faced so much together." He nodded, his antennas twitching slightly. "Together," he repeated, as if testing the word on his tongue. "Do you remember any of those adventures?" Karen asked, her voice trembling. "Adventures?" Plankton's eye flickered, and she could almost see the wheels turning in his mind. "With Karen... wife?" "Yes, with me. We've traveled the ocean, faced so many challenges together." The doctor came in. "You can go home now," he said. Karen nodded, never leaving Plankton's face. She had spoken to the doctor about his condition, about the autism, but she still wasn't sure how to process it all. How would their life change now? "Come on, Plankton," she said, helping him sit up gently. "Let's get you home." She buckles him into his side of the car, his newfound passivity making the usual struggle unnecessary. The engine of the tiny vehicle roars to life, and Karen guides them out of the hospital parking lot. The ride back to the Chum Bucket is quiet, the only sound being the hum of the car's engine and the occasional splash from the waves outside. Karen keeps glancing at Plankton, his antennas listless as he stares out the window. His mind seems to be somewhere else, lost in a world of his own making. When they arrive, she helps Plankton out of the car and supports him as they make their way to the door. The neon sign flickers in the gloom, casting erratic shadows across the sand. The once bustling environment now feels eerie and desolate. Karen's mind is racing with thoughts of how to make this place feel like home again for Plankton.
new a journey to autism plaren memorycore ii
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."
new autism in the plankton family plaren karen plankton iii
COPEPOD AUTISM pt. 5 (Neurodivergent author) Karen returns to the bedroom, where Plankton is already snoring softly. She pulls the covers up to his chin, tucking in gently. She sits in the chair beside his bed, never leaving his peaceful form. His chest rises and falls in the steady rhythm of sleep, each breath a testament to his resilience. Karen watches him, her mind racing with thoughts of what the future holds, the challenges they'll face together. But for now, she forces herself to be still. Plankton's antennae twitch in his sleep, as if he's navigating the vast underwater world of his dreams. Karen watches him, full of a love she didn't know existed. The soft snores from Plankton's tiny form are music to her. In his sleep, the weight of the world is lifted, his mind free to explore the vast depths of his underwater universe without fear. Her gaze lingers on the soft lines of his face, the tension erased by the gentle embrace of slumber. She smiles, her eyes filling with tears. The room is a sanctuary, a bubble of quiet amidst the storm of confusion and fear. The shadows play across the wall, telling silent stories of adventures that await when he wakes. Karen reclines in the chair, her hand resting gently on his arm. The nap stretches into an hour, then two, the house a cocoon of peace around them. Plankton's body relaxes into the embrace of the bed, his mind swimming through a sea of tranquility. Karen sits by his side, her hand still resting on his arm. She thinks of the Plankton she knew before, his quirks and routines now painted with the brushstroke of understanding. Autism isn't a label to shrink from, but a part of him to be embraced, a piece of the intricate tapestry that makes him who he is. In his sleep, Plankton starts to murmur, his words a jumble of half-thoughts. Karen leans closer, trying to make sense of the words. "...I...Karen...love." Her hand squeezes his arm gently, her thumb tracing circles on his skin. "I love you too, Plankton," she whispers back, her voice a soft lullaby. Plankton's sleep-talk starts up again. "...so many stars," his voice murmurs, his antennae twitching with the vividness of his dream. Karen smiles, imagining the vast cosmos that must exist in his mind. Her hand continues its gentle caress, her hand stroking his antennae in a calming pattern. "Shh, Plankton, it's just a dream," she soothes. His snoring starts again, a soft, rhythmic sound that fills the quiet. She smiles, her eyes still on his peaceful form. The world outside their sanctuary seems to fade away, its worries and noises muted by the wall of their understanding. Plankton's autism is a challenge, but it's also a bridge that's brought them closer, a shared secret that only the two of them understand. As Plankton sleeps, Karen's phone vibrates with a text from her friend, Hanna. "Dinner tonite?" Her thumb hovers over the keyboard, debating. Plankton's diagnosis is still fresh, the memory of his seizure a stark reminder of the fragility of his newly understood world. But she knows the importance of keeping up appearances, of not letting fear or pity define them. With a sigh, she texts back, "We'd love to. Your place." The evening stretches before them like a tightrope, a delicate balance between Plankton's needs and the social norms that often feel like a prison for him. Karen's mind whirs with strategies to make it work. A quiet place, familiar faces, a set schedule. These are the keys to a successful outing. Gently, she shakes him awake, her touch as light as a seashell on the shore. Plankton's antennae twitch, his eye fluttering open. He looks up at her with sleepy confusion, the world still a blur. "Dinner with Hanna," she says, keeping her voice low and soothing. He nods, his body already tensing in anticipation of the sensory bombardment to come. The car ride is a symphony of preparation, the engine's hum a soothing background to their silent conversation. Karen's eyes are on the road, but her mind is on Plankton, his hands fidgeting in his lap. She knows the world outside is a minefield of sounds and sensations, so she keeps the radio off and the windows up, creating a bubble of quiet around them. Plankton's breathing is shallow, his antennae twitching with each passing car. Karen reaches over to squeeze his hand, a silent reminder that she's there. He looks at her, his eye filled with a mix of fear and gratitude. She smiles, the warmth of her gaze a lifeline in the chaos. "We're almost there," she says, her voice a gentle wave lapping at the shore. They arrive at Hanna's house, a beacon of light in the deep blue sea of the night. The door opens, revealing a whirlwind of laughter and chatter, the smell of garlic bread and seafood stew wafting out. Karen takes a deep breath, steeling herself for the evening ahead. Plankton's antennae quiver, his eye wide at the unfiltered stimulation. Hanna, oblivious to their new dynamic, waves them in with a cheerful smile. "You're just in time!" she exclaims, her voice a trumpet in the quietude of Plankton's mind. Karen's hand tightens around his, a silent reassurance as the door closes, the sound a thunderclap in his ears. The house is a cacophony of sounds and smells, a whirlpool of sensory information threatening to pull him under. He gulps, his breathing shallow, his body braced for the inevitable. Hanna, their friend, is a whirlwind of energy, her eyes sparkling like the ocean's surface. She doesn't notice the tension in Plankton's body, the way he flinches at her excited exclamations. She doesn't see the way his antennae twitch, his mind racing to keep up. But Karen does. She's his lifeline in this tumultuous sea of social interactions. She nods, smiling, as Hanna leads them to the dinner table, her hand squeezing Plankton's in silent support. The room is a kaleidoscope of colors, the clatter of silverware and laughter a symphony of overwhelming sound. Karen's eyes dance over the room, noting each potential trigger. "Hey, ladies; meet Karen and Plankton!" Hanna's enthusiastic introduction was like a tidal wave crashing over the quiet bubble they'd been in. Plankton flinched, his antennae retreating like snails into their shells. Karen offered a forced smile, her eyes darting around the room, searching for an anchor. The dinner table was set with a rainbow of plates and bowls, the smell of garlic bread and seafood stew overwhelming. Hanna's home was a sensory minefield, but Karen was determined to navigate it with grace. Plankton's hand was cold in hers, a silent plea for rescue. As they sit, Karen scans the table, noticing the flickering candles, the glint of silverware, and the clinking of glasses. Each detail a potential trigger. She whispers into Plankton's ear, "Remember, if you need to, just tell me." He nods, his antennae tucking closer to his head.
new copepod autism plaren 5
COPEPOD AUTISM pt. 6 (Neurodivergent author) The conversation turns to their favorite food, and Plankton's face lights up briefly. "Jellyfish," he murmurs, his voice lost in the noise. Hanna's friends look at him, puzzled by his quiet confidence. One of them, Patricia, leans in, her hand patting Plankton's back. "That's cool, buddy," she says, her voice booming. Plankton's body stiffens, his eye blinking rapidly. Karen feels his discomfort like a physical force, a tightening of the air around them. She interjects gently, guiding the conversation away from food, his favorite topic now a minefield of potential stress. "So, what have you all been up to?" she asks, her voice a lifebuoy in the storm. Hanna's friends chatter away, their voices a symphony of laughter and good cheer. Plankton sits stiffly, his antennae folded inward like a turtle's shell. Karen watches him, ready to jump in if the conversation starts to spiral. "I went on a deep-sea dive last week!" exclaims one, his words a sonic boom to Plankton. "Ya ever been diving b'fore?" Karen nods at the storyteller, interjecting gently. "Plankton's not much of a swimmer," she says, her voice a gentle current. "But he loves the thought of exploring the deep sea." Her words are a shield, deflecting the spotlight from his discomfort. Hanna's friends nod, their smiles dimming slightly in understanding. Patricia leans in, her eyes full of genuine affection. "Aww, Plankton, you're such a character!" she says, lightly cupping his cheek and invading his personal space. The contact is too much for him. His body jerks back, antennae stiffening, his eye wide with panic. Patricia's hand falls away, her expression one of shock and confusion. Karen's heart skips a beat, but she's ready for this. She's studied, prepared. "It's ok," she says, her voice a lighthouse beam in the sensory storm. "Plankton just needs his space." The room goes quiet, the waves of conversation receding like a tide. They all look at him, their eyes full of concern, their smiles now tentative. Plankton's antennae twitch, his body still tense. Hanna quickly asks, "Is he just tired?" The lie hangs in the air like a bubble waiting to pop. Karen's face tightens, but she nods, playing along. "Long week," she adds, her voice as smooth as a polished pebble. Plankton's gaze locks onto his hands, his fingers twisting together like seaweed in a current. The pressure builds, each laugh a wave pushing against the dam of his anxiety. But Karen is there, her hand on his back, a gentle reminder that he's not alone. The meal is a dance of flavors and sounds, each bite of stew a step closer to the edge of his comfort zone. Plankton's eye dart around the table, the conversations swirling like the soup in his bowl. Hanna's enthusiastic friends keep glancing over. They mean well, but their affection feels like a wave crashing over him, leaving his nerves exposed and raw. The clatter of silverware and the hum of conversation form a wall of sound, trapping his thoughts. He takes a deep breath, trying to find the calm in the chaos. Karen's hand on his back is a comfort, her touch a gentle reminder that she's there to help him. The meal stretches on, each bite a small victory in the face of overwhelming stimulation. Karen's eyes never leave him, scanning for signs of distress. She's his compass in a stormy sea, guiding him through the unpredictable currents of social interaction. As dessert arrives, the chatter grows louder, the laughter more boisterous. The candles flicker, casting a dizzying array of shadows across the table. Plankton's hands shake as he lifts his spoon. Hanna, noticing his discomfort, reaches out to pat his back. "You okay, buddy?" she asks, yet her touch unintentionally sends a shockwave through Plankton's body. "Just a little overwhelmed," he murmurs, his antennae retreating even further. Karen's grip on his hand tightens, her eyes a beacon of calm in the storm. She whispers, "You're doing so well, Plankton," her voice a lullaby against the clamor of the room. But Patricia, not quite tuned in to his distress, leans in with a boisterous laugh, her hand landing on Plankton's shoulder. The room spins around him, a tornado of colors and sounds. "You're just so cute when you're shy!" she says, squeezing his cheek. And that's what did it. With a gasp, Plankton's body shudders, a seizure starting to inevitably take hold. This is his second meltdown since the diagnosis, Karen knew. She gently helps Plankton to the floor, his body convulsing. Hanna's friends hover, their faces a canvas of confusion and fear. "Everyone, stay calm," Karen instructs, her voice steady despite the chaos in her heart. "Give us some space." She turns her attention to Plankton, her hands guiding his body into a safe position. The room's energy shifts. Hanna's friends look on, their laughter replaced by concern. Patricia's face is a picture of horror. "PLANKTON“" Karen's voice is a lighthouse beacon in the chaos. "Everyone, stay back," she says firmly. "He'll be okay." Her eyes never leave Plankton's contorted form, fear and determination melding into one fierce gaze. The room goes still, the laughter choked off like a switch. Hanna's friends stare, their smiles frozen like icebergs in the face of his distress. Karen whispers to him, her voice a gentle wave. "You're okay, just breathe." Her hand is on his forehead, her touch cool and calming. The seizure subsides, leaving him limp and panting on the floor, his antennae drooping like tired leaves. Karen's heart is racing, but she forces her voice to be soothing, her eyes never leaving his. "It's okay," she repeats, her mantra a lifeboat in the storm. Hanna's friends hover, their faces a canvas of shock and concern. Patricia's hand is still hovering, her smile gone, replaced by a look of horror. "What happened?" she stammers, her eyes wide with fear. "It's okay," Karen repeats, her voice a gentle tide, washing over the silence. "Plankton just had a little...mishap." Hanna's friends exchange worried glances, their smiles nowhere to be seen. The room feels colder, the warmth of their laughter long gone. Plankton finally opens his eye, the room swimming back into focus, still twitching with the aftermath. Hanna's friends hover, their faces painted with confusion and concern. "It's okay," Karen says, her voice a soft breeze in the storm. "Plankton just needs some space." Patricia nods, her smile fading like a sunset. "I'm so sorry," she says, inching closer. "He's just a little sensitive," Karen explains, her voice a lifeline in the awkward silence. Patricia's face falls, the horror of her mistake written clearly. "I had no idea," she whispers, her voice a leaf fluttering in the breeze of their new reality.
new copepod autism plaren 6
SWEET CWEAM pt. 6 Plankton's eye widen with realization, his memory a jigsaw puzzle with a few missing pieces. "Yeth-terday?" he asks, his voice scratchy with sleep. Karen nods, her smile gentle. "You had surgery yesterday. You're recovering now. Remember?" Plankton's mind fumbles with the memory, like a kite caught in a storm. "I... I think so," he murmurs. “But what happened after?” Karen's smile doesn't falter. "You don't remember?" she asks, a hint of mischief creeping in. Plankton's expression clouds with concern, his eye searching hers for an answer. "What... what did I do?" His voice is a worried whisper, each word a struggle. Karen's mirth evaporates, replaced with understanding. "You don't remember?" she asks gently, sitting on the edge of the couch. "You had a bit of a... loopy afternoon." Plankton's gaze is a mix of confusion and alarm. "Loopy?" he repeats, his voice weak. "What do you mean, loopy?" He demands, embarrassed. Karen's smile returns, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Well," she says, her voice a soothing melody. "You were a bit... out of it. You had a bit of fun with the anesthesia." Plankton's face twists with embarrassment, his hand moving to cover his mouth. "Oh no," he whispers, his voice barely a breath. "What did I say?" His mind races with the potential humiliation. Karen laughs. "Don't worry, you were just a little out of it from the anesthesia," she reassures him, her touch gentle as she adjusts his pillows. "But I recorded some of it," she adds, mischief sparkling in her screen. Plankton's eye widens in horror. "Don't tell me I said anything... foolish," he pleads, his voice weak and thready. Karen's laughter fills the room. "Oh, Plankton," she says, her voice warm and loving. "You were just a bit... confused. Wanna see?" She hit the play button. The TV screen flickers to life, and Plankton's face fills the frame. He's drooling heavily, his expression a mix of wonder and bewilderment. Sponge Bob sits across from him. "I frew," Plankton says on the recording, his eye wide with disbelief. "Wike a birdie!" Plankton's face on the couch is surprised. “Why’s Sponge Bob
” He started, but trails off as the video continues. On the TV, a slurred version of his voice says, “They goth me all sleeby and thewe I wath flipping and twirling in the wathah!” "Oh no," he whispers from the couch. “I never
” Plankton stops as he sees himself on the screen lean closer to Sponge Bob. His heart races as his slurred words spill out. "I luv to thee youw," he says to Sponge Bob, his face a picture of drunken affection and drool. “You love to see me?” “Of couth, Squishy! Youw my bestest fwiend evar!” Plankton on the couch is speechless. His cheeks burn with embarrassment as he watches himself on screen, spoon wobbling, drooling, and spilling ice cream. The slurred words of love and friendship to Sponge Bob echo through the room, each syllable a cringe- worthy reminder of his drug-induced confession that he kept to himself, even from Karen. “Sweet Squishy. Ith time for nap?” “Let’s get you to the couch.” And the video ends after he snores. Plankton’s cheeks are a blaze of mortification. “You’re teasing me, right?” he asks, his voice hopeful despite the evidence on the screen. Karen’s laughter is like a warm embrace. “No, Plankton, you really said that,” she says, her screen twinkling. “But it’s okay, people say silly things when they’re coming out of anesthesia. It’s part of the experience!” Plankton groans, his face buried in his hands. The humiliation burns hotter than the pain in his mouth. “How could I have said that?” he mumbles into his palms. Karen laughs, the sound a gentle ripple in the quiet room. “It’s okay, Plankton. It was just the medicine talking. You don’t remember?” He lifts his head slowly, his cheeks still blazing with embarrassment. “No,” he mumbles, his voice muffled by his hands. “But I can’t believe I said that to Sponge Bob! You think I’d willingly
” Karen laughs, her eyes shining with affection. “It’s okay, Plankton. It’s all part of the fun of wisdom teeth surgery!”
new sweet cweam plaren 6
COPEPOD AUTISM pt. 2 (Neurodivergent author) By evening, Karen has set up a makeshift kitchen area in the living room, with all the ingredients for spaghetti arranged neatly on the coffee table. Plankton sits cross-legged on the floor, his eye never leaving the recipe book. He reads each step aloud, his voice growing stronger with confidence. Karen chops vegetables nearby, noticing the subtle changes in his movements, the way he tilts his head when he's concentrating. The smell of garlic and onions sizzling in olive oil fills the room. Plankton stirs the pot, his face scrunching up slightly at the aroma, a sign his sensory sensitivity has heightened. She sees him rub his hands together, a self-stimulatory behavior, but she knows it's his way of grounding himself amidst the chaos. They move around the makeshift kitchen, a silent dance of understanding and support. Karen boils the water for the spaghetti while Plankton continues to sauté the veggies. Each action is deliberate, each step measured as they navigate their new reality. The water reaches a rolling boil, and Plankton carefully drops in the spaghetti strands, his gaze transfixed by the swirling water. Karen watches his concentration and sees the childlike wonder in his eye. "How long?" he asks. "Five minutes," Karen says, her voice calm. She's read that clear and concise instructions can be helpful. After five minutes, Plankton quickly drains the spaghetti, his movements precise and methodical. He pours the sauce over the noodles and mixes them gently, his focus intense. Karen watches him, a mix of admiration and concern. "It's done," he announces, his voice a mix of excitement and apprehension. She brings over two plates, setting them on the coffee table. They sit across from each other, the steaming spaghetti a bridge between them. Plankton's hand hovers over his plate, unsure of how to proceed with the new sensory experience. "Let's eat," Karen says with a smile, picking up her fork and twirling the noodles expertly. The sound of her silverware against the plate makes him flinch, but he mimics her movements. They eat in silence, the clinking of forks and spoons the only sounds in the room. Plankton chews slowly, savoring each bite, his face a canvas of emotions. Karen watches him, her own fork poised in midair. As they finish dinner, Plankton sets his plate aside and looks at her, his expression earnest. "Thank you, Karen," he says, his voice clear. "For being here Karen." Her eyes brim with tears, but she blinks them back. "Always, Plankton. I'll always be here. Now it's getting late; let's go to bed.." In bed, she reads to him, his favorite childhood story, the words acting as a lullaby. Plankton's hand rests on her arm, his thumb rubbing circles in a self-soothing gesture. His breathing steadies, matching the rhythm of her voice. The book's final page is turned, and she switches off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. The silence is filled with the comforting hum of the fan above. Karen lies beside Plankton, his body rigid with tension. Her arm wraps around him, pulling him closer, and she feels his muscles slowly relax. "Goodnight, Plankton," she whispers, kissing his forehead. He doesn't respond, lost in his thoughts. But she knows he heard her. Karen notices the tension in his body and gently runs her fingers through his antennae, a silent offer of comfort. Eventually, his breathing evens out, and he falls asleep, his body curled into hers like a child seeking shelter. The next morning, the sun streams through the blinds, casting stripes across the bed. Karen, already awake, watches him, her hand still entwined with his. He's still asleep, his body relaxed, the lines of worry from the day before smoothed out by the embrace of slumber. Carefully, she slides out of bed, not wanting to disturb him. She sees him stir in his sleep, his antennae twitching slightly, but he remains unaware of her departure. In the kitchen, Karen starts the coffee, the scent filling the room with a comforting aroma. She opens the fridge, finding the ingredients for the morning routine. Plankton's usual breakfast is a simple one: toast with jam and a banana. The toaster pops, and she spreads the jam with a gentle smoothness that Plankton likes. The banana peels easily, revealing the perfect yellow fruit inside. Her mind races with thoughts of how she'll need to learn his new sensitivities, his likes and dislikes, his triggers. But for now, she focuses on the task at hand, placing the slices of bread in the toaster. When the toast is just right, she carries the breakfast tray to the bedroom, her steps soft against the cold floor. Plankton's still asleep, his snores punctuating the quiet morning. Karen sets the tray on the bedside table. She watches him, unsure how to wake him without causing distress. She's read about sensory sensitivity and knows that sudden noise can be jarring for someone with Autism. She gently strokes his antennae, her touch featherlight, and whispers his name, "Plankton, wake up." He stirs, his antennae twitching, but his eye remains closed. Karen tries again, a little louder this time, "Wake up, sweetie. Breakfast is ready." Plankton's hand shoots up to cover his eye, a reflexive reaction to the light. His body tenses, then relaxes as his mind adjusts to the new day. He sits up slowly. "Thank you, Karen," he mumbles, his voice still thick with sleep. He takes in the breakfast spread before him, his antennae twitching with anticipation. He picks up the toast, feeling the warmth in his hands, the stickiness of the jam a familiar comfort. Karen watches him closely, noticing the way his eye widens slightly at the first bite, the way his tongue flicks out to taste the banana. It's as if every sensation is amplified, a symphony of flavors and textures that she can't begin to understand. She sips her coffee, silent, giving him space. As he eats, Plankton starts to hum again, his body rocking slightly. It's a low, comforting sound that fills the room. Karen feels the tension in her shoulders ease. This is their new normal, a dance of care and understanding.
new copepod autism plaren neurodivergentcore neurodisability 2
CHIP ON THE SHOULDERS xiii (By NeuroFabulous) Chip and Sandy hovered at the edge of the room, their eyes wide with curiosity. "What happens when you have your wisdom teeth out?" Chip asked, his voice a soft whisper. Sandy shrugged, her own interest piqued. "They take them out so they don't hurt you," she said, her voice thoughtful. "But I don't know what it's like." Karen's eyes remained on Plankton's face, her thumb tracing gentle circles on his palm. "It's not always easy," she murmured. "Especially for someone like him." Her gaze flickered to Chip, her expression serious. "Remember, buddy, everyone experiences things differently. We have to be patient and understand." Chip nodded, his gaze never leaving Plankton's sleeping form. He was fascinated by his dad's autism, the way it made him see the world so uniquely. He was eager to learn more, to be there for him in ways he never knew were needed. Sandy sat beside them, her eyes on the chessboard, lost in thought. "I've heard of autism before," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I didn't know it could affect Plankton." Karen nodded, her eyes never leaving her husband's face. "It's part of who he is," she murmured. "It's not always easy, but it's what makes him special." Her gaze softened as she looked at Chip. "And it's important we learn to support each other, especially when things are tough." Karen stands up, getting vanilla ice cream from the freezer. With a spoon in hand, she wakes Plankton up gently, her touch featherlight on his shoulder. "Hey," she whispers, her voice a gentle nudge. "You need to wake up for a moment." Plankton's antennae twitch, his sleepy eye opening to find Karen's smiling face. "Wha?" he mumbles, the gauze in his mouth making his words indistinct. "Ice cream," she whispers, holding up the bowl. His eyes widen slightly, the mention of the cold, soothing treat cutting through the haze of his anesthesia-induced sleep. "For the swelling," she reminds him gently, her voice a soft caress. "Let's get rid of the gauze first.." With trembling hands, Plankton reaches for the gauze in his mouth, his antennae quivering slightly. Karen's hand guides his, her touch a gentle reminder of her presence. He pulls it out with a grimace, his mouth feeling strange without the pressure. The formerly white gauze is stained pink. Karen takes it from him, her movements swift and efficient. "Here," she says, her voice a soft whisper. "Let's get you some ice cream." She brings the spoon to his mouth. Plankton's eye widens. He opens his mouth, his antennae drooping with exhaustion. He makes a contented noise, his antennae twitching slightly. "Mmm," he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. Karen feeds him another spoonful when his antennae perk up slightly, his sleepy gaze locking on hers. "It's okay," she soothes, her voice a gentle whisper. "You can eat." "Mmph," he mumbles. The coldness of the ice cream is a shock to his sensitive mouth, but the sweetness soon overpowers the discomfort. His antennae twitch with each spoonful, his eye slowly focusing. "Manilla cweam," he murmurs, the words barely coherent. Karen smiles, her eyes shining with relief. He takes another bite, the creaminess of the ice cream coating his tongue. "Mmph," he sighs, his antennae drooping with contentment. Karen chuckles softly, her hand steady as she feeds him. Chip watches as Plankton's eyelid flutters. "He's really tired, huh?" he says, his voice small. Sandy nods, a knowing smile on her face. "Yeah, but the ice cream will help with the swelling," she assures him. Karen nods, her movements careful as she feeds Plankton another spoonful. "It's important to stay ahead of the pain," she whispers. "And I think he enjoys it too." Her eyes sparkle with mirth, the tension of the day briefly forgotten as they watch Plankton's sleepy indulgence. Plankton's antennae twitch, his eye half-lidded as he savors the ice cream. The sweetness of the vanilla is a soothing contrast to the metallic tang of his mouth, the coldness a gentle reprieve from the surgery. Each spoonful is a battle against his need for sleep, his body demanding rest while his taste buds revel in the creamy delight. Karen's hands are gentle, her touch steady as she feeds him, her eyes always on his face, watching for any signs of pain or distress. Chip sits beside them, his eyes widening with every spoonful. "Dad's really out of it, isn't he?" he whispers to Sandy. Karen nods, her smile soft. "The anesthesia can do that," she says. "But the ice cream will help with the swelling." Plankton's antennae twitch as his eyes struggle to stay open, the weight of sleep crushing down on him. Each spoonful of ice cream is a tiny victory, a brief reprieve from the siren's call of his bed. He mumbles something incoherent, his antennae drooping. "What was that?" Karen asks, leaning closer to hear him better. "M'tired," he manages, his voice slurred. Chip giggles softly at his father's sleepy state, his own energy a stark contrast to the slumber that threatens to consume Plankton. "You can sleep soon," Karen soothes, her voice a gentle reminder. "But let's fi-" But Plankton's antennae droop, his eye slipping closed once more. His snores fill the quiet room, a comforting rhythm that speaks of his deep rest. Karen sighs, her hand pausing mid-air with the spoon of ice cream. "C'mon, Plank..." He stirs slightly, his antennae twitching. "Mmh?" he mumbles, his voice a sleepy whisper. Karen's smile is patient, her love for him shining through her eyes. "Just a little more," she coaxes, her voice gentle. "For the swelling." She helps him sit up straighter. The coldness of the ice cream is a jolt to his senses, his eye opening wider. He nods, his antennae perking up slightly. "Okay," he murmurs, his voice still thick with sleep. Karen continues to feed him, her movements slow and deliberate. Each spoonful is a battle won, his eyelid fighting to stay open. "You're doing great," she whispers, her thumb brushing his hand. Sandy and Chip watch Plankton's struggle. Chip's eyes are wide, taking in every detail. Karen's hand is a steady presence. But Plankton's body fights back, each spoonful a challenge to stay awake. He takes a deep breath, his antennas fluttering as he tries to focus on the taste of the vanilla ice cream. "M'okay," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. But his eyelid droops, the weight of sleep too much to resist. Karen's eyes fill with determination. She'll get him through this. She feeds him another spoonful, her voice a gentle chant. "Keep going, Plankton. You can do it." His antennae quiver slightly as he tastes the ice cream, his eye blinking slowly. "M'tryin'," he whispers, the words almost lost. Karen's voice is a soft mantra, her words a gentle push to keep him conscious. "Just a little more," she coaxes, her hand steady as she brings the spoon to his lips. Plankton's antennae twitch, his eye sliding closed again. "Mmph," he protests, his voice a sleepy mumble. The coldness of the ice cream is a jolt to his sluggish system, his body instinctively swallowing. Karen's voice is a gentle coax, her touch a comforting presence. "You can do it," she whispers, her eyes filled with love and determination. "Just a few more bites." But Plankton's body has other plans. His antennae twitch with each spoonful, his eyelid a battleground between staying awake and giving in to sleep. "Mmh," he murmurs, his voice barely audible. "Tired." Karen's eyes never leave his face, her smile filled with compassion. "I know, Plankton," she whispers. "But we need to finish this." She holds the spoon to his mouth, her eyes filled with understanding. Plankton's antennae twitch slightly, his eye opening with difficulty. "Mmh?" he mumbles, his voice a sleepy echo of his exhaustion. Karen's voice is a gentle reminder. "Just a little more, sweetie," she says, her tone filled with love and concern. She holds the spoon to his mouth again, her expression a silent plea for his cooperation. Plankton's antennae wobble, his eye barely open. He takes another bite, his antennae drooping with each spoonful. "Almost done," she whispers, her hands steady. "You're doing so well." He nods slightly, his antennae twitching with the effort to stay awake. "Mmph," he mumbles, his voice a sleepy grumble. The ice cream is a sweet torment, his mouth watering with each tiny bite. "M'tired," he whispers, his antennae quivering. Karen's eyes are soft with understanding. She knows the struggle of his autistic brain to process the world, even in sleep. "Just a little more," she soothes, her voice a whispered promise of rest. She feeds him another spoonful, his eye fluttering shut again. The sweetness of the vanilla ice cream is a siren's call to his senses, briefly keeping his consciousness afloat. "Mm," he murmurs, his antennae twitching slightly. The coldness of the treat is a stark contrast to the warmth of his sleepiness. Karen's voice is a gentle guiding light, her words a soothing melody to his sluggish mind. "You're doing great," she whispers, her smile a soft ray of comfort in the dimly lit room. "Al-" But Plankton's antennae droop, his eye slipping closed once more. His snores return, deep and rhythmic. Karen sighs, her eyes soft with love. "Okay," she whispers, setting the spoon aside. "You've had enough." Her voice is a gentle goodbye to the waking world as she helps him lie down, his body a deadweight against the couch cushions.
new chip on the shoulders icecreamcore xiii
TEETHIES i Karen watched as the dentist's thumb depressed the plunger, sending the anesthesia into her husband's system. Plankton's eyelid fluttered, and his body grew slack as his eye rolls back in is socket. "It's ok," she whispered, taking his hand in hers. "It'll all be over soon." The doctor nodded, satisfied with the effectiveness of the anesthesia. Plankton's quiet snoring deep and even, his eye fully closed, and the tightness around his mouth relaxed. Her hand remained tight around his, her thumb tracing comforting circles on his palm, as if she could somehow transmit her strength to him through their touch. Plankton's hand grew heavy in hers, but she didn't let go. Instead, she squeezed it gently, willing him to feel her presence even in his state. The doctor followed her gaze, giving Karen a brief nod before turning his attention back to the open mouth of her husband. Plankton's grip on her hand tightened, even in sleep, and she gave a gentle squeeze back. Karen's gaze flitted between her husband's serene face and the crimson-stained cloths being replaced with alarming regularity. Plankton's chest rose and fell rhythmically, a testament to the anesthesia's hold on him. Karen focused on that rhythm; despite the chaos of the surgery, he was still with her. "We're almost done," he said. "We'll just clean up the site and close the incisions." Karen watched as the nurse handed the doctor sutures and gauze. The sight of her husband's mouth, swollen and filled with cotton, brought a fresh wave of anxiety. She squeezed his hand again, willing him to come back to her, to wake up and smile and tell her that it was all over. The doctor's movements grew more methodical as he worked, sewing up the small wounds steady. The nurse cleaned Plankton's face, wiping away the crimson smears with a gentle touch. "Everything went well," he said, his voice a balm to her frazzled nerves. "The anesthesia will wear off in about an hour. We'll keep him here for a bit to monitor his vitals, but you can stay." Karen nodded. The nurse began to wheel him out of the surgical suite, and she followed, her hand still clutching his. In the recovery room, she sat by his side, watching, the monitors beeping in a comforting rhythm. The nurse checked his vitals. She reached out tentatively, brushing a stray antenna. The nurse nodded. "He'll be waking up soon," she murmured. "You can talk to him, if you'd like." Karen leaned in closer to Plankton, her voice a soft whisper. "You did it," she said, voice cracking slightly. "It's all over now." She paused, her thumb still tracing circles on his palm. She talked to him as if he were awake. "I know," she continued. "But you're strong. You've always been a strong one. I'll be here, I promise. I'll always be there." A small, sad smile played on her screen, Plankton none the wiser in his sleep. "But we're going to get through this, I know we are." Plankton's eyebrow furrowing for a moment, Karen thought he might wake up. But his breathing remained deep and even, his body unresponsive to her words. She leaned in closer. "I know you're in there," she murmured. "I know you can feel me." Remember the time you tried to build a giant robot to get the recipe?" She searched his face for any sign of recognition, any flicker of understanding. But he remained still, lost in the depths of anesthesia-induced sleep. "You're going to be ok," she assured him, her voice a gentle caress. "We'll go back to our lives, to our little chum bucket of a home." The nurse checked the monitors and made notes before looking up at Karen. "You can sit with him as long as you like," she said kindly. "Just make sure not to disturb the dressings." "You're going to be ok," she whispered, her voice a gentle lullaby in the otherwise silent room. "You're going to wake up and everything will be better." A trickle of drool began to form at the corner of Plankton's mouth, snaking down his cheek. Karen reached for a tissue, carefully dabbing at the drool without disturbing the surgical dressings, a testament to the depth of his unconsciousness, a sign that his body was working to heal itself even as he slept. She found a strange comfort in the mundane task, a reminder that even in the face of surgery and pain, Plankton was still her Plankton, the one who drooled in his sleep when particularly tired. The drool grew more persistent, and Karen used the edge of the bed to lift his head slightly, placing a fresh pillow under it to keep him comfortable. The nurse nodded approvingly before checking the flow of fluids from the IV. "It's normal," she assured Karen. "His body is just reacting." Karen felt the weight of not knowing if everything would be okay once Plankton woke up. Would he be in pain? Would he remember her? Would he be the same? Her thoughts swirled in a maelstrom of doubt and hope, a tumultuous sea that threatened to pull her under. But she remained steadfast, her hand never leaving his. She talked to him, sharing stories of their adventures and their future plans, painting a picture of the life they would have once he was well. The nurse moved quietly around the room, giving them space, but Karen could feel her presence, a comforting presence that reminded her she wasn't alone. As the minutes ticked by, Plankton's breathing grew less artificial, more like the easy breaths of sleep. His face began to lose the slackness that the anesthesia had imparted. She searched for any hint of consciousness, and she thought she saw a flicker behind his closed eyelid. "Plankton?" she whispered, leaning in closer. "Can you hear me?" A low groan was his only response, and she felt his hand tighten around hers. The nurse stepped closer, checking the monitors once more. "He's coming around," she said. "Give him a few minutes, and he'll be back with us." "I'm here," she murmured, her voice a gentle hum in the quiet room. "You're ok." The nurse had left, and the only sounds were the rhythmic beeps of the monitors. She took the cloth from the bedside table and gently wiped the remaining drool from Plankton. His grip on her hand grew stronger, and she felt his fingers twitch. "Hey," she said softly, her voice a soothing melody in the sterile air. "You're ok, Plankton. The surgery is over." She didn't want to startle him, so she kept her voice low, her eyes focused on his. "You're in the recovery room now." His eyelid fluttered, and Karen felt a surge of hope. The nurse had warned her that he might be groggy, that the anesthesia could take a while to wear off completely. But she had to keep talking to him, to keep him grounded. "You were so brave," she whispered, her thumb tracing lazy circles on his palm. "The bravest little plankton I know." The hand in hers grew heavier as Plankton's grip tightened, and she knew he was slowly coming back to her. His eye remained closed, but the tension in his face began to change. She watched as his cheek muscles relaxed, the furrow in his brow smoothed out. The nurse had told her first moments after waking up could be disorienting, so she kept her voice calm and steady. "You're in the hospital," she said, her voice a lifeline. "You had your teeth taken out." The room was a blur of beeps and machines, but all she saw was Plankton, her entire world reduced to the man she had promised to take care of. As minutes ticked by, Plankton's breathing grew stronger, and she watched as his eyelid began to twitch. "That's it," she encouraged, her voice a soft coo. "You're doing great." His hand squeezed hers in response, and she felt a jolt of hope surge through her. With a final, deep inhale, Plankton's eye cracked open, swimming in a sea of confusion. His gaze found hers, and she offered him a gentle smile. "Hey," she said, her voice a warm embrace. "You made it." His eyelid fluttered, the weight of sleep and anesthesia still heavy upon him. "Karen?" he croaked, his voice a confused whisper. "Yes, I'm here," she said, her voice a gentle lullaby. She squeezed his hand, feeling the warmth of his grip as he surfaced from unconsciousness. "You did so well, Plankton." With painstaking care, she reached for the cup of water the nurse left by the bed. "Do you want some water?" she asked, holding it to his lips. His eye searched hers, took a sip, swallowed, the muscles in his throat moving with the effort. "Take it slow," she advised, her voice soothing. As the moments passed, Plankton's grip on her hand grew stronger. He took another sip of water and then shifted slightly in the bed, his body trying to adjust to the sudden return of sensation. Karen's heart felt as though it would burst with love and relief as she watched him come back to her. "I'm here," she repeated, her voice a constant in the shifting tides of his consciousness. The nurse returned, checking the monitors once more before looking at Plankton with a smile. "Welcome back," she said cheerfully. "How are you?" Plankton's voice was hoarse, but he managed to croak out a response. "Tiwed," he murmured, eye sliding shut again. "That's normal," she said. "He'll be sleepy for a bit, but we'll keep an eye on him." The nurse dimmed the lights and adjusted the bed, giving Plankton's body a chance to recover from the surgery. Gently, she began to hum a tune she knew Plankton loved, a lullaby from their early days together when they had nothing but their dreams and each other. The melody filled the room, wrapping around them like a warm blanket. His breathing grew a little easier, the tension in his hand loosening slightly. It was a small victory, but one she cherished deeply.
new teethies plaren plankaren plankkaren klankton AI Story Generator i
Broken 1/2 (I’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. It’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. “Come on in!” 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 his
 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 would—" "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. "It’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 to—" 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 could—" "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.
new karen plankton plaren aicore broken
Broken 2/2 (I’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, I’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 stimulation—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 to—" "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 I’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. I’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 I’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."
new karen plankton plaren aicore broken
NO LESS TO BE DIFFERENT (Autistic author) "Plankton, look out!" The warning echoed through the lab, too late to prevent the calamity. Sheldon Plankton, the infamous villain and tiny proprietor of the Chum Bucket, had been so absorbed in his latest contraption that he never saw it coming. A miscalculation, a misstep and a metal clank as the heavy contraption toppled over. The world around him spun into a kaleidoscope of color, and with a sickening crack, everything went dark. Panic gripped Karen, his loyal sidekick and wife. She rushed to his side, his body sprawled unnaturally beneath the twisted metal. She reached out to gently shake him. "Plankton!" she shouted, her voice piercing the quiet. His eye remained closed, unresponsive to her touch or her cries. Karen's panic grew, her mind racing through possible scenarios. What if he's seriously hurt? What if this is the end? She buckled him in the car to take him to the Bikini Bottom Hospital. She held his hand and drove. "Plankton, please wake up," she murmured, her voice shaking. "You've got to be okay," Karen continued, her voice strained. "We still have so much to do. So much to steal from the Krabby Patty secret formula. So much to prove to Mr. Krabs." But Plankton lay there, motionless. The silence was deafening, broken only by the hum of the car engine and the occasional splash from the wet streets of Bikini Bottom. Karen's thoughts spiraled, her usual confidence in his invincibility shattered. "Remember when we first met?" she began, her voice soft. "You had the biggest dreams. You said we'd rule the ocean one day." She managed a weak laugh, but it sounded forced, even to her. Her grip on his hand tightened. "You swore we'd crack that Krabby Patty formula," she continued. "We've come so close so many times, and each failure just made you more determined." Her voice grew stronger, the memories fueling her words. "Do you remember the first time we tried to sneak into the Krusty Krab?" she asked, a hint of nostalgia in her tone. "You had that ridiculous disguise?" Despite the dire situation, she couldn't help but smile at the memory. "We've been through so much since then, Plankton. You've always found a way to bounce back, no matter how crazy the plan or how dire the outcome." But Plankton remained still. "We can't give up now," she whispered, her voice trembling. The hospital's cold lights flickered above them as they waited for the doctor. The beeping of machines and the hushed whispers of nurses filled the room, but Karen's thoughts drowned it all out. The doctor, a stern-looking fish with spectacles, entered the room, holding a clipboard. "Mrs. Plankton," he began, his tone professional but gentle. "We've completed the brain scan on your husband. The results are..." "Is he okay?" she finally choked out. The doctor looked up, his expression unreadable. "Mr. Plankton's injuries are... complex. He's sustained a brain injury, and he's developed Autism Spectrum Disorder." Karen's grip on Plankton's hand tightened. "What does that mean?" she asked, her voice a mix of fear and hope. The doctor took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. "It means his brain has been affected in a way that will change how he perceives and interacts with the world around him. It's a spectrum, so the symptoms can vary widely." He explained further, detailing the challenges that lay ahead for both of them. Plankton might have difficulties with social interactions, repetitive behaviors, and sensory sensitivities. Karen's mind raced, never leaving Plankton's still form. Then, just as the doctor finished, Plankton's single eyelid began to flutter, slowly opening to reveal a gaze that seemed somehow... different. He looked around the sterile room, his eye darting from one corner to another, taking in every detail with an intensity that was unnerving. Karen's squeezing his hand harder. "Plankton?" she whispered. For a moment, there was no response. Then, in a voice that was his yet not quite, he spoke. "Karen," Plankton said, his voice mechanical and measured. His voice, though familiar, now a puzzling echo of its former self. She leaned in closer, desperate for some sign of the Plankton she knew. "How do you feel?" she asked, her voice tentative. Plankton's eye narrowed as he considered her question, his voice echoing the words back to her in a staccato rhythm, "How... do... you... feel?" The repetition sent a shiver down Karen, but she managed a nod. "Karen," he began again, his tone eerily calm, "How do you feel?" Karen's screen searched his eye, seeking a spark of recognition. "I-I'm worried," she admitted, her voice trembling. "But I'm here for you." "Worried," Plankton echoed, his voice a metronome of emotionless syllables. "Worried. Worried." The doctor cleared his throat, interrupting the eerie pattern. "Palilalia is a common symptom with ASD," he explained gently. "It's the repetition of words and phrases. It can be a way of processing information." Karen nodded, trying to absorb the doctor's words as she continued to search Plankton for any sign of the cunning, albeit misguided, genius she knew so well. His gaze remained fixed on hers. "Karen," he said again, his voice still eerily detached. His usual energy and cunning seemed to have been replaced by this unsettling calmness. Yet, in his eye, she thought she could see a flicker of something familiar, a tiny spark of the man she had known for so long. "I need to understand," she said softly, willing him to connect with her. "What's going on?" "Understand," he repeated, his voice a monotone echo. "Under- stand." Then, as if a switch had been flipped, Plankton's eye grew wider, his focus intense. Karen watched, hopeful, as his hand began to twitch. He was trying to communicate. Using all her patience, she waited. "Understand," he said again, but this time, the word grew into a phrase, "I need to understand." The repetition was still present, but now it was tinged with urgency. Karen filled with tears as she nodded vigorously. "I know, Plankton, I know you do." The doctor, noticing the change, intervened, his voice soothing. "It's ok, Mr. Plankton. Take your time." He turned to Karen. "It's common for individuals with ASD to repeat words or phrases when they're trying to process their thoughts. It's called echolalia. It's his way of making sense of what's happening." Karen nodded, but she could see the wheels turning in his mind. His hand twitched more intensely now, his gaze more focused. "Understand," he said again, his voice gaining a slight inflection. "Need... to... under- stand." The words grew into a steady rhythm, a heartbeat of desire. Karen felt hope blossoming in her chest. The doctor leaned in, his expression one of curiosity. "It seems he's trying to express his need to understand his new condition," he murmured. "It's a positive sign. It shows he's engaging with the world around him." Karen nodded. "Under- stand," she whispered back to him. "We'll figure this out together." Plankton's twitching hand paused momentarily, his gaze lingering on hers. Then, his eye darted back to the doctor, the word "Understand" escaping his lips once more. The doctor nodded encouragingly. "It's ok, Mr. Plankton. Do you know what happened?" "Understand," he said, his tone shifting to one of curiosity. "Understand. Accident." Karen swelled with relief. It was the first time he'd formed a coherent thought since the incident. "Yes, Plankton," she said, her voice soothing, "you had an accident in the lab. But we're going to get through this." The doctor nodded. "You have something called Autism." "Autism," Plankton echoed, his eye searching Karen's for an explanation. "It's okay," she said, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside her. "It just means you see the world differently now." Plankton's eye focused on hers, his hand stilled. "Different," he parroted back, as if testing the word's weight in the air. "Different." Karen took a deep breath, forcing a smile through her tears. "But not less," she assured him. "Just different." She leaned forward and kissed his forehead, his antennas twitching slightly at the touch.
new no less to be different plaren neurodivergentcore bbh
NO LESS TO BE DIFFERENT ii (Autistic author) With Plankton's condition still fresh in her mind, Karen carefully guided him out of the hospital and into the car. She knew the drive back to the Chum Bucket would be a test, but she was determined to make it as smooth as possible. The car's engine rumbled to life, and she pulled out onto the wet streets of Bikini Bottom, fixed on the road ahead. Plankton was quieter than usual, his gaze out the window, taking in the world with a new perspective. Karen spoke gently, describing the sights they passed, hoping the familiarity would comfort him. "Look, Plankton," she pointed. "There's the jellyfish field. Do you remember when we used to get chased by jellyfish?" His eye swiveled to meet hers, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Remember," he said, his voice still mechanical. "Plankton remember jellyfish." It wasn't just the repetition anymore; he was connecting with her, with the world around him. It was a start, a sign that maybe, just maybe, they could find their way through this new, uncharted territory. Plankton's head lolled slightly to the side as the car bumped along the road, his breathing steady and even. Karen watched him out of the corner of her screen, the rhythmic motion of his chest reassuring her that he was still with her. Despite the turmoil of emotions churning inside her, she felt a strange peace settle over her. For the first time since the accident, she allowed herself to believe that they could navigate this new reality together. The rain had picked up, the drops splattering against the windshield like a symphony of tiny drums. The wipers kept a steady beat, matching the rhythm of her racing thoughts. Plankton's hand was still in hers, but it was limp now, his palm open and trusting. She squeezed it gently, trying to convey all the words she couldn't say. The Chum Bucket loomed in the distance, a beacon of their shared past and the uncertain future ahead. As they neared, Karen noticed the lights flickering in the lab, the remnants of their latest failed scheme. The sight brought a pang of sadness, but also a strange sense of nostalgia. Karen's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "We're almost there," she said, her voice a lifeline thrown into the silence. As the Chum Bucket came into view, Plankton's antennas twitched in his sleep. "We're home," Karen murmured, her voice barely above the patter of the rain. She parked the car and took a moment to collect herself before gently waking him. "Plankton, sweetie, we're here." His eye fluttered open, and he looked around the car with a slightly dazed expression. The neon lights of the Chum Bucket cast a warm glow, and Karen watched as the reality of their situation settled into his gaze. "Home," he said, the word falling out of his mouth like a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit. He sat up slowly, his movements stiff and deliberate, as if every action was a calculation. Karen helped him out of the car, the rain now a steady shower, plinking against the metal of the Chum Bucket. "Come on," she said softly, guiding him inside. "Let's get you into bed." Plankton followed her obediently, his footsteps echoing in the stillness. The lab was a mess, but Karen ignored it, leading him to their tiny living quarters. The space was cluttered with gadgets and gizmos, but there was a warmth to it, a testament to their life together. Plankton's eye scanned the room, taking in every detail, his brain trying to process the overwhelming stimuli. Karen noticed the way he flinched at the brightness of the lights and quickly dimmed them, creating a soothing ambiance. "Better?" she asked, her voice soft. Plankton nodded, his movements more deliberate now. He seemed to be focusing intently on her, trying to piece together the world around him. Karen helped him into their small, cozy bed, the blankets familiar and comforting. As she tucked him in, she noticed his eye fixate on a book on the floor. "It's ok," she whispered, plucking it up and placing it on the nightstand. "We can clean up tomorrow." Plankton lay still, his gaze now on the ceiling, tracing the patterns of the tiles above. Karen sat beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder. "Is there anything you need?" she asked, her voice a gentle ripple in the quiet. "Need... to... understand," he repeated, the words a comforting mantra in the silence. Karen nodded, stroking his antennae. "I'll be here to help you, Plankton." The doctor's words replayed in her head. Autism wasn't a weakness, but a different way of experiencing the world. A world now filled with sensory overload for Plankton. She made a mental note to dim the lab lights and reduce noise levels. "Karen," he said, the word a question. "What... happened?" The palilalia had shifted from a mere repetition to a quest for knowledge. Karen took a deep breath. "You had an accident, Plankton," she explained, her voice calm and steady. "But we're going to figure this out together." Plankton's gaze remained fixed on the ceiling, his eye flitting from tile to tile as if the answers lay in their pattern. "Accident," he murmured, the word tumbling through his thoughts. Karen nodded, her heart heavy with the weight of the truth. "Yes, my love. You had an accident. But we're here now, and we're going to get through this." Plankton's eye searched hers, his voice a metronome of uncertainty. "Get... through... this." The words hung in the air, a question wrapped in a statement. "Through... this." Karen ached as she nodded, her voice a gentle caress. "Yes, Plankton. Together." Her hand reached out to cover his, her touch a silent promise. "We'll face each day as it comes." For a long moment, Plankton was silent, his gaze still trapped by the ceiling tiles. Then, his eye swiveled back to her, his voice a whisper of curiosity. "Together," he echoed, the word now a declaration. "We'll get through this together." Karen felt a tear slide down as she nodded, her smile a fragile thing. "Yes, Plankton, we will." She leaned in and kissed his cheek, his skin cool and clammy against her lips. His antennae twitched, and she knew he felt the warmth of her affection, even if he couldn't express it in the way she was used to. The next day dawned with a gentle glow, the sun peeking through the blinds of the Chum Bucket's living quarters. Karen woke up with a start, the events of the previous day crashing over her like a wave. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to hope it was all just a terrible dream. But the sight of Plankton's still form beside her, his breathing steady but different, brought reality back in a rush. They had a routine to maintain, a life to live despite the monumental shift in their world. Karen slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb him, and began the day's tasks. She knew that Plankton would wake soon, his mind likely already racing. The lab was a chaos of wires and gadgets, but she had a plan. Starting with the lights, she adjusted each one to a gentle glow, reducing the visual assault that could overwhelm him. Then, she moved on to the sounds, taping foam pads to the doors and machines to muffle the cacophony. It was a small change, but it was a step to making the environment more comfortable for his now sensitive senses. Karen knew the kitchen would be the next battleground. Plankton's love for the Krabby Patty had always been a source of both frustration and motivation. But now, the thought of the complex flavors and textures could be a sensory nightmare for him. She decided to start with simple, plain foods, things she knew he enjoyed before his tastes had become so singular. As she sliced a cucumber into thin, uniform pieces, she heard his footsteps approaching. The tap-tap-tap of his feet on the metal floor was a sound she could set her clock to, yet now it seemed foreign, a reminder of the autistic world he now inhabited. "Good morning," Karen called out, forcing cheer into her voice. Plankton's eye swiveled towards her, his movements jerky as he navigated the now-familiar space. "Good... morning," he responded, each word a deliberate choice. Karen placed the cucumber slices on a plate and slid it towards him, watching as his gaze flitted from one to the next, studying them before making a selection. The sight was both heartbreaking and fascinating, a window into his new reality. As they sat together at their tiny kitchen table, Plankton took a small, tentative bite, his face scrunching up as he chewed. Karen held her breath, waiting for his reaction. After a long moment, he nodded. "Good," he said simply, his voice still flat. Karen swelled with pride and sadness. It was a small victory, but it was a victory nonetheless. They would find their way through this, one bite at a time.
new no less to be different plaren neurodivergentcore bb
SWEET CWEAM pt. 3 The car ride home was a blur of sights and sounds that Plankton struggled to make sense of. The sun was bright, piercing through the numbness like a needle. He leaned his head against the cool glass of the window, watching the world slide by like a slow-moving painting. "Muh face ith funny," he mumbled, poking at his cheek with a finger. The skin felt like it didn't belong to him, a puffy alien appendage attached to his face. Karen just smiled, her eyes on the road. "You're just a bit swollen, Plankton. It'll go down soon," she soothed. "Buh ith wobbly," he laughs. "Muh tongue feelth bith," he complained. Karen's smile grew wider, her eyes never leaving the road. "It's the anesthesia, sweetie. It'll wear off." Plankton's eye grew even wider at her words, his mouth moving in silent protest. "Ith not funny," he slurred, his voice a comical mix of indignation and innocence. Karen couldn't help but laugh a little, the tension of the day finally easing. "I know, I know," she soothed, her eyes dancing with mirth. "But you're so cute when you're all sleepy and confused." Plankton's eye narrowed, the childish innocence fading a touch. "Cuth?" he repeated, his voice a mix of hurt and indignance. "I'm not cuth. I'm in pwain," he whined, his words slurring together like wet paint. Karen's laughter filled the car, a soothing balm to his bruised ego. "I know you are, Plankton," she said, her voice a warm caress. "But you're also really adorable." Plankton pouted, his cheek pressing against the window. The cold glass felt good against his swollen skin. "I'm not thorable," he murmured. Karen's laughter was a gentle melody that floated through the car, turning into their driveway. "You're not a baby. You're my brave husband." Plankton's pout turned into a lopsided smile at the praise. "Thathks," he murmured. The garage door rumbled open, and Karen helped him into the Chum Bucket. Once inside, the coolness of their living room washed over him like a wave. He looked around with fresh eyes, as if seeing their home for the first time. "Wook at the wawws," he said, stumbling over to them. "They'we so big." Karen followed, shaking her head and smiling at his disjointed words. "Yes, dear, they're the same walls as always." He looked at her with wonder, his thoughts racing like a child's. "Buth they'we nah alwaysth big," he insisted, his voice filled with awe. Karen just smiled, leading him to the couch. "You're feeling a bit loopy from the medicine," she said, helping him sit down. Plankton's eye lit up as he examined the cushions. "Theth awe soggy," he exclaimed, his voice filled with delight. Karen chuckled, helping him settle into the plush seat. The numbness was slowly receding, but his tongue remained a traitor, tripping over every word. He looked around the room with fresh curiosity, his thoughts swirling like colored sugar in a cup of tea.
new sweet cweam plaren 3
NO LESS TO BE DIFFERENT iv (Autistic author) Karen's voice was a beacon of peace in the tempest of his thoughts. He blinked once, twice, his antennae drooping in defeat. The room around them was a shambles, a testament to the battle he'd waged within himself. Sensing his distress, Karen spoke again, her tone soothing. "Remember, Plankton, no one's going to hurt you," she said, her voice a balm to his frayed nerves. "You're safe here." Plankton's body began to uncoil, his breathing slowing as his gaze focused on her. "Safe?" he echoed, the word a question. Karen nodded, her smile gentle. "Safe," she assured him. "We're going to take this one step at a time, together." Hanna watched the exchange, her anger replaced by a deep sorrow. She had never seen her friend in such pain, and the knowledge that she had played a part in it was a heavy weight on her heart. "I'm sorry Plankton," she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears. But Plankton was lost in his own world, his mind echoing with the harshness of her words. "Maniac," he murmured, his voice a hollow imitation of Hanna's. "Leave you," he added, his eye swiveling back to Karen. Karen's heart ached at the sound of his echoed pain, her throat tight with unshed tears. "It's okay," she whispered, her hand resting gently on his arm. "You're not a maniac, Plankton." Her voice was a soft caress, a balm to his bruised psyche. But his echo continued, "Leave you," his voice a hollow reflection of Hanna's accusation. Karen's eyes grew wet as she looked at him, her heart breaking for his confusion. "No one's leaving, Plankton," she said firmly. "We're in this together." Hanna's brimming with tears, her own anger now a distant memory. "I'm sorry, Plankton," she choked out. "I didn't know." But Plankton's echolalia continued, each word a shard of Hanna's anger stabbing his psyche. "Monster," he repeated, his voice a haunting echo. "Ungrateful." Hanna's heard her own harsh words reflected back at her. "Plankton, I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I didn't know." Karen's gaze remained steadfast on Plankton's, her fingers gently stroking his arm. "You're not a monster," she murmured, her voice a soothing balm to his soul. "You're just... different." The echoes of Hanna's words still hung in the air, a sharp reminder of the hurt that had been dealt. Plankton's eye searched hers, his antennae drooping. "Plankton what’s your problem just act normal," he echoed, the word a whispered admission. Karen's filled with pain as she heard the echoes of Hanna's accusations. "You're not a problem," she said, her voice a soft reassurance. "You're just... you." But Plankton's echo grew louder, "Just you," he repeated, his face a mask of distress. "Wife... better." Karen wrenched at the thought of him feeling less than, his autism a prison of misunderstanding. "You're not a problem, Plankton," she whispered fiercely, her hand gripping his. Her voice was a lifeline, a reminder that he was loved, that his existence was not a mistake. But the echoes of Hanna's words continued, a relentless beat in his head. "Better," he murmured, his voice a shadow of hope. Karen's heart broke as she heard the echo of his own fear, the doubt planted by Hanna's accusation. "Better," he said again, the word a prayer. Her hand tightened on his. "You're not a problem," she said, her voice a declaration. "You're not something to be fixed." Plankton's eye searched hers, a flicker of hope. Karen knew she had to help him find peace amidst the storm of accusations. "You're not a monster." He stared at her, eye brimming with tears, his body curling in on itself. The weight of Hanna's words pressed down on him, his shoulders trembling with the effort to hold it all in. But the dam broke, and tears streamed down his face, each one a silent confession of his pain. Karen's heart clenched as she watched him, her own eyes filling with tears of empathy. Hanna stood there, her anger now replaced by a deep sense of guilt and sadness. "Plankton," she began, her voice trembling as she touched his shoulder. "NO!" Plankton screamed, pushing Hanna's hand away with such force that she stumbled back. "What's wrong?" she choked, her hands reaching out in an instinctive plea for peace. But Plankton was a whirlwind, his body trembling with the effort to push back against her touch. "No more," he murmured, his voice a whisper. "No more." Hanna stepped back, her hands dropping to her sides, her heart racing. "I'm sorry," she stammered. Plankton's eye remained on Karen, his body a tight coil of emotion. "No more," he whispered, the words a prayer for understanding. Karen could see the pain in his expression, the fear that Hanna's touch had brought to the surface. But Plankton's mind was a labyrinth of pain, each twist and turn a reflection of Hanna's accusations. "You," he murmured, his voice a whisper of accusation. Hanna felt a chill run down her spine, his gaze a knife that sliced through her. "Plankton, I didn't mean..." Hanna began. "Hanna hurt me," he murmured, his voice a ghostly echo of the anger he felt. Karen watched the scene unfold. "No, Plankton," she said gently. "Hanna didn't mean to hurt you. She just doesn't understand." Her voice was a soft breeze, trying to calm the storm in his mind. Plankton's gaze remained fixed on Hanna, his eye a whirlpool of emotion. "Hurt," he murmured, the word a cry of betrayal. "Hanna hurt." His voice was a whisper of pain. Hanna felt the weight of his accusation, her chest tightening as she realized the depth of his distress. "I didn't mean to," she whispered, her voice a desperate appeal for forgiveness. But Plankton was a fortress, his walls high and thick, his mind a whirlwind of confusion. "No more," he murmured again, his voice a plea for solace. Karen ached as she watched the two of them, the gulf of misunderstanding yawning wide. "It's ok, Plankton," she whispered, her voice a gentle guide. "Hanna's just trying to help." But Plankton's gaze was unyielding, his antennae still. "You," he repeated, his voice a solemn echo. "Hanna... no." Hanna felt the chill of his rejection, her hand hovering in midair as she searched for words to bridge the gap. "I'm sorry," she choked out, tight with unshed tears. "I didn't know Plankton," she began, her voice shaking. "I didn't mean to upset you." But Plankton's mind was a labyrinth of sensory input, his body a taut bowstring. "Stop," he murmured, his voice a desperate plea for peace. "Need stop." But Karen knew that words alone would not be enough to bring his world back into focus. With gentle movements, she guided Plankton into a quiet corner of the room, her touch a silent promise of safety. The softness of the cushions under him was a comforting contrast to the harshness of the words still echoing in his mind. She wrapped a weighted blanket around his shaking form, the pressure a grounding force against the storm within. Karen dimmed the lights, reducing the sensory assault on his overwhelmed senses. The flicker of candlelight cast a warm glow over the space, creating a haven from the chaos. "It's ok," she whispered, her voice a gentle reminder of his sanctuary. Plankton's antennae still twitched, his eye darting around the room, but the softness of the blanket was a steadfast reminder of his wife's embrace. He took a deep breath, the scent of lavender filling the air, a calming balm to his frayed nerves. “Thanks; I love you Karen.” Karen’s filled with relief and love as she watched his tense form slowly relax. “I know, Plankton,” she whispered, her hand stroking his arm. “And I love you too.” The gentle rhythm of her touch was a metronome to his racing heart, each stroke bringing him closer to the calm he craved.
new no less to be different plaren hanna
NO LESS TO BE DIFFERENT v (Autistic author) The room grew quiet, the only sound their ragged breaths. Plankton’s eye grew heavy, his body sinking deeper into the embrace of the cushions and blanket. His mind whirled with the events of the day, the diagnosis, the changes, Hanna’s harsh words, and the overwhelming need to escape. His eyelid drooped, his body slowly unwinding from the tension that had held him hostage. "You're okay," Karen murmured, her voice a gentle lullaby in the quiet of the room. "You're safe." The words washed over Plankton like a warm bath, soothing the raw edges of his overstimulated mind. He let out a shaky sigh, his body sinking into the cocoon she had created. The softness of the cushions cradled him, the weight of the blanket a comforting reminder of her presence. His eye grew heavier, the weight of the day's events lifting from his shoulders. Karen's voice was a gentle lullaby, a constant reminder that he was not alone in this new reality. "You're okay," she whispered. "You're safe." The warmth of the room enveloped him, the candles casting a soft glow that danced on the walls. His breaths grew deep and even, his body finally relaxing into sleep. Hanna watched from a distance, filled with regret and sorrow. She saw Plankton’s peaceful features, a stark contrast to the turmoil he'd been in moments before. His small frame looked so fragile, his antennae resting gently on the pillow. Her hand hovered over him, wanting to offer comfort but afraid of the reaction she might elicit. She took a tentative step forward, her heart in her throat. What had she done? Her mind raced with the echoes of their argument. Hanna's gaze lingered on his sleeping face, the lines of distress now smoothed away by the gentle embrace of slumber. She felt a pang of regret for the harshness of her words, the accusations she had thrown at him in a fit of anger. Her hand hovered above his forehead, a silent offer of comfort, but she held back. How could she touch him now, after causing so much pain? Her screen searched his serene expression, her heart aching for the friend she had lost in the storm of misunderstanding. Plankton's features, once twisted with anger and fear, were now a canvas of peace. His antennae lay still against the pillow, a stark contrast to the tumult of moments prior. Hanna felt a tear slide down her cheek as she took in the sight of him, so vulnerable and alone in his corner of the room. Her hand hovered over his forehead, a silent apology for the hurt she had caused. The warmth of her palm was a ghostly presence in the air, yearning to bridge the gap her words had created. But she held back, fearful of the reaction she might stir in his slumber. Hanna searched his tranquil face, the echoes of their confrontation a stark contrast to his current peace. The soft rise and fall of his chest was a testament to his resilience, his ability to find calm amidst the chaos. She felt a wave of sorrow wash over her, regretting her role in the storm that had ravaged his mind. Her hand hovered above his face, the warmth of her palm a silent apology for the pain she had inflicted. But she knew that touch was a minefield for Plankton now, a gesture that might shatter the fragile serenity he had found. So, she simply watched. Hanna searched his features, her gaze lingering on the delicate curve of his antennae, the way his eye was shut, the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Plankton's face was a canvas of peace in the candlelit room, a stark contrast to the tumultuous scene that had just unfolded. His sleep was a sanctuary she dared not disturb. Her hand hovered over him, wanting to smooth his furrowed forehead but held back by fear of what her touch might do to him. Her mind raced with a whirlwind of regret and sorrow. What had she said to him? What had she done? Hanna's a storm of emotion, her thoughts a cacophony of doubt and despair. She had never meant to cause him pain, had never understood the depth of his distress. Her hand hovered above his sleeping form, a silent testament to her regret. The candlelight cast a soft glow over his face, his features etched with the traces of his anguish. Plankton's single eye was closed, a tiny line of tension still present between his antennae. His breaths came slow and deep, a stark contrast to the harshness of his earlier cries. The quiet of the room was a stark contrast to the tumult of her thoughts, each breath a reminder of the damage her words had wrought. Hanna's gaze lingered on his sleeping form, her hands clenched at her sides. How could she have been so blind, so cruel? She watched as his antennae twitched in his sleep, his mouth slighty parted. Karen approached Hanna, her movements deliberate and calm. "Look," she whispered, guiding her hand to Plankton's shoulder. "This is how you touch him." Hanna searched her for guidance, the weight of her actions heavy on her mind. "Like this?" she asked, her fingers hovering above his body, unsure. Karen nodded, a soft smile gracing her. "Yes," she murmured. "Gently, with care." She guided Hanna's hand, her fingertips brushing the outline of Plankton's shoulder. The touch was light, feather-soft, a gentle caress that sent a shiver of comfort through him. Plankton's antennae twitched in his sleep, his body responding to the familiarity of Karen's touch. His breathing grew deeper, his form more relaxed under the weight of her hand. Hanna's screen searched Karen's, looking for reassurance. "See?" Karen whispered. "He's calmer now." The gentleness in her voice was a stark contrast to the harshness of their earlier exchange. "This is how you touch him when he's upset," she said, her hand guiding Hanna's. "With care, with love." Under her guidance, Hanna's fingers hovered over Plankton's shoulder, barely making contact with his skin. The touch was a silent promise of apology, of understanding, of a bond that went beyond the surface of their friendship. Karen watched as Hanna's hand trembled, the weight of their situation heavy upon them both. "It's ok," she whispered. "He's safe now." Guiding her friend's hand, Karen demonstrated the gentle squeeze that Plankton responded to, the pressure a silent reminder of her love and support. Hanna searched his face, the guilt in them dimming as she felt his body relax under her tentative touch. "Just like this," Karen murmured, her voice a gentle guidance in the quiet room. Her fingertips traced a circle on his shoulder, a comforting gesture that she knew by heart. Plankton's antennae stirred slightly, his body acknowledging the familiar comfort. "It's all about his sensory needs," she explained softly, her voice a soothing balm. Hanna's hand mirrored Karen's, the softness of her touch a stark contrast to her earlier anger. Plankton's body reacted immediately, his muscles unclenching, his breaths deepening. The room was a sanctuary of quiet, the only sound the soft sigh of relief. Karen never left Plankton, her gaze a silent instruction. "You see?" she whispered. Hanna nodded, her hand trembling slightly as she mirrored Karen's movements. The contact was light, almost ethereal, a silent communication that transcended words. She felt him relax under her touch, his breaths growing deeper. "It's okay," Karen murmured, her voice a gentle reassurance. The candlelight danced on the walls, casting shadows that seemed to hold their breath as they watched over him. Plankton's sleep grew more peaceful, the tension in his body slowly ebbing away. Under Karen's guidance, Hanna's hand grew steadier, her touch a silent apology. Each stroke, each squeeze, was a promise to learn, to understand, to be a better friend. The softness of her movements was a stark contrast to the harshness of her words, a testament to her willingness to change. Plankton's body grew still, his antennae lying flat against the pillow. The room was a sanctuary of quiet, the candle's glow a gentle reminder of the love that surrounded him. Hanna watched him filled with sorrow and regret. "Thank you," she whispered to Karen, her voice a fragile thread in the stillness. Karen never left his peaceful visage, a silent prayer of gratitude for the calm they had restored. "You have to understand," she murmured, her voice a gentle teach. "He has a condition..” "I just... I thought he was being difficult." The words hung in the air, a confession of ignorance and pain. Karen ached for her friend, the depth of her remorse evident. "It's not difficulty," Karen explained gently. "It's just... different." Hanna's screen searched hers, a flicker of understanding beginning to dawn. "I didn't know," she whispered, her voice a plea for forgiveness. "I didn't mean to hurt him." Karen nodded, her hand still on Plankton's shoulder. "I know," she said softly. "But now you do. And now, we learn together."
new no less to be different plaren hanna
He felt his eyelid grow heavy to anesthesia. "Alright, Mr. Plankton, you're gonna start feeling sleepy," the doctor's voice echoed. The world around him grew fuzzy, sounds becoming muffled and indistinct. His head lolled, body slack. The nurse's grew blurry, darkness before not even nothingness. Karen, his wife, sat by him. Finally, the doctor stepped back, turned and gave her a thumbs up. The nurse began to clean Plankton's face, wiping away the excess saliva and bleeding with gentle touch. Karen follows as they wheel him out. His bed was pushed into a small cubicle, his breathing slow and even. In stumbled SpongeBob. Karen smiles. "The surgery went well, he's just sleeping it off," she assured. SpongeBob's taking in the beeping monitors. "What's all this for?" he asks, curiosity piqued. "To make sure he's ok while he's asleep," Karen explained. "The doctor said he'd be out for a little while." The yellow sponge nodded, his gaze lingering on the small wads of gauze peeking out from the sides of Plankton's mouth. "What's that?" he asks. "It's to help absorb.." Sponge Bob took in the sight of Plankton, who had begun to drool slightly onto the pillow beneath his head. The saliva pooled. "Oh no, Plankton. You're drooling!" Sponge Bob watched as drool continued to form like a thin string connecting Plankton's mouth to the pillow. Karen chuckled softly. "It's normal, Sponge Bob. He won't feel it as he's asleep." SpongeBob nodded, but curiosity remained. "Can I... I mean, should I... wipe it up?" he asks. Karen laughs. "It's ok, they'd take care of it. Just let him rest." "I promise to be super gentle" Karen nodded, a small smile playing. "Alright. Just be careful." His movements were deliberate, eyes never leaving Plankton's mouth as he approached. The drool strand grew longer, a tiny bridge between his friend and the pillow. The droplet fell away, landing on the pillow with a soft splat. Plankton stirred slightly but didn't wake. "It's fine. He's going to be a bit out of it when he wakes up anyway. Why don't you try talking to him while we wait for him to wake? It might help him feel more at ease." "Hey it's Sponge Bob. You're ok, just having a little nap. No Krabby Patties to steal right now," he added with a chuckle. Plankton's eye began to flutter, a sure sign that he was slowly coming back to consciousness. His body twitched, the anesthesia wearing off. "Looks like he's waking up," she said. Karen leaned closer, her hand reaching out to gently squeeze his. "Honey, it's me," she whispered. "You're ok." Plankton's unfocused and glazed. "Where... what... happened?" he mumbled. "You had wisdom teeth removed. You're in recovery," she said, voice soothing. Plankton blinked. "Wis...wis...what?" "You had a little...uh...dental appointment," SpongeBob said. "Teeth...gone?" he mumbled, still groggy. "You're fine," she assured. "I feel... funny," he giggled, voice silly. "Just relax, Plankton," Karen said. "But...but I wanna...see!" Plankton protested, arms flailing weakly. "Plankton, you need rest." "But I'm not tired!" he exclaimed, as his head lolled back onto the pillow. "I... I want to dance," he said, voice still slurred, which only resulted in more drool escaping. "First, you gotta get better," she said, voice earnest. Plankton's giggles grew, his eye half-closed. "But I'm already the best... at... at... at... " he mumbled, trailing off. "It's anesthesia," the nurse chimed in. "It can make people say some funny things. You're just feeling a bit loopy, Plankton. You'll be back to your usual self soon." Plankton's giggles grew softer, his eye struggling to stay open. "But... but... I'm not tired," he protested weakly, his voice a mere whisper. His eyelid began to droop once more. Sponge Bob leaned in. "You just had surgery, Plankton. You need to rest," he said firmly. Plankton's giggles turned into snores, his tiny body giving in despite his protests. "He's going to be out for a while," the nurse said. "Anesthesia can take time to wear off completely." Karen nodded, watching his chest rise and fall with each snore. Sponge Bob reached out and lightly patted Plankton's arm. Plankton's snores grew quieter and stirred, eye cracking. "Wha... SpongeBob?" he mumbled, groggy. Sponge Bob's heart swelled at the sight of his confused expression. "Just keeping you company as you wake." Plankton's eye rolled to the side. "Wha... what are you doing?" he slurred, his voice barely above a whisper. He tried to lift his hand to his mouth, but it flopped back down onto the bed with a limp thud. "Drool? I...I can't stop," he mumbled, his drool pooling around the fresh gauze. Sponge Bob chuckles. "It's ok, Plankton," he said. Plankton's eye narrows. "Not funny," he mumbled, words barely intelligible. Yet as he said it, another string of drool began to form, stretching from his mouth to the pillow. Sponge Bob's chuckles grew. "I know, I know. It's just... you're so... so... " he couldn't find words, laughter took over. Plankton's unable to control his drool. "I'm so...so...so..." he tried to form a coherent thought. "So what, Plankton?" "I'm...I'm not...not...drooling," he managed to say, words barely coherent. But even as he spoke, a new droplet formed at the corner of his mouth. "You sure?" "St...stop," Plankton managed to mumble, his mouth open and drooling again. "It's...it's...embarrassing." Sponge Bob smiled. "I know, you're ok. The surgery went well," he said. "Alright, we can get him ready to go home now," says nurse. They carefully lift Plankton from the bed, body still limp from the anesthesia. "You ok?" "Mm-hmm," Plankton mumbled, head lolling to one side. He struggled to keep his eye open, but the medication was too strong. Plankton's eye drooped shut once more, his snores echoing through the hall. "Whoa, there he goes again
" "He's still pretty out of it," she said. Plankton's head lolled to the side, his mouth hanging open. "Whoa, Plankton, wake up," Sponge Bob said, gently shaking his shoulder. "Mmph," Plankton mumbled, his eye cracking open. "Where...are we?" "Almost to the car," Karen said. "Just a bit longer." But Plankton's eyelid grew heavier. The nurse disappeared through the doors, leaving Karen and Sponge Bob to maneuver Plankton into a more upright position. His head kept flopping to one side, his snores grew louder. "Come on, Plankton, stay with us," Karen urged. Sponge Bob leaned close. "You ok?" he asked, patting Plankton's shoulder. Plankton's head lolled to the side, eye half- open. "Mmph...tired," he mumbled. Karen managed to get him in, his body collapsing into the seat like a ragdoll. She buckled him in. "You're gonna be ok," she whispered. Sponge Bob climbed into the backseat. Karen started the engine. "Let's get him home." The car ride was a blur of Plankton's snores and occasional mumble. Sponge Bob sat in the back, his hand on Plankton's shoulder, keeping his friend from lolling too far to the side. Each time Plankton nodded off, his mouth would droop, and gauze would slip out. "Plankton, gotta keep it in." Plankton mumbled something incoherent, his mouth still open and drooling. Sponge Bob leaned in closer, his hand ready to catch the gauze if it fell out again. Plankton's eye fluttered open, looking around the car. "Just stay with us, ok?" Sponge Bob nodded, hand on Plankton's shoulder. He watched as Plankton's eye drooped, the gauze slipping again. He leaned over and gently pushed it back. "We're almost there." Karen chuckled from the driver's seat. Sponge Bob’s grip on Plankton's shoulder tightening slightly. "Want to play a game?" "Mmph...game?" he mumbled. "I spy with my little eye, something..." But Plankton's head had already dropped back, snores echoing. Karen glanced in the mirror. "I think he's out for the count," she said. Sponge Bob was still vigilant, making sure Plankton didn't tumble out of the car. With Karen's help, they managed to get him to the couch. Sponge Bob helped prop Plankton up, careful not to jostle him too much. Everything’s just fine.
new AI Story Generator plankbobs plaren wisdom teeth
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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SWEET CWEAM pt. 2 Plankton's gaze shifted to the ceiling, where shadows danced in the harsh fluorescent light. He tried to remember, but his thoughts were like grains of sand slipping through his fingers. "Karen," he whispered, his voice tiny and lost. "My tweef?" Her smile never wavered, her eyes steady on his. "Don't worry about your teeth now. They're all taken care of." Plankton's mind raced, trying to grasp the concept of missing teeth. He swallowed, the movement painfully sluggish in his throat. "Buh... buth how?" "They used a special kind of sleepy medicine," she explained, her voice a calm lullaby in the stark reality of the recovery room. "It made sure you didn't feel any pain." Plankton's eye grew rounder still, his curiosity piqued. He felt a strange giggle bubble up from his chest, the absurdity of the situation tickling his funny bone. "Sleeby meds?" he repeated, the words coming out like a slurred song. The nurse, used to seeing patients in various states of post-op confusion, just smiled. "Yes, the sleepy medicine," she said, her voice a comforting lilt. "It's to keep you calm and pain-free." Plankton's eye wandered to the IV drip next to his bed, the clear fluid snaking into his arm. "Meee," he managed. The nurse followed his gaze and explained, "That's just some fluids to keep you hydrated, Mr. Plankton. You've been asleep for a little while." Karen watched as his eye grew distant, his mind adrift in the sea of anesthesia. The drool trickled down his chin, and she tenderly dabbed it away with a tissue. "Do you remember anything?" Plankton's gaze flickered, and a faint smile tugged at his numb lips. "I 'member flying," he murmured, his voice a whisper of a dream. "I thaw youw were thewe," he said, his eye half-closed. "Youw wuz a buttefly." Karen's eyes sparkled with a mix of amusement and concern. "I was a butterfly?" she repeated, playing along. "That's sweet, Plankton." He nodded, his eye glazed with a dreamy expression. "Yew wuz," he insisted, his voice still slurred. Karen couldn't help but laugh, the tension of the day finally breaking. "Okay, my little butterfly," she whispered, her thumb brushing his cheek. "Why don't we go home?" The nurse nodded, preparing the discharge papers. "You can take him now," she said, handing them to Karen. "Make sure he gets plenty of rest and stick to soft foods for the next few days." Karen helped Plankton to his feet, his body protesting the sudden movement. He swayed like a willow in the wind, his arm draped heavily over her shoulders. Together, they shuffled out of the recovery room, his feet dragging against the floor as if tethered to an invisible weight. The numbness in his mouth had spread to his cheeks, giving his face a lopsided smile that made him feel like a clown, his mouth still frozen in a lopsided smile as he chuckles. Karen led him out of the clinic. Plankton’s eye closed as he suddenly tilted onto her, letting out a little snorelike snort. "Plankton, wake up," she giggled, half-supporting his weight. The fresh air hit his face like a slap, waking him up just enough to realize his mouth was still as numb as a brick. He tried to speak, but it was like his tongue had forgotten how to move. "Wha...?" he mumbled, his eye searching for understanding. The world around Plankton was a blur of shapes and colors. "Walky," he slurred, his legs like jelly under him. Karen guided him to the car, his legs moving as if through molasses. Once inside, he fidgeted with the seatbelt, his fingers refusing to cooperate. "Let me," she said, buckling him in, making his eye go wide again. "Thathks," he muttered, “I thee the twess," he said, his voice filled with wonder as if he had just been born. Karen chuckled, starting the car. The engine hummed to life, and Plankton's eye followed the world as it moved past the window, his gaze unfocused and innocent. "Lookit the twess," he said, his voice filled with awe. "They'we aww bending to shay hewwo." Karen couldn't help but laugh at his slurred words. "Yes, they do that when it's windy," she explained, her voice a comforting balm to his confused mind.
new sweet cweam plaren 2
ᔀʰᔉ áŽŹá¶œá¶œâ±á”ˆá”‰âżá”— âœá”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ á¶ á”ƒâżá¶ â±á¶œâŸ pt. 5 áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ê°á”‰ËĄá”–á”‰á”ˆ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”—á”’ ʰᔃᔛᔉ ᔃ Ëąá”‰á”ƒá”—â€§ "áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą á”á”’ËĄá”ˆ Ê°â±Ëą ËąÊ°á”‰ËĄËĄ; ʷʰᔃᔗ ʞᔒᔘ á”á”˜Ëąá”— ʰᔃᔛᔉ ˹ᔉᔉⁿ Ê·á”ƒËą ʷʰᔃᔗ ʰᔉ ËąÊ°á”‰á”ˆá”ˆá”‰á”ˆâ€§â€§â€§" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ˹ᔃⁱᔈ➎ ËĄá”‰á”—á”—â±âżá” ᔆᔖᔒᔗ ᔗʰᔉ ᔃᔐᔒᔉᔇᔃ ᔖᔘᔖᔖʞ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊž ᔇʞ ʰⁱᔐ‧ "᎔˹ ʰᔉ á¶ á”‰á”‰ËĄâ±âżá” á”ƒâżÊž á”‡á”‰á”—á”—á”‰Êł?" áŽŹËąá”á”‰á”ˆ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëąâ€§ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔃⁿᔈ ᔆᔖᔒᔗ Ê·á”‰Êłá”‰ ˹ᔗⁱ˥˥ Êłâ±á”Ê°á”— Ê·Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰ ᔗʰᔉʞ Ê·á”‰Êłá”‰âžŽ á”á”‰á”—á”—â±âżá” Êłá”‰Ëąá”—â€§ "á”†á”’á”˜âżá”ˆËą ËĄâ±á”á”‰ ᔗʰᔉʞ á”á”˜Ëąá”—'ᔛᔉ ᔈᔒᶻᔉᔈ ᔒᶠᶠ‧‧‧" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”’á”‡Ëąá”‰Êłá”›á”‰á”ˆ Ê°á”‰á”ƒÊłâ±âżá” á”—Ê°á”‰â±Êł á‘«á”˜â±á”‰á”—ËĄÊž Ëąá”’âżá”’Êłá”’á”˜Ëą á”‡Êłá”‰á”ƒá”—Ê°Ëąâ€§ áŽčÊłâ€§ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą Ëąá”ƒÊ· áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą á”ƒÊłá” á”ƒÊłá”’á”˜âżá”ˆ ᔆᔖᔒᔗ➎ ËĄá”‰á” á”‰ËĄá”‰á”›á”ƒá”—á”‰á”ˆâ€§ "᎔'ᔛᔉ á”‡Êłá”’á”˜á”Ê°á”— ᔃ ᔍⁱᶠᔗ á¶ á”’Êł áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€§â€§â€§" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ê·á”ƒËą Ê°á”ƒâżá”ˆá”‰á”ˆ ᔃ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡á”‡Êž ᎟ᔃᔗᔗʞ‧ "᎔ᔗ'Ëą á¶ á”’Êł áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”—á”’ ʰᔃᔛᔉ ᔃⁿᔈ ᔉⁿÊČᔒʞ➎ Ëąá”ƒá”›á”‰ ⁱᔗ á¶ á”’Êł ʰⁱᔐ‧‧‧" áŽčÊłâ€§ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą Ê·á”ƒËą ʰᔃᔖᔖʞ á”—á”’ ËĄá”‰á”ƒá”›á”‰ ʰⁱᔐ ʷⁱᔗʰ ⁱᔗ‧ End finale
new plabscore plaren splankton krabton the accident
COPEPOD AUTISM pt. 7 (Neurodivergent author) Hanna's pixel eyes fill with tears, her hand hovering over her mouth in shock. "Oh, Plankton," she says, her voice trembling like a leaf. The room is a frozen tableau, everyone at a loss for words. But Karen is unflappable. Her eyes dart around the room, assessing, planning. "It's ok," she repeats, her voice a steady beacon. "Let's just move aside, give him some space." They retreat to the couch, the cushions swallowing them like a sea anemone. Plankton's body is a ragdoll in her arms, his antennae limp with exhaustion. Karen keeps her screen calm, a bastion of serenity. "I'm sorry," Plankton whispers, his voice a ghost in the silence. "It's ok," Karen reassures him, her voice a gentle caress. "You don't have to apologize." She rubs his back as he leans on her shoulder, tired out. The room feels smaller now, the air thick with the weight of new understanding. Hanna's friends are finishing up dinner still in the kitchen. Karen knows they mean well, but their energy is a stark contrast to the quiet Plankton needs. Her hand on his back, Karen guides his breathing, her voice a lullaby against the storm of the evening. "Breathe in," she whispers, "and out." Her touch is a gentle tide, washing over him, soothing his frayed nerves. His body relaxes, his antennae dropping like tired leaves to her shoulder. The room is a sanctuary again, the chaos outside forgotten as they find solace in their quiet corner. "You're safe," she murmurs. "I've got you." Karen's hand moves in gentle circles, a comforting rhythm that Plankton's body craves. His antennae droop, his breathing evening out as he nestles closer. The couch is a life raft in the tumultuous sea of Hanna's house, and Plankton clings to her like a drowning sailor to a rope. His tiny body, once a taut bowstring, now relaxes into the embrace of sleep. Karen feels the weight of his head, a trust so profound it's like an anchor in the storm. His antennae droop, no longer the frantic sails of a ship in distress. She adjusts her position, shifting slightly to support him better, her arm a gentle cradle. The room's sounds become distant whispers, the waves of conversation fading into the background. Plankton's breathing slows. Karen watches him sleep, his antennae twitching slightly with each snore as his mouth slackens open. Patricia comes in the living room to check on them. "How's he doin’?" she asks, her voice a hushed whisper. Karen glances up, a soft smile playing on her lips. "He's ok," she says, her voice a gentle wave. "Just exhausted." Patricia nods, her face a portrait of concern. "What can I do to help?" she asks, her eyes searching for a way to ease the burden. Karen looks at her, the question a beacon in the fog. "Just...give us a little more time," she says, her voice a soft shush. "Let him rest." Patricia nods, retreating quietly to the kitchen, the clack of her heels a mournful tune on the hardwood floor. The couch is their sanctuary, their quiet island in the sea of Hanna's home. Karen's arm is a makeshift cradle for Plankton's head, his antennae brushing against her neck. The weight of his body is a silent testament to his trust in her, and she holds it with the care of a pearl diver handling the most delicate of treasures. The room is a canvas of shadows, the candles now mere embers in the distance. Plankton's snores are the rhythm of their solace, each breath a testament to the resilience that lies within him. Karen's thoughts drift like seaweed in the tide of her concerns. What will tomorrow bring? How can she shield him from the storms of misunderstanding? But in this moment, she focuses on the present, her eyes tracing the lines of his sleeping form. Plankton's antennae have stopped twitching, his body at peace in her embrace. The soft snores, a symphony of security, fill the quiet space between them. The house has quieted down, the dinner party's echoes a distant memory. Hanna and her friends have retreated to the kitchen, their whispers like the gentle lapping of waves. Plankton is a bundle of quiet energy in her arms, his antennae twitching in his sleep. Karen can feel the steady throb of his heart, a lullaby that matches his breathing. She strokes his back in a comforting rhythm, his body a warm, comforting weight against her. The candles have burned down to nubs, the room bathed in a soft glow. His antennae rest against her neck, a silent communication of trust. Her eyes trace the contours of his sleeping form, his body a puzzle she's come to understand. The quiet whispers of the kitchen are a comforting backdrop to the symphony of his snores. Karen's hand moves in gentle circles on his back, each motion a declaration of support. The room's shadows dance around them, a ballet of understanding, a rhythm that's become their own. Plankton's antennae are limp, his body a testament to his exhaustion. The couch is their sanctuary in a sea of uncertainty. Her arm is a mooring, holding him steady in the tumult of his own mind. His breathing is a metronome, a soothing rhythm. With each inhale and exhale, she feels the tension in his body melt away, his snores a comforting reminder that he's safe. Her eyes trace the soft lines of his face, the gentle rise and fall of his chest. The room is a symphony of silence, the couch their tiny boat adrift in the vast ocean of Hanna's house. Plankton's antennae, once a flurry of nervous energy, now hang limply. Karen's eyes are the moon, watching over him as he slumbers, his trust in her a glowing beacon in the dark. Her hand, a gentle tide, strokes his back, each caress a reminder of her steadfast support. His snores are the lullaby of the sea, each breath a testament to his newfound peace.
new copepod autism plaren 7
NEUROBEHAVIORAL PLANKTON ii (Autistic author) The doctor stepped in, his tentacles moving gently as he spoke. "Mr. Plankton, it's important to stay calm. This is a big change. Can you tell me your name?" Plankton's gaze flicked from Karen to Dr. Kelp, his expression a mask of confusion. "I'm Plankton," he managed to say, his voice shaky. The doctor nodded, his tentacles still and calm. "Good. That's good, Mr. Plankton. Do you know where you are?" Plankton's eye darted around the room again, his breathing growing rapid and shallow. He looked down and then back up at Karen. "What's happening?" he repeated for the third time, his voice now a little more frantic. Karen's heart was in her throat. The doctor's explanation was beginning to take root in her mind, and she could see the stark reality of their situation. Plankton's repetition, his difficulty with understanding new surroundings and his increased sensitivity to sound—these were all hallmarks of his new autism. The doctor continued his assessment. "Mr. Plankton, can you tell me your wife's name?" he prompted. Plankton's gaze shifted to Karen, his expression becoming more focused, as if her presence was the only familiar thing in the room. "Karen," he said, his voice softening slightly. The doctor nodded, making a note on his clipboard. "Good. Now, can you tell me what happened before you woke up?" Plankton's eye flitted back to Karen, searching for answers. He began to rock slightly, his body moving in a rhythmic motion, a common self-soothing behavior for those on the autism spectrum. Karen recognized it immediately but seeing it in Plankton was jarring. His gaze darted around the room, his pupil dilating with every new sound or movement. The doctor's tentacles were a blur of activity making notes. "Mr. Plankton, I see you're feeling You're almost ready to go back home with Karen." Dr. Kelp says calmly. "Just one more question, if you don't mind. Now, can you tell me if you have any pets?" Plankton's eye flitted around the room. "Pets? Spot! Yes, Spot. Amoeba puppy; Spot.." The doctor nodded, his tentacles still scribbling notes. "Very good, Mr. Plankton. It seems like your long-term memory is intact, which is a positive sign. Now Karen can take you home!" Karen felt a wave of relief crash over her, but it was tinged with the stark reality that their life was never going to be the same. Plankton's autistic mannerisms were now a constant reminder of the accident—his newfound need for routine, his heightened sensitivity to surroundings, and the way his eye would dance around the room as he tried to make sense of his environment. As they arrived home, the stark reality of their new life hit Karen like a wave. His once-quick steps had been replaced with a cautious shuffle, as if the very floor beneath him was unpredictable. Inside, Plankton was drawn to the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock, his eye fixated on the second hand's journey. Karen watched him. His newfound need for predictability was overwhelmingly apparent. "Let's sit down," she suggested, guiding him to their couch, which was now occupied by Spot. Plankton's gaze flitted around the living room, his eye alighting on his beloved amoeba puppy Spot. "Spot," he murmured, his voice tentative, as if unsure if his words would have the same effect they once did. The pup looked up at him, its blob-like form shifting slightly with excitement. But instead of the weariness Plankton has shown today, he joyfully watched Spot's movements. Karen felt a moment of warmth— his love for Spot hadn't changed, nor their usual interactions. The doctor had told her that routines were vital for those with his condition. So, she decided to start their day with a familiar activity: breakfast. Plankton's eye lit up at the sight of the familiar kitchen. He took his usual seat at the table, his hands fidgeting with the napkin. Karen noticed his meticulous arrangement of his silverware, the way he lined up his plate and cup perfectly parallel to the edges. As she prepared their meal, she could feel his gaze on her, his eye darting between her and Spot, who was now playfully chasing his own tail in a loop around the living room. He began to hum a tune, his voice off-key and repetitive. Karen's with love despite the pain she felt. The clanging of pans was loud in the silence, making Plankton flinch—this was going to be so much harder than she had anticipated. The doctor's instructions echoed in her mind: stick to routine, keep things simple. Karen set the breakfast plates down carefully, each item placed exactly where Plankton liked it. His eye grew wide as she slid his plate closer. He stared at the food for a moment, then picked up his spoon. The clink of metal on porcelain was like a gunshot to his heightened sensitivity. He dropped the spoon, his hands shooting up to cover his head in distress. "It's okay, sweetheart," Karen soothed, moving quickly to his side. She retrieved the spoon and set it aside, her hand trembling slightly. "You don't have to eat right now," she said softly, her voice a gentle caress against the tension in the room. Plankton nodded slightly, his breathing slowing as his hands uncovered his ears. He fidgeted in his chair, his eye darting to the ceiling as if searching for something. "Let's go read a book," Karen suggested, desperate to find anything that might calm his nerves. Plankton nodded slightly, his gaze still unfocused. He stood up carefully, his body moving with the precision of a man who knew his world had changed. As they approached the bookshelf, his eye caught a glint of metal from the corner of the room. The invention that had brought them here lay in a tangled heap, its wires and gears silent and ominous, giving him dĂ©jĂ  vu. Plankton stopped, his body rigid, his gaze locked on the machine. He stared unblinking, his mind racing back to the crash. Karen notices his suddenly unmoving form and gets concerned. "Plankton?" she calls softly, but he doesn't react. His entire being seemed to be consumed by the wreckage of his former life. The invention, a testament to his former brilliance, now a grim reminder of the accident. "Plankton, honey," Karen's voice was barely a whisper as she tried to get him to talk. He didn't move. The invention, a tangled web of wires and gears, seemed to hold his gaze captive. It was the very machine that had caused this transformation. Karen followed his gaze, her heart sinking as she realized the source of his distress. "Let's go to another room," she suggested gently, her hand resting on his arm. But he didn't move. Karen felt the weight of the moment settle heavily on her shoulders. It was time to face the reality of their new life together—a life where Plankton's once sharp wit and innovative spirit were now clouded by a disorder she was only beginning to understand. Her heart swelled with sorrow as she observed his interaction with the inanimate objects around him. The love she had for him remained unshaken, but the thought of what they had lost—what he had lost—was almost too much to bear. "Come on," she coaxed, her voice gentle as a lullaby. "Let's go to the living room. I'll read you a story?" Yet Plankton remains frozen. So Karen made a decision. She couldn't bear the thought of that accursed machine looming over them, a constant reminder of the tragic turn their lives had taken. With a fierce determination she hadn't felt in ages, she strode over to the invention and began to dismantle it, piece by painful piece. The metal clanked and clattered as she worked, her movements quick and sure, each part coming off with a satisfying crunch. Plankton's eye followed her, his expression unreadable. When the last piece was removed, his gaze lifted to meet hers, his eye filled with something that looked akin to gratitude. "Thank you, Karen," Plankton murmured, his voice a quiet rumble in the stillness of the now bare room. Karen paused in her task, her eyes meeting his with a surprised expression. This was the first time since the accident that he had spoken to her with anything other than fear or confusion. "You're welcome," she said, her voice choked with emotion.
new neurobehavioral plankton plaren ii
SWEET CWEAM pt. 4 "Can I hav thome wathermelon?" he asked, his voice a slurry mess. Karen chuckled and shook her head. "Not yet, Plankton. You have to stick to soft foods today. How about some ice cream?" His eye lit up, his smile growing wider, exposing the whiteness of his teeth. "Ith cweam?" he repeated, the words spilling out like a child's first attempt at a sentence. Karen nodded, her own smile a mirror of his. "Yes, soft serve ice cream. It's perfect for your mouth right now." Plankton clapped his hands together in glee. "Ith weal," he declared, his tongue still thick and clumsy. "My faworite!" Karen fetched the promised treat from the freezer, the coolness of the ice cream contrasting sharply with the warmth of the room. She scooped a generous amount into a bowl, handing it to him with a spoon. Plankton's eye lit up, and he took the spoon with the excitement of a toddler getting their first taste of ice cream. With a clumsy attempt at grace, he lifted the spoon to his mouth, the numbness in his face making it difficult to aim. A dribble of ice cream escaped and landed on the table, but he barely noticed, his attention focused on the cold sweetness that washed over his tongue. "Mmh," he mumbled, his voice a mix of pleasure and pain as the frozen treat hit his sensitive gums. "Careful," Karen cautioned, her voice like a lullaby. "You don't want to hurt yourself." Plankton nodded, his movements exaggerated, like a character in a silent movie. The spoon wobbled in his hand as he scooped up another mouthful of the cold cream, his tongue still struggling to navigate the uncharted waters of his own mouth. He managed to get the spoonful into his mouth with minimal spillage, his cheeks hollowing out as he savored the taste. "Wow, thith ith tho good," he mumbled, his words coming out like a muffled shout. Karen couldn't help but laugh as she watched him. His enthusiasm was infectious, even if his coordination was not. He took another bite, the cold sensation making his eye water. "It'th tho cold!" he exclaimed, his voice high-pitched and filled with excitement. The numbness in his cheeks was wearing off now, leaving a tingling sensation that made his words come out slurred and exaggerated. "It's supposed to be cold, Plankton," Karen said, her voice a symphony of patience. "It's ice cream." He nodded, his cheeks red with effort and cold. Each spoonful was a small victory, a dance between the spoon and his uncooperative mouth. Karen’s glad she turned their security cameras on record. Of course, she didn’t tell Plankton. Not yet. Then suddenly, Sponge Bob comes in the door, surprising both of them. "Squishy!" Plankton exclaims, his voice a strange mix of joy and pain. Sponge Bob's eyes widen. "You okay, Plankton?" he asks, looking at Karen for an explanation. Karen nods, still chuckling. "Wisdom teeth surgery," she says, her voice a gentle whisper. "The anesthesia is making his mouth all numb." Sponge Bob's eyes go wide with concern. "Ouchies?" he asks, his own mouth forming a sympathetic grimace. Plankton nods vigorously, the motion sending a shiver down his spine. "Yeth, ouchiesth," he mumbles around the mouthful of ice cream, his speech still slurred like a toddler's. Karen watches the interaction with a soft smile, her heart swelling with affection for her babbling husband. Sponge Bob crosses the room with his usual boundless energy, plopping down next to Plankton. "So, how was your big trip to the dental place?" he asks, his eyes full of concern and curiosity. Plankton looks at his friend with the gravity of a philosopher. "It’th... advehnturous," he says, his mouth still numb, making each word a challenge. Sponge Bob leans in, his spongy body wobbling slightly. "What kind of adventure?" he asks, his eyes shining with curiosity. Plankton's voice takes on a storytelling tone, his words slurred but earnest. "I frew," he says, his eye wide and filled with wonder. "I frew wike a birdie!" Sponge Bob's grin splits his face. "You flew?" he repeats, his voice a mix of disbelief and amusement. Karen's smile widens, listening to the nonsense her husband was spinning. Plankton nods, his eye glazed over. "Yeah," he murmurs, his tongue sluggish. "It wath magithal." Karen and Sponge Bob exchange glances, trying not to laugh. Plankton's childlike awe in the face of his own numbness was both heartwarming and hilarious. "Buh wait," Plankton says, his spoon paused mid-air. "Thath not aww," his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I theen... I theen I wath a dolphin!" Sponge Bob's eyes go wide with fascination. "A dolphin?" he repeats, his voice filled with awe. "How did you do that?" Plankton's smile grows even wider, his cheeks pushing against the swollen skin. "It'th a mithtewwy," he says, his speech still slurred. "They goth me all sleeby and thewe I wath flipping and twirling in the wathah!" Sponge Bob's eyes are as wide as saucers, his imagination running wild with the tale. "Wow, Plankton, that sounds amazing!" Plankton nods, his face a picture of seriousness. "It wath," he slurs, his voice filled with convinction. "Buth then... then I woke up." His expression remains affectionate for he’s too out of it to play it cool in front of Sponge Bob. He’s always wanted him as a good friend but his pride usually stops him; but now, with no filter, Plankton’s not gonna hold back. Sponge Bob looks at Karen with a mix of confusion and delight. "Was it scary?" he asks, his voice gentle. Karen nods, a warm chuckle bubbling up. "A little," she says, her hands folded in her lap. "But he's a tough guy." Plankton's eye swims with emotions, his face flushing with a mix of pride and embarrassment. "Yeath," he says, his tongue still a traitor. "Buh now youw know my thecret."
new sweet cweam plaren 4
SWEET CWEAM pt. 5 Sponge Bob's eyes widen even more, his spongy body leaning forward in anticipation. "A secret?" Plankton nods, his speech still slurred. "Yeth, I thweal." He looks around the room, his expression a mix of mischief and excitement. "But it's juss tween ush," he whispers, his voice a conspiratorial mumble. Sponge Bob nods solemnly, his eyes wide with interest. "Of course it is, Plankton," he says, his voice filled with the gravity of a secret keeper. “What’s the secret?” Plankton leans in, his speech still slurred but his eye gleaming with mischief. "It'th that I luv... to thee youw," he says, his voice hitching with each word. Sponge Bob's expression shifts from concern to surprise, his eyes watering with laughter. "You love to...see me?" he repeats, trying to make sense of the garbled confession. “Of couth I do, Squishy Bob!” Plankton exclaims with a wobbly smile, his tongue struggling against the unyielding numbness. “Youw the bestest fwiend evar!” Karen watches the exchange with a soft fondness, seeing Plankton’s usual guard down and his true heart shining through. She's never seen him like this before, so open and vulnerable. "Thath right, I do," Plankton repeats, his voice a warm rumble in his chest. Sponge Bob's smile can't help but grow. "That's so nice of you to say, Plankton," he manages to get out between his giggles. Karen can't remember the last time she saw Plankton this way, his usual stoicism stripped away by the remnants of the anesthesia. It's like seeing him as a completely new person, one filled with pure, unfiltered affection. "Ith wove you," Plankton says, his voice thick. "Youw'we my bessst fwiend." Sponge Bob's laughter subsides into a warm smile. "Plankton, I love you too," he says, his voice genuine. Karen's heart swells with love for both of them, watching them share a moment so raw and pure. Plankton's head nods, his drool forming a small puddle on the table. Karen quickly grabs a napkin and dabs his chin. "Thath so sweet, Squishy," he slurs, his eye half- closed with sleep. The room spins around him, a soft, warm embrace that makes his eyelid flutter. He tries to keep it open, but it like heavy curtains pulling him back into slumber. "Ith time for nath nap?" he asks, his voice a sleepy whisper. Karen laughs, her hand gentle as she wipes the drool from his chin. "Almost," she says, her voice like a warm blanket. "First, let's get you to the couch." With Sponge Bob's help, they ease Plankton into his favorite spot, his body sinking into the plush cushions with a sigh of relief. The numbness in his mouth is slowly receding, leaving a tender throb in its wake. He wraps himself in the comfort of his blanket, his mind swirling with the leftover fog of the anesthesia. Whence SpongeBob leaves, Karen saves the footage from the security cameras. Plankton next wakes up in the morning, sore and also without any anesthesia left in his system. Of course, he barely recalls going to the dentist. He doesn’t know what’s happened after leaving the surgery. His mouth feels like a desolate wasteland, each movement a sharp reminder of the procedure. He gingerly prods his swollen cheeks with his tongue, feeling the gaping holes where his wisdom teeth used to be. Karen is by his side. “Karen? Whath happenth?” Plankton says, feeling the aching. “Where
” Her smile is a comforting beacon. “You had wisdom teeth surgery, Plankton. You’re okay, you’re home now. Just rest, you’ve had a long day.” “I remember going in to surgery. That’s all.” Karen brings over a glass of water. "Here, babe," she says, her voice a gentle wake-up call. Plankton takes it, his hand trembling slightly. He sips carefully, the cool liquid sliding down his throat with a soothing grace. He swallows with difficulty, the pain in his throat a reminder of his dental odyssey. "What...what time ish it?" Karen looks at the clock, her expression a mix of amusement and concern. "It's morning, Plankton," she says, her voice a soft chime. "You've been sleeping for a while."
new sweet cweam plaren 5
"Ok, Plankton I'm going to give you something to help you relax." The nurse prepped a syringe, the cold liquid sliding into his gum line. The doctor's voice grew distant. Karen's hand tightened around his, as the anesthesia took hold. Plankton closed his eye, numbness spread. He felt his heart rate slow and his muscles relax as the world around him faded to a gentle buzz. The anesthetic was administered, and doctor's instructions to count back from ten echoed in his mind, but he never made it past seven. The doctor's skilled extracted the troublesome teeth. Plankton's face remained still, his breathing deep and even under the influence of the anesthesia. Karen squeezed his hand again, hoping he could feel her support through the unconsciousness. The doctor's face broke to a satisfied smile. "All done," he said, gesturing to the nurse to start cleaning up. "Everything went smoothly." Karen nodded to express her gratitude. "We'll keep him here for a bit longer to make sure he's fully recovered from the anesthesia, but you can stay with him." As the doctor stepped out, Karen pulled up a chair next to Plankton. His features looked almost childlike, and couldn't help but feel a twinge of protectiveness. He might be trouble, but she cared for him deeply. The nurse bustled around, removing various tubes and monitors attached to him, and soon the room was quiet once more, filled only with the low murmur of the machines. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, and Karen sat there, holding his hand. The nurse finished her work and gave Karen a nod, indicating that she could talk to Plankton if she wanted. Leaning in close, she whispered, "You did good. Just a little bit longer, and you'll be back." Plankton's eye fluttered open, and he groaned, his speech slurred from the anesthesia. "K-Karen?" "I'm here," she said, smoothing back his antennae. His eye searched for a moment before the reality of the situation set in, and he tried to sit up. "Easy now," Karen said soothingly, gently pushing him back down. "You're okay. The surgery's over. You did great!" Plankton's gaze darted around the room, trying to focus. "Where... where are they?" he mumbled, his voice thick and groggy. Plankton's eye narrowed in confusion before drifted shut again. "Did we get... the formula?" he slurred, his mind still clinging to his latest obsession. Karen couldn't help but chuckle. "Not today. But don't worry." She watching him closely as the anesthesia wore off. "You've been out.." "So, we didn't get it?" he asked. The nurse turned to them, noticing Plankton awake. "How are you feeling?" "Woozy," Plankton slurred words thick and slow. The doctor nodded understandingly. "That's normal. The anesthesia will wear off in a bit, but you'll be feeling a bit out of it for the rest of the day. You'll need to keep that ice on your jaw to reduce the swelling." Plankton's eye searched Karen's face, his mind still fuzzy. "Why you smiling?" he asked. "I was just thinking about how you're going to have to eat mashed peas." Plankton groaned. "Mashed peas?" Karen nodded. "Don't worry, I'll make sure you have plenty of jellyfish juice to keep your strength up. Let's get home," Karen said as she helped him to his feet. He swayed slightly, and she went to steady him. The walk to the car was a blur for Plankton. He leaned heavily on Karen. "Why the floor tiles look like they're moving?" he murmured. Karen chuckled, her hand round his waist. "It's just playing tricks." They made their way out to the parking lot Karen opened the door, and Plankton stumbled in, collapsing onto the backseat. "You ok?" she asked. "I think... I think I'm ok," Plankton mumbled, eye slowly closing again. "Just need... to sleep." Karen nodded and got into the driver's seat, starting the engine. As they pulled out of the parking lot, Plankton's head lolled to the side, and he began to snore softly. She couldn't help but chuckle at his vulnerable state. It was a rare sight to see the ever-scheming Plankton so out of commission. The drive home was smooth. Karen glanced back at him, his face relaxed and peaceful. When they arrived at the Chum Bucket, Plankton's snores grew as she helped him in. He barely stirred as she placed a cold pack on his swollen jaw and handed him a glass of jellyfish juice. Plankton took a sip, his eye fluttering open. "Ah, Karen," he slurred. His eye were glazed over as he tried to adjust the ice pack. Karen puts it back in the right spot, tucking a pillow behind his head, patting his shoulder gently. "You need strength...." He reached for the notepad, scribbling illegibly. "Got to keep planning," he mumbled, voice a distant echo of his usual enthusiasm. Karen couldn't help but chuckle at his determination. "You should focus on getting better." Plankton's eye widened, and he tried to sit up, knocking the ice pack to the floor. "The formula!" he exclaimed, his words still slurred. "Shh, it's ok," Karen said, placing a hand on his shoulder and gently pushing him back down. "The formula can wait." He mumbled something about "Krabs" and "plan," but words were too jumbled to make sense. Karen recognized the signs of his usual scheming, even in his state. This was the Plankton she knew, always thinking of his next move, even when he could barely keep his eye open. As she cleared a space on the cluttered lab bench for him to lie down, she noticed his scribbled notes on the notepad. The words "Patty" and "formula" peeked out from a mess of squiggles and half-formed thoughts. She couldn't help but feel pride. Plankton might be a bit loopy from the anesthesia, but his spirit was sharp. She picked up the pad tried to make sense of the scrawl. Plankton watched her, his eye tracking her movements. "You're not... stealing my ideas, are you?" he accused, voice still thick with sleep. "No," Karen said, trying to keep a straight face. The room was a swirl of colors and shapes to Plankton as he attempted to focus on Karen's face. He closed his eye. "I'm perfectly... coherent," he slurred, trying to sit up again. The room tilted dangerously, and he had to grab the edge of the bench to steady himself. "Let's not have you knocking anything over clumsy." "I'm not clumsy," he protested, his words coming out in a slow drawl. "Ok," Karen said, holding up her hands in mock surrender. "I believe you, Mr. Graceful." Plankton slumped against the pillow, the effort of arguing too much for his post-surgery state. He mumbled something about jellyfish jelly. Karen shook her head. She knew he'd be back to his usual self in no time, but for now, he needed to rest. The hours ticked by, the only sounds being Plankton's snores. Karen sat glancing over at him. His chest rose and fell in a deep, steady rhythm, and she couldn't help but feel a sense of relief. The surgery had been a success. As the sun began to set, Plankton stirred. His eye popped open, and looked around the room with a wild look. "Karen, where are we?" "You're home." Plankton blinked, gaze unfocused. "Home," he repeated, as if trying to convince himself. "But what about my teeth?" Karen couldn't help laugh at his bewilderment. "They're gone. The doctor took them out." Plankton's expression one of shock. "They're really... gone?" "Yep," Karen said, voice filled with amusement. "You don't have to worry." Plankton's expression mix of confusion and relief. "But... how? I don't remember anything." Karen chuckled. "That's anesthesia for you. It's like a vacation from reality." Plankton blinked, his mind racing to catch up with the situation. "Vacation?" he murmured, the sounding foreign in his mouth. "No, no, no," he protested, flailing about as he tried to sit up. "We must... we must... " His words trailed off through the anesthesia haze. Karen placing a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder. "Plankton, please. You just had surgery." "But the Krabby Patty... the formula... we can't lose it," he slurred, voice cracking. Karen's smile softens. "Don't worry just focus on you getting better." Plankton stilled, and he nodded slowly, antennae drooping. "Ok," he murmured. "But as soon as I can, we go back to work." "Of course," Karen said soothingly, pushing him back down onto the makeshift bed. The room grew quiet again, save for the occasional snore from Plankton and the low hum of lab equipment. Hours passed by the time Plankton stirred again. His eye blinked open a glimmer of lucidity in his gaze. "Karen?" he called out, his voice still slurred but with a hint of urgency. "I'm here," she said. She had been keeping watch. Plankton sat up slowly, the anesthesia's finally lifted. His jaw felt heavy. "How long was I out?" "A few hours," Karen replied, her voice calm and assuring. She had been expecting this moment, when the fog of the anesthesia would clear. "I feel like I've been hit by a Krabby Patty press," he grumbled, holding his jaw gingerly. "It's normal," Karen said, her voice steady. "Give it time. The pain will ease up." "What about the... the formula?" he asked, his voice strained. "It's safe," Karen assured him. "Mr. Krabs doesn't even know you're down for the count." The mention brought a spark of energy to Plankton's eye. He pushed himself to his feet, the cold pack slipping to the floor with a wet thud. "We can't waste time," he said, his voice stronger now. "We must... we must..." But before he could finish his thought, a wave of dizziness washed over him, and he stumbled flailing. Karen caught him, grip firm but gentle, and helped him back down to the bench. "You're not going anywhere." Plankton groaned, stubbornness battling with his body's insistence on recovery. "But the... the Patty," he mumbled. "I know," Karen said, her tone a mix of sympathy and amusement. "But you're in no shape right now. Besides, we've got a week of mashed peas to look forward to." "Why does it have to be mashed peas?"
new AI Story Generator plaren wisdom teeth
He slurred his words, a side effect of his wisdom tooth surgery. "W-wha...wha' happened?" he mumbled. Karen held his hand, her thumb tracing comforting circles on his palm. "You're ok, just had wisdom teeth removed." Plankton blinked, trying to make sense of the world. "Teeth?" He says through thickness of his mouth. "What teeth?" The nurse then tells "Looks good. Just rest for a bit. The anesthesia can feel loopy." A trickle of drool slid down the side of his mouth. He tried to lift his hand. "H-here," Karen said, gently dabbing at the corner of his mouth. "You're ok. It's normal." Plankton's eye closed, and he leaned into her touch, the world fading to comforting haze. "Don't worry," she whispered, stroking him. "I'm here." Within moments, his breathing grew even, chest rising and falling in gentle rhythm that told her he had succumbed to sleep. His breathing deepened, mouth slightly agape. Karen watched the rise and fall of his chest, the soft snores that punctuated the silence. The steady beep of the heart monitor was an assuring metronome as she waited. A droplet of drool had formed and was slowly making its way to the pillow. The nurse told it might happen. It clung to the edge of his mouth before splattering onto the pillow. His mouth twitched in his sleep, and she wondered if he’s dreaming. The nurse returns with water and ice chips, placing them on the tray. "He'll need these when he wakes," she instructed. "They'd help with the swelling and keep him hydrated." Karen nodded. "How long til he's fully awake?" she asked. "Could be an hour." The only sounds the occasional snore from Plankton. Drool continued to escape, forming a puddle on the pillow. She wiped it. She saw the gauze pads tucked in his cheeks. They looked out of place, despite the sleep medication lulled him to. The door creaked open, and in stumbled SpongeBob. "Plankton! You ok?" he exclaimed. "Shh, he's sleeping," Karen whispers. "They took his wisdom teeth." SpongeBob's eyes widened further. "Wisdom teeth? Gosh, Plankton, sounds painful!" Karen nodded solemnly. "But he's tough. He'll be ok." Plankton stirred in his sleep, a low groan escaping his throat. "Shh," Karen soothed, her voice gentle. "You're ok. Just rest." SpongeBob tiptoed over. "How's he?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Sleeping it off. The anesthesia wearing off." SpongeBob nods, eyes not leaving Plankton. "What's with gauze?" "Helps with bleeding," Karen explained. "It's normal." SpongeBob's concern palpable. "B-bleeding?" "It's ok," Karen assured him. "Just a precaution. He'll be fine." SpongeBob’s gaze lingers. He gently took Plankton's hand, his own fingers wrapping around his. His grip was firm but gentle, a silent promise to be there. The nurse removes the gauze, leaving his mouth open and vulnerable. Finally, Plankton's eye flutters open, still clouded by the anesthesia. "What...wha's goin' on?" he slurred, voice thick and groggy in confusion. "You had your wisdom teeth out," Karen said. "Mmph," he managed. SpongeBob leans in with concern. "You had a little operation. We’re in the recovery room." Plankton's eye widened slightly, and he tried to sit up, only to be met with dizziness that sent him back. "Mm...Krabby Patty...?" he mumbled. Karen chuckled. "No, aren’t at the Krusty Krab." The reality of the situation slowly dawned on him. His mouth felt like it was filled with cotton. He reached for the cup of water, but his hand trembled, spilling the contents onto the tray. "Oops," SpongeBob said getting napkins. "Let me help you." But Plankton's eye had already rolled back into his head, his hand dropping limply to the side, slipping back into the abyss of his drug-induced haze. The nurse returned, checked his vitals again, expression unchanged by his state. "It's normal as it can take awhile." SpongeBob fidgeted, eyes never leaving Plankton's face. "Is he...drooling?" Karen nodded holding tissue ready. "Just be careful not to wake him up." "Oh, right. I just wanted to make sure he was ok." Karen gave his hand a comforting squeeze. "He is. Just let him rest, we're here for him when he wakes." They sat in companionable silence, only sound the soft snores and occasional dribble. "Is that...normal?" he asked, voice a mix of fascination and horror. "It's a side effect of the surgery," Karen explained gently, using a fresh tissue to wipe Plankton's mouth. "It can stop when he's fully awake." The nurse checked on him again. "Almost ready to go?" Karen nods. "Yes, let's get him home. He might be a bit out of it." SpongeBob nods, eager. "I'll help too!" "Thanks, SpongeBob," Karen said. "But remember, he's going to need lots of rest and quiet. Now, let's get him into the wheelchair." With Karen's help, they managed to get Plankton into the chair, body limply compliant. His eye remained closed, his breathing even. As they wheeled him out, his snores grew quieter. In the car, Karen adjusted the seat so Plankton could lean back, his mouth still a little slack, drool pooling on the gauze she had placed. His mouth remained slightly open, gauze in his cheeks bulging with each inhale. "Look at the drool," SpongeBob whispered. "It's just a side effect of the surgery," she said, handing SpongeBob a fresh tissue. "Make sure to keep his mouth clean. We don't want to get too messy." SpongeBob nodded, expression earnest as he took the tissue and began to dab at Plankton's mouth. Plankton's head lolled to the side again, and he let out a snort. "It's okay, Plankton. We're almost home." she whispered, her voice gentle. Sponge Bob whispered, "I never knew Plankton to be so...so drooly." Karen's eyes remained on the road. "It's a side effect of the surgery," she reminded him. "It's nothing to be too concerned about." Sponge Bob nodded, his gaze lingering on Plankton's slack jaw. "We're home," Karen whispered, her voice barely audible. Sponge Bob nodded, eyes glued to Plankton's still form. "Must we wake him?" "Wait til we get him inside," Karen said, her voice soft. "He'd be more comfortable in his own bed." They carefully maneuvered Plankton out of the car, his body still limp with sleep. Karen settled him into his bed, pulling the blankets up. "Leave him be," she said. "He needs his rest. He'll be ok," Karen assured him. "Just let him sleep it off." "I'll keep an eye on him," Sponge Bob offered, pulling up a chair. "Thanks," she said with gratitude. "I'll just be in the next room." Sponge Bob nodded solemnly, taking his post by Plankton's bedside. He knew Plankton’s surgery had to have been tough on him. He reached out and touched Plankton's arm. "Rest up, Plankton," he whispered. "I'll be here when you wake.." Plankton stirred slightly, a soft groan escaping. His eye remained closed, but his hand twitched. SpongeBob leaned in closer, his heart racing. "You ok, buddy?" he asked. Plankton's eye opens, tongue thick and unresponsive. He tried to speak, but all that came out was slurred mumble. "Wha...wha's...goin' on?" The words were barely discernible, muffled by the gauze in his mouth and the thickness of his own drool. Plankton's trying to make sense of the shadows that surrounded him. "You're home, Plankton," Sponge Bob said softly. "You had your wisdom teeth removed." Plankton's mind raced as the fog of anesthesia slowly lifted. "T-teeth?" he slurred barely above a whisper. SpongeBob nods. "You had your wisdom teeth out. It's ok, you're going to be fine." He sat in the chair by the bed, watching the steady rise and fall of Plankton's chest. The gauze in his mouth was still soaked with drool. As the light outside began to fade, Plankton stirred again, his eye fluttering. The pain in his mouth was a dull throb now, and the drugs had left him feeling groggy and disoriented. He tried to sit up, but the effort was too much. SpongeBob jumped to his side, his hands gentle as he put Plankton back down onto the pillow. "Easy," he said. Plankton's eye searched, the fog of anesthesia still clouding his thoughts. "Sponge...Bob?" he managed to croak out. "I'm here, Plankton," SpongeBob said, his voice filled with gentle concern. Plankton's eye searched SpongeBob's face. "Why...are you...here?" "I'm here to take care of you got wisdom teeth out, remember?" Plankton's mouth felt like it was filled with soggy seaweed, thoughts jumbled. "Wisdom teeth?" he mumbled, his voice barely audible. SpongeBob nods. "The surgery went well." Plankton's gaze grew distant as he tried to piece together the events of the day. "What...what happened?" Sponge Bob took a deep breath, preparing to explain it again. "You had to have your wisdom teeth out. Remember? You've been out of it all day." "My...my teeth?" Plankton repeated, still slurred. Sponge Bob nods solemnly. "They had to take them out." Plankton's eye grew even wider. "My...my...precious..." Sponge Bob gently pushed him back. "It's ok. You don't have to worry. They're gone." Plankton filled with panic. "Gone? How could I forget?" SpongeBob looked at him with a mix of confusion and concern. "It's the medicine," he said, his voice calm. "It messes with your memory a bit." Plankton's eye searched the room again, desperation growing with each passing second. "But...but I can't forget!" he slurred. "I can't forget about the...the...what was it again?" SpongeBob leaned in closer, his voice filled with patience. "Your wisdom teeth. You had them removed." Plankton's mind a jumble of half-formed thoughts. "Wisdom teeth," he murmured, words tasting foreign on his tongue. "Why would I forget something so...so..." His voice trailed off, and he frowned, his tiny brow furrowing. Sponge Bob's gaze was steady and reassuring. "It's normal. I never knew you could be so... drool-y." Plankton shot up. "Drooly?" "Don't worry," SpongeBob said. "It's a temporary side effect." Plankton's eye narrowed, and he managed to slur out, "You better not tell, I'd hate for my reputation to be ruined.." "Don't worry," Sponge Bob promised. "Your secret's safe."
new AI Story Generator plankbobs plaren wisdom teeth
A JOURNEY TO AUTISM i (Autistic author) "I've waited long enough, I better go check..." Karen says to herself. Sheldon Plankton, her husband, left earlier to attempt to steal a krabby patty but he hasn't returned. Worried, she makes her way to the restaurant across the street. Meanwhile, Mr. Krabs grabbed a fry pan and swung it at Plankton. The sound of metal hitting flesh echoed through the restaurant, and Plankton crumpled to the ground. Mr. Krabs, his eyes bulging with triumph, looked down at the tiny, unconscious form of his arch-nemesis. "Gotcha, ya tiny troublemaker!" he cackled, waving the fry pan above his head like a trophy. The Krabby Patty recipe remained safe, but Plankton's not. Karen heard the thud from the hit and went in. Her heart skipped a beat as she saw Plankton sprawled out on the floor, unmoving. She rushed over. "Plankton!" Karen gasped, her voice trembling with fear as she knelt beside his tiny frame. He was out cold. She gently touched his arm, hoping for a response, but there was none. The fry pan lay a few inches from his crumpled body, a silent testament to the battle that had just taken place. The restaurant's usual chaos was replaced with a tense silence that seemed to thicken the air. Mr. Krabs, still clutching the pan, looked at Karen with a mix of pride and wariness. His victory over Plankton was clear, but he knew that this wasn't the end of the feud between them. Karen's eyes filled with tears as she picked up her husband, cradling his tiny body in her palm. His antennas were limp, and his single eye was closed. She clutched him tightly, desperately. "Wake up, Plankton," she whispered, her voice filled with urgency as she lightly shook. But Plankton remained unresponsive, his tiny body as lifeless as the seaweed that clung to the ocean floor. A cold fear gripped Karen's heart, turning her blood to ice. She had seen her husband in many predicaments, but never like this. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she gently cradled him, his normally active form now still and heavy in her hand. The Krabby Patty recipe was the last thing on her mind; all she could think about was Plankton and the love they shared. The warmth of his body was fading, and with it, her hope. "I'm sorry," Mr. Krabs said. "This is just business." Karen's gaze snapped up, anger replacing fear. "This isn't just business, it's personal!" she exclaimed, her voice echoing through the restaurant. "You can't keep doing this to him!" Mr. Krabs took a step back, his claws clutching the fry pan tighter. "I didn't mean for it to go this far," he mumbled, his proud stance wavering. Ignoring his words, Karen rushed to the door, cradling Plankton in her hand. She had to get him to the hospital. The local doctor was known to help all creatures, regardless of their intentions. The Bikini Bottom Hospital was the only place she could think of. The emergency room was a flurry of activity, with fish and crustaceans of all shapes and sizes waiting for their turn. The bright, sterile lights reflected off the polished floors, and the smell of disinfectant stung her nostrils as she raced in. She didn't care about the stares or the whispers that followed them; all she cared about was getting Plankton the help he needed. The receptionist, a sluggish sea star, barely looked up from her crossword puzzle. "Name?" she drawled. "Plankton," Karen replied, her voice shaking with urgency. "He's been attacked." The sea star's eyes widened, and she dropped her pencil. "Oh my!" she exclaimed before hitting a large, red button that read "Emergency." Immediately, the doors to the back swung open, and a team of medical professionals rushed out. The doctor, a stern-looking octopus named Dr. Manowar, took Plankton from Karen's trembling hand. "What happened?" he asks, tentacles moving swiftly to check for vitals. "Mr. Krabs...he hit him with a fry pan," Karen managed to say between sobs. The doctor's expression softened, his tentacles moving more gently. "Bring him to room three, we'll take care of him," he instructed the nurse, a concerned look crossing his face as he examined the unconscious Plankton. Karen followed closely, her heart racing as the medical team whisked Plankton away into the depths of the hospital. The stark white walls and the beeping of machines filled her with dread, but she held onto the hope that Dr. Manowar could save him. The doctor's tentacles worked swiftly, hooking up monitors and administering a series of tests. Karen watched, her own breaths synchronizing with the rhythmic beeps. The hospital room was small, the walls lined with various medical instruments. The sterile smell was overpowering, but she focused on Plankton, willing his tiny body to stir. Dr. Manowar muttered under his breath, his expression a mask of concentration. "Karen," he said, turning to face her, his tentacles stilled. "I need to run some more tests, but it doesn't look good. Your husband has a severe concussion and potential internal damage." Her heart dropped, and she felt like the ocean had swallowed her whole. "What...what can you do?" she asked, desperation clinging to every word. The doctor's expression remained steady, his eyes never leaving hers. "We'll do everything we can. But you should prepare for the worst." Karen felt a wave of nausea wash over her. She couldn't lose Plankton. He was her partner in crime, her confidant, her soulmate. "No," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "You can't give up on him." The doctor nodded gravely. "I understand how you feel, but we must be realistic. Let's give him some time." The nurse led Karen to a small waiting area outside the room, where she slumped into a chair. The clock on the wall ticked away the minutes, each second feeling like an eternity. The muffled sounds of the hospital - the beeping machines, the rush of footsteps, the hushed whispers - only served to amplify the deafening silence in her heart. "Your husband is a miracle. The tests came back, and his injuries are less severe than we initially thought." Karen's eyes widened in disbelief, then flooded with relief. "What does that mean?" Dr. Manowar's tentacles unfurled as he spoke. "It means we can treat his injuries, but he'll need to rest for some time. However, during our examination, we noticed some unusual patterns in his behavior and brain activity." Karen felt a sudden knot in her stomach. "What do you mean?" "It seems that during the impact, Plankton's brain has undergone a significant change. He's showing symptoms consistent with a condition known as acquired Autism." Dr. Manowar explained, his tentacles folding into a comforting gesture. Karen felt the world spin around her. "Autism?" she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. "What does that mean for him?" Dr. Manowar sighed, his tentacles waving gently. "It means his interactions and responses to his environment may be different now. It's permanently irreversible but you can help by creating a calm environment." Karen nodded, trying to digest the information. "What can I do?" Her voice was small, trembling. The doctor's eyes softened. "Give him space, patience, and support. It'll be a journey of learning for both of you." The doctor's words hung in the air like a fog, thick and impenetrable. Karen felt a weight settle in her chest, heavier than any she had ever known. The thought of Plankton being different, of not knowing how to communicate with the person she loved most, was almost too much to bear. But she swallowed her fear and nodded, determined to do whatever it took to help him. "Thank you, Dr. Manowar," she whispered, her voice hoarse with emotion. "We'll get through this." The doctor nodded solemnly before excusing himself to attend to other patients. Karen was left alone with her thoughts, the beeping of the machines the only company. She took Plankton's hand in hers, feeling the coolness of his skin against her own. "Plankton," she whispered, her voice shaking. "You're going to be okay." She wasn't sure if he could hear her, but she needed to say it. To believe it. To feel the words in the air between them. "I know you can't understand me right now," she continued, her voice barely above the steady beep of the monitors. "But I'm here. And I'll always be here for you." Her eyes searched the room for anything that might bring comfort, but all she found was the cold reality of hospital life. "When you wake up," she whispered, squeezing his hand slightly, "things might be different. But that's okay. We'll figure it out together." The words sounded hollow in the small, sterile room, but she hoped they would reach him somehow. As the hours passed, Karen's mind raced with questions. How would this change their lives? Could they still scheme together? Would he even remember their love for each other? She pushed the thoughts aside, focusing instead on the gentle rise and fall of his chest, a sign that he was still fighting. Suddenly, Plankton's single eye flitted open, looking around the room with a dazed expression. "Karen?" he croaked, his voice weak and unsteady. "Plankton!" she exclaimed, her voice a mix of relief and hope. He was awake! "I'm here, my love."
new a journey to autism headinjuryposting autismcore plaren i
Ꮀᔉⁿᔗⁱ˹ᔗ ᎏᔖᔖᔒⁱⁿᔗᔐᔉⁿᔗ âœá”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ á¶ á”ƒâżá¶ â±á¶œâŸ Part 2 áŽŹá¶ á”—á”‰Êł Êžá”‰Ëąá”—á”‰Êłá”ˆá”ƒÊž'Ëą á”’Êłá”ƒËĄ Ëąá”˜Êłá”á”‰ÊłÊžâžŽ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż âżá”’Ê· ʷᔒᔏᔉ ⁱⁿ á”á”’Êłâżâ±âżá” ʷⁱᔗʰ Ëąá”’Êłá”‰ á”ƒá¶œÊ°á”‰ËąâžŽ ⁿᔒ á”—Êłá”ƒá¶œá”‰Ëą ᔒᶠ Ëąá”‰á”ˆá”ƒá”—â±á”’âż ˥ᔉᶠᔗ‧ ᎎⁱ˹ á¶œá”’á”á”–á”˜á”—á”‰Êł ʷⁱᶠᔉ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ˹ᔉᔉ˹ ʰⁱᔐ ʷᔃᔏᔉ âżá”’Ê·â€§ "áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ʰᔉʞ➎ á¶œá”ƒâż ʞᔒᔘ ˹ⁱᔗ?" áŽźá”˜á”— ʰᔉ'Ëą á”˜âżá”ƒá”‡ËĄá”‰ á”—á”’ á”á”ƒâżá”ƒá”á”‰ á”—á”’ ᔍᔉᔗ Ê°â±á”Ëąá”‰ËĄá¶  ᔘᔖ‧ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ᶠᔉ˥ᔗ ᔇᔃᔈ á¶ á”’Êł ʰⁱᔐ‧ 'áŽčÊž ᶠᔃᶜᔉ➎ ʷᔃⁱᔗ ᔐʞ á”ˆá”‰âżá”—â±Ëąá”— á”ƒá”–á”–á”’â±âżá”—á”á”‰âżá”—â€§â€§â€§' áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᶠᔉ˥ᔗ á”á”’Êłá”‰ á”–á”ƒâ±âż âżá”’Ê·â€§ "Ꮀᔒᔉ˹ ⁱᔗ Ê°á”˜Êłá”— á”—á”’ ᔐᔘᶜʰ á”—á”’ á”—á”ƒËĄá”? ᎔ á¶œá”ƒâż ᔍᔉᔗ ʞᔒᔘ ˹ᔒᔐᔉ ⁱᶜᔉ‧" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ëąá”ƒÊžËąâžŽ Êłá”‰á”—Êłâ±á”‰á”›â±âżá” ˹ᔃⁱᔈ ⁱᶜᔉ‧ '᎔ ᶠᔉᔉ˥ ËĄâ±á”á”‰ ᎔ Ê·á”‰âżá”— á”—á”’ ᔃⁿᔈ ᔈⁱᔈ ᔗʰᔉʞ ᔍᔉᔗ ᔐʞ Ê·â±Ëąá”ˆá”’á”â€§â€§â€§' áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”—Ê°â±âżá”ËąâžŽ ᔇᔘᔗ á”—Êłá”ƒâ±ËĄËą ᔒᶠᶠ ᔃ˹ ʰᔉ ᶠᔉ˥ᔗ á¶œá”’á”’ËĄ Ëąá”‰âżËąá”ƒá”—â±á”’âżâ€§ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Êłá”‰á”á”’á”›á”‰á”ˆ ᔗʰᔉ ᔍᔃᔘᶻᔉ á¶ Êłá”’á” ËĄá”ƒËąá”— âżâ±á”Ê°á”—â€§ ᔀʰᔉ á”’ËĄá”ˆ ᔍᔃᔘᶻᔉ á”ˆÊłâ±á”–Ëą Êłá”‰á”ˆ á”ˆÊłá”’á”–Ëą ᔒⁿ ᔃ á”—á”’Ê·á”‰ËĄ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”ˆá”’á”‰Ëąâż'á”— Êłá”‰á”á”‰á”á”‡á”‰Êł á”á”‰á”—á”—â±âżá” ᔃⁿᔈ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”á”‰á”—Ëą ʰⁱᔐ ᔃ âżá”‰Ê· ᔒⁿᔉ‧ "ᎎᔒʷ ᔃᔇᔒᔘᔗ ⁱᶜᔉ á¶œÊłá”‰á”ƒá” á”’Êł ᔃ á”ˆÊłâ±âżá” ᔒᶠ Ê·á”ƒá”—á”‰Êł? áŽŒÊł ᔇᔒᔗʰ? áŽșá”’?" "᎔ Ê°â»â»â»Ê°á”˜Êłá”—â±âżá”â€§â€§â€§" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ê·â±âżá¶œá”‰á”ˆâžŽ Ê·á”’ÊłËąá”‰âżâ±âżá” Ê°â±Ëą á”–á”ƒâ±âżâ€§ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”—Ê°á”‰âż Êłá”‰á¶ á”‰ÊłÊłá”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ ᔗʰᔉ á”–á”ƒá”á”–Ê°ËĄá”‰á”— ᔗʰᔉʞ ᔍᔃᔛᔉ‧ "᎔ᔗ'Ëą âżá”’Êłá”á”ƒËĄ ᔃⁿᔈ ᔗʰᔉ á”–á”ƒá”á”–Ê°ËĄá”‰á”— Ëąá”ƒÊžËąâ€§â€§â€§" áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ëąá”—á”ƒÊłá”—ËąâžŽ ᔇᔘᔗ ᔗʰᔉ ⁱᶜᔉ Ëąá”’á”’á”—Ê°á”‰Ëą áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”‰âżá”’á”˜á”Ê° á¶ á”’Êł ʰⁱᔐ á”—á”’ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊłá”— á¶ á”ƒËĄËĄâ±âżá” á”ƒËąËĄá”‰á”‰á”–â€§ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ëąá”—á”ƒÊłá”—á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ ËĄá”‰á”ƒá”›á”‰ ᔗʰᔉ Êłá”’á”’á” Ê·Ê°á”‰âż áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á¶œÊłâ±á”‰Ëą ᔒᔘᔗ‧ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”—á”˜ÊłâżËą á”—á”’ ʰⁱᔐ ᔃ˹ ʰᔉ Êłá”‰á”ƒá¶œÊ°á”‰Ëą Ê°â±Ëą á”ƒÊłá”Ëą ᔒᔘᔗ‧ "ʞᔒᔘ'ᔈ ËĄâ±á”á”‰â€§â€§â€§" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ê·â±ËąÊ°á”‰á”ˆ á¶ á”’Êł áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”—á”’ ᔇᔉ ᔇʞ ʰⁱᔐ âżá”’Ê·â€§ "áŽŽá”˜á”á”ËĄá”‰â€§" 'áŽŽá”˜á”á”ËĄÊž?' "áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż'ᔈ Ê°á”˜á”á”ËĄá”‰â€§" ᔆʰᔉ á”á”‰á”—Ëą ᔇʞ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔒⁿ Ê°â±Ëą ᔇᔉᔈ‧ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”ƒËĄËĄá”’Ê·á”‰á”ˆ Ê°á”‰Êł Ê°á”˜Ëąá”‡á”ƒâżá”ˆ á”—á”’ á”á”ƒâżá”’á”‰á”˜á”›Êłá”‰ Ê°á”‰Êł á”ƒÊłá” Ê°á”’Ê· Ê·Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰ á”—á”’ ʰᔉ'Ëą á¶œá”’á”á¶ á”’Êłá”—á”ƒá”‡ËĄá”‰ ʷⁱᔗʰ‧ ᔆʰᔉ ᔐᔒᔛᔉᔈ Ê°á”‰Êł ᔗʰᔘᔐᔇ ᔇᔃᶜᔏ ᔃⁿᔈ á¶ á”’Êłá”—Ê° ᔒⁿ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż'Ëą ʰᔉᔃᔈ á”—á”’ Ëąá”’á”’á”—Ê°á”‰ ʰⁱᔐ‧ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż â±âżËąá”—á”ƒâżá”—ËĄÊž Ëąá”ƒÊ· Ê°á”‰Êł Ê°á”˜Ëąá”‡á”ƒâżá”ˆ ᶠᔉᔉ˥ ˹ᔒᔐᔉ ʷʰᔃᔗ á”‡á”‰á”—á”—á”‰Êł âżá”’Ê·âžŽ á”‰á”›á”‰âżá”—á”˜á”ƒËĄËĄÊž á¶ á”ƒËĄËĄâ±âżá” á”ƒËąËĄá”‰á”‰á”–â€§ áŽžá”‰á”ƒâżâ±âżá” ᔒⁿ Ê°á”‰Êł Ê°á”ƒâżá”ˆ ʷⁱᔗʰ Ê°â±Ëą ʰᔉᔃᔈ Ê°â±Ëą ᔍᔃᔘᶻᔉ ᶠᔉ˥˥ ᔒᔘᔗ ᔒᶠ Ê°â±Ëą ᔐᔒᔘᔗʰ Ëąá”’ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”ˆâ±Ëąá”–á”’Ëąá”‰á”ˆ ᔒᶠ ⁱᔗ‧ 'áŽșá”’á”— á”—á”’ Êłá”‰á”ˆ á”ƒâżÊž á”á”’Êłá”‰ ᎔ ˹ᔉᔉ' áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Êłá”‰á”ƒËĄâ±Ëąá”‰á”ˆâžŽ Ëąá”‰á”‰â±âżá” ʰᔉ ⁿᔒ ËĄá”’âżá”á”‰Êł á”‡ËĄá”‰á”ˆ ᔃ˹ ᔐᔘᶜʰ ᔃ˹ á”‡á”‰á¶ á”’Êłá”‰â€§ ᔆʰᔉ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊžá”‰á”ˆ ʷⁱᔗʰ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâžŽ ⁿᔒᔗ á”ˆá”ƒÊłâ±âżá” á”—á”’ ᔐᔒᔛᔉ‧ áŽźá”˜á”— á”—Ê°á”‰âż ËąÊ°á”‰ âżá”’á”—â±á¶œá”‰á”ˆ ᔗʰᔉ ⁱᶜᔉ á”‡á”‰á”â±âżâżâ±âżá” á”—á”’ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊłá”— á”á”‰ËĄá”—â±âżá” Ëąá”’ ËąÊ°á”‰ ᔖᔘᔗ ⁱⁿ ᔗʰᔉ á¶ Êłá”‰á”‰á¶»á”‰Êłâ€§ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”—Ê°á”‰âż Ê·á”‰âżá”— ᔇᔃᶜᔏ á”—á”’ ʰⁱᔐ ᔃ˹ á”‡á”‰á¶ á”’Êłá”‰âžŽ á¶œá”ƒÊłá”‰á¶ á”˜ËĄËĄÊž á”á”‰âżá”—ËĄá”‰ Ëąá”’ ᔃ˹ ⁿᔒᔗ á”—á”’ á”ˆâ±Ëąá”—á”˜Êłá”‡ âżá”’Êł Ê°á”˜Êłá”— ʰⁱᔐ‧ áŽźá”˜á”— Ê°â±Ëą ᔉʞᔉ á”‡Êłá”’Ê· âżá”‰á”›á”‰Êł á¶ á”˜ÊłÊłá”’Ê·á”‰á”ˆ ᔃ˹ ʰᔉ á¶œá”’âżá”—â±âżá”˜á”‰Ëą Ëąâżá”’Êłâ±âżá” ᔃ˹ ⁱᶠ ËąÊ°á”‰ âżá”‰á”›á”‰Êł ˥ᔉᶠᔗ‧ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż Ëąá”â±ËĄá”‰á”ˆâ€§ áŽșá”’á”— á”â±âżá”ˆâ±âżá” ᔗʰᔉ á”ˆÊłá”’á”’ËĄ ᔃⁿᔈ á”ƒá¶œá”—á”˜á”ƒËĄËĄÊž ᔉⁿÊČᔒʞᔉᔈ ËĄâ±Ëąá”—á”‰âżâ±âżá” á”—á”’ ᔗʰᔉ ʷᔃʞ ʰᔉ Ëąâżá”’Êłá”‰á”ˆâžŽ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż ᶠᔉ˥ᔗ Ëąá”’ á”ËĄá”ƒá”ˆ á”—á”’ ᔇᔉ ʷⁱᔗʰ Ê°á”‰Êł Ê°á”˜Ëąá”‡á”ƒâżá”ˆâ€§ end finale
new split into parts healing and caring karen plankton klankton POV Karen dentist appointment
“Ma’am, we’ve finished up with your husband’s wisdom teeth extraction and he’s still asleep but you can come in see.” Doctor Hank spoke calmly as Karen nodded and followed him into the recovery room. Plankton was laid out, mouth still open and a line of drool connecting to the pillow. The nurse was cleaning. Karen felt a love for this odd creature. Plankton’s chest rose and fell with the rhythm of his deep slumber, the gentle snores that escaped him. Karen sat down next to him, reaching out to take his hand. “He’ll be out for a while longer. You can talk to him if you like, sometimes they can hear you even if they don’t respond.” Karen leaned in close to Plankton’s tiny, sleeping form. “Honey, it’s all over. You were so brave. It’s going to be ok.” She squeezed his hand gently, her thumb brushing against his smooth, green skin. Plankton’s snores grew quieter, his breathing evening out as he settled deeper into sleep, but she didn’t mind. This was her time with him. The nurse approached gauze pads. She gently opened Plankton’s mouth further. Karen watched as she placed each pad carefully, pressing down on the bleeding gums. Plankton’s snores hitched for a moment, then resumed their steady rhythm as his head lolled to the side. The nurse guided his head back to the center of the pillow. The drool on the pillow had started to form a tiny puddle, a testament to his deep sleep and numbed mouth. Karen knew Plankton was always so meticulous and here he was, completely vulnerable. The nurse told Karen that Plankton would stay in the recovery room for about another hour before they could go home. Karen nodded, not taking her screen off her husband. Karen continued to watch over him. After a while, Plankton began to stir. His eyelid fluttered open, revealing slit of confusion before slowly widening. He blinked a few times, his eye focusing on Karen. “Hey there, sleepyhead,” she said, forcing a smile. He groaned, his tongue thick and unresponsive in his mouth. The anesthesia was wearing off, leaving him groggy and disoriented. He tried to sit up, but Karen gently pressed him back. “Take it easy, sweetie. You’ve had surgery.” Plankton’s eye searched the room, his gaze lingering. The nurse smiles at his efforts to wake up. “He’s doing fine. Just waking up slowly. You’ll want to make sure he doesn’t try to do anything strenuous today.” Plankton mumbled something unintelligible, his mouth still full of gauze. Karen chuckled. He tried to sit up again, but Karen held him down, stroking his forehead with a cool hand. “I know you hate this, but it’s for the best. It will go away soon, I promise.” His eye opened again, looking up at her with confusion. Plankton’s voice was slurred, like a small child who hadn’t quite learned how to form words properly. “Wha... wha’ happen?” Karen leaned in closer, softening. “You had your wisdom teeth taken out, remember? You’re ok now, you’re just sleepy.” He closed his eye again, slackening into the pillow. “Tiwed,” he mumbled. Karen nods, her hand still on his forehead. The nurse returned. “Can you help him sit up?” Karen gently propped Plankton’s tiny frame against the pillows, his head lolling into her palm. He blinked up at her with a glassy stare, gaze unfocused. He was acting much younger than his usual scheming self. “Thish ish... thith ish... weird,” he slurred. Karen couldn’t help laugh a little at his childlike state. It was a stark contrast to his usual bossy demeanor, curiosity piqued despite drowsiness. The nurse brought water, placing it to his lips. Plankton took a sip. “Ugh, it tathes funny,” he says. Karen laughs. “It’s the medicine, love. It’ll help though, I promise.” Plankton nods, his movements slow and deliberate. He looks around the room again, his eye widening at the sight of the gauze in his mouth. “What’sh aww thish?” Karen explains, her voice gentle. “Those are to help your mouth heal, Plankton. You had some teeth taken out. It’s all part of the process, like putting on a band-aid after getting a boo-boo.” Plankton’s eye narrowed slightly as he took in her words, his brain fighting through the fog of anesthesia. He nods again, his movements still slow and sluggish. “M’kay,” he murmured. The nurse nodded. “Alright, let’s get you ready to go. Karen, can you help get him in the wheelchair?” Karen nods. She gently slid her hand under his shoulders and helped lift him into a sitting position. “I don’t nee thish... I can walk!” he protested, his voice still a slur. Karen chuckled, warmed by his usual stubbornness. “You might be a little wobbly, let’s just be safe, ok?” The nurse positioned the wheelchair by the bed, and managed to get him into it. His legs swung over the side, not quite reaching the footrests. The ride through the hospital, with Plankton fought to stay awake. Karen pushed the wheelchair, darting between his sleepy form and the path ahead. The fish and other creatures of Bikini Bottom waving as they went. Plankton’s eye followed them, a hint of wonder in his gaze. “Wook ah aww the fishies,” he mumbled, his voice thick. “They’re always out and about, honey. You’ve seen them before.” He nodded, his eye half-closed. “But not fwom here... not fwom thith... fishy chair!” He giggled to himself, his laughter echoing through the corridor. The nurse gave an amused look, shaking her head. “It’s the anesthesia talking. He’ll be back to his usual self in no time.” They arrived at the discharge desk. Plankton’s eye closed now, his snores gentle and even. He was looking more like a child than the mad scientist who had plotted to steal the Krabby Patty countless times. The nurse handed Karen a list of instructions. Plankton stirred slightly, his eye opening briefly. “Thish ish... thith ish... boring!” he complained before dozing off again. The nurse finished and wished them a good day, patting Plankton’s arm as if to assure that it was all over. Karen leaned down and kissed his forehead, whispering, “Thank you for being so brave, my love. Let’s get you out of the chair and into our car.” With Karen’s help, Plankton shuffled to the edge of the chair, his tiny feet dangling over. He looked up at her with a sleepy eye. She bent down and picked him up, his body slightly heavier than she expected. She opens the car door. He leaned into her, his head nuzzling into her neck. “Warish...” he murmured, his voice muffled. Karen chuckled. She knew he was still recovering from the surgery. She placed him in the car, his head lolling to the side as he tried to keep his eye open. “I’ve got you, don’t worry,” she said, buckling him in. He leaned back in the seat, his eyelid drooping heavily. Karen tucked a blanket around him, his tiny frame looking lost in the vastness of the car. As she drove, Plankton’s snores filled the car, punctuating the silence with a gentle, comforting noise. Karen felt a strange mix of amusement and love for the man she had married all those years ago. The Plankton she knew was sharp and cunning, unlike this sleepy creature that had moments of lucidity followed by more snores. The ride home was uneventful, his snores the only sound as the car glided through the water. When they arrived at the Chum Bucket, Plankton’s eye snapped open, looking around in confusion. Karen parked and turned to him with a soft smile. “We’re home, darling.” He blinked a few times, looking at the familiar surroundings with a child’s curiosity. “Hone?” he asked, his voice still slurred. Karen nodded, helping him out of the car and onto his feet. He stumbled slightly, legs still wobbly from the anesthesia. Karen stood by his side, her hand supporting his arm as he took unsteady steps to their bedroom. His eye kept drifting shut, his body begging for the comfort of his bed, the tension in his shoulders as he fought to stay awake. “Almost there, Plankton,” she encouraged. Plankton leaned against her as they approached the bed. She laid him down. He moaned in relief, eye closing instantly. The nurse’s instructions echoed in her mind as she pulled back the blankets; this was a side of Plankton she rarely saw. He was vulnerable, like a baby sea creature lost in the vast ocean. She felt a newfound protectiveness for him, a desire to keep him safe and warm. “Youw the bestest wife, Karen. The besht in aww of Bikini Bottom!” He said with a sleepy smile, his eye fluttering shut once more. He rolled over onto his side, his back to her, his breathing evening out into deep, peaceful snores. Karen couldn’t resist the urge to kiss the back of his head, the spot where his antennae met his skull. She pulled the blankets up around him, making sure he was tucked in tight. The room was quiet except for his snores. Karen sat on the edge of the bed, watching. The love she felt was palpable, filling the space between them. Plankton’s hand reached out from under the blankets, his fingers brushing against hers. It was a silent plea for comfort, and she didn’t hesitate to take it. Her metaphorical heart melted at his childlike gesture, and she intertwined their fingers, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. He shifted closer. She felt the tension in his shoulders ease, his snores growing slower, deeper. Karen sat with him, watching the rise and fall of his chest. “You know what, Plankton?” she whispered, her voice filled with love. “You’re pretty cute when you’re all sleepy like this. Not that you’re not cute normally, but it’s just... different..” He giggled. Karen couldn’t help smile at his reaction. “I’m not cute, I’m... I’m...” He trailed off, his words slurring into a snore as sleep claimed him once more. She leaned in to kiss him gently on the cheek. Karen knew he’d be embarrassed when he woke up and realized he’d missed a day of scheming, but for now, he was safe and she was grateful. She stood up, smoothing the blankets over him one last time. “Rest well, my love. I’ll be right here if you need anything,” she whispers, her voice a gentle caress.
new plankaren plankkaren plaren
KAREN HAS A LESSON pt. 1 (Autistic author) "You never listen to me!" Karen exclaimed, her voice echoing through the small lab. Her husband, Plankton, looked up from his invention, a frown furrowing his brow. "What's wrong now?" he asked. "It's the same thing, every single day," Karen said, crossing her arms. "You're always so focused on your work, you forget what's important." Plankton sighed, setting down his wrench. "And what's that?" Karen's eyes flashed with frustration. "Our anniversary dinner, for one," she said. "You promised we'd go out tonight, remember?" Plankton's frown deepened as he tried to recall the conversation. "The dinner...right. I thought it was next week," he mumbled, his gaze darts back to his invention. "No, it's tonight!" Karen's voice was now a mix of annoyance and desperation. "I've had this all planned out for weeks, and you've barely even acknowledged it." Plankton looked at her, his eye suddenly wide with realization. "Tonight? But I've got the final adjustments. It's a breakthrough, Karen!" Karen threw her hands in exasperation. "It's always a breakthrough, isn't it? When are you going to realize that we need to make time for us?" Plankton took a step. "You know how important this is to me, to us," he said, his voice softening. "Once I get this right, we can finally be happy, have the life we deserve when I..." "When you what?" Karen interrupted. "When you finally steal the Krabby Patty formula?" she finished for him, her tone heavy with sarcasm. "Is that what you think will fix everything?" Plankton's shoulders slumped. He knew his obsession with Mr. Krabs' secret formula was a sore spot for Karen, but he couldn't help the hope that burned inside him. "It's not just about that," he said, trying to explain. "It's about proving to everyone, including myself, that I can do something big." He gets up on the shelf. Karen turns away. Karen's frustration boiled over, her face flushing. "You're so caught up in this ridiculous vendetta that you don't even see what you're doing to us!" she yelled, slamming her hand down on the lab table. The sudden noise startled Plankton enough to wobble on his precarious perch, and with a tiny squeak of terror, he lost his balance and toppled over. His invention fell with him, colliding with his head with an ominous clank. Karen turns around, her anger replaced with concern in an instant. "Plankton, are you ok?" He lay still. Karen rushed over. He was unconscious. Karen knelt beside his tiny body. "Plankton," she whispered, shaking him gently. Panic began to set in as he didn't stir. The weight of her actions crashed down on her. She hadn't meant for it to go this far. "Plankton, talk to me," she begged. With trembling fingers, she checked for a pulse. It was faint but there, and she felt a small wave of relief. But he was still out cold. Her mind raced as she tried to think what to do next. Calling for help was out of the question; their rivalry with Mr. Krabs meant they couldn't afford any more attention from the authorities. She knew they gotta wait it out. Gently, she picked him up. He was surprisingly heavy for his size. Carefully, she cradled him in her arms and laid him down on the couch. The room was eerily silent except for the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. Karen sat beside his unconscious form, her eyes brimming with worry. The fight they'd just had seemed trivial now. "I'm sorry," she murmured, stroking his antennae gently. "You're right, I know how much this means to you. But I just want you to know that no matter what, I'm here for you." Her voice was barely above a whisper as she talked to him, as if fearful that speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile peace that had settled over the room. "You don't have to prove anything to me, or to anyone else. I'm proud of you just the way you are." Karen's eyes searched Plankton's face for any sign of movement, but his features remained slack, his eye closed. She leaned in closer. "You're a brilliant inventor," she continued. "But you're also a husband, and I need you to remember that." Her voice was filled with a mixture of love and desperation. "I know you can't hear me right now, but I need you to know," she continued, her voice shaking slightly. "I know you're tired of always being second best. But to me, you're not just Plankton, you're the man I chose to spend the rest of my life with." Karen took a deep breath, her hands shaking as she held onto his limp form. "We've been through so much together, and I know you think the Krabby Patty is the key to our happiness, but it's not. It's you. It's us." Her voice grew stronger, fueled by the passion of her words. "We can have a great life without that formula. We can build something new, something just for us." Plankton's chest began to rise and fall more evenly, his breathing steady. Karen watched him, hope growing in her heart. Maybe he could hear her after all. "When you wake up, let's talk. Let's put this behind us and make a promise to each other to make our marriage a priority," she pleaded, her eyes never leaving his face. The minutes dragged by, each one heavier than the last. The silence in the lab was a stark contrast to the usual cacophony of whirring machines and Plankton's excited exclamations. Karen's mind raced with thoughts of all the times they'd shared, laughing and planning together, and she couldn't help but reflect on their relationship. The countless nights spent in the lab, the stolen glances of affection, and the shared dream of a better future. It all flashed before her eyes, and she realized just how much Plankton meant to her. With her heart pounding in her chest, she leaned closer to his unconscious form, her voice trembling. "Plankton, please wake up," she whispered. "I need you to hear me. Our love is our greatest invention, not some secret recipe. I know I've been pushing you, but it's because I see how much this obsession consumes you." She took a deep breath, her voice steadying. "But if you can't let go of this dream, I'll support you. I'll always be here, by your side, no matter what." After a long silence, Plankton groaned. Karen gasped, her eyes filling with relief as she saw the spark of consciousness as he opens his eye. He groaned softly, his hand coming up to rub his head. "Where?" he mumbled, his voice slurred with confusion. Karen took his hand, her voice gentle. "You're on the couch, Plankton. You fell."
new karen has a lesson Karen x Plankton Karen & Sheldon J. Plankton plaren 1
KAREN HAS A LESSON pt. 2 (Autistic author) He blinked a few times, his vision clearing slowly. He saw her face, wet with tears, and his own realization dawned. "Oh, Karen," he whispered, his voice filled with remorse. Plankton struggled to sit up, wincing as pain shot through his head. The lab looked the same, but something felt off. The air was charged with an unspoken tension that Plankton couldn't quite put his finger on. He tried to recall the argument, but the details were fuzzy. All he knew was that he'd fallen, and now Karen was apologizing for something she wasn't even at fault for. He looked into her screen, searching for answers. "What happened?" he asked, his voice hoarse. Karen took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she had to say. "You had an accident in the lab," she replied, her voice calm and measured. "You hit your head." But as she watched him, she noticed something else. His movements were stiff, his gaze unfocused. He wasn't quite the same. Karen noticed that his usual vibrant expressions were absent, replaced by a vacant stare. She chalked it up to lightheadedness. "Karen," Plankton began, his voice still slurred. "Karen." He paused, his eye darting around the room as if searching for words. Karen felt a cold knot form. Something was different about him, something she couldn't quite place. His movements were rigid, his gaze unwavering, like he was seeing her but not really seeing her. "What is it?" she asked, trying to keep the worry out of her voice. Plankton's eye finally met hers, but there was no spark of recognition, no mischievous twinkle that she was used to. "Plankton glad to see Karen," he said, his tone flat and unemotional. That wasn't right. "Plankton, do you know where you are?" she asked nervously. Plankton nodded slowly, his gaze still unnaturally focused. "Home," he responded, his voice devoid of the warmth and love she was accustomed to. "The Chum Bucket." Karen's eyes searched his, looking for any sign of the man she knew, but all she found was a distant shadow. Panic began to creep in as the gravity of the situation started to dawn on her. This wasn't just a bump on the head. Something was very wrong. "Do you remember me?" she asked, her voice trembling. Plankton's eye searched her, his expression unchanging. "Karen," he responds correctly. "Wife of Plankton. Computer wife as of July 31, 1999." The words hit Karen like a cold wave. He knew her name, but the way he said it, like he was recounting a fact rather than speaking to his beloved wife, chilled her to the bone. She felt the ground shift beneath her, her world tilting on its axis. "Plankton, what's wrong?" she asked, desperation seeping into her voice. He looked at her, his gaze unblinking. "Wife Karen," he said, his voice robotic. "Irritated with Plankton's lack of attention to anniversary dinner." The words were right, but the emotion, the love, the personality behind them was gone. It was like talking to a stranger, a very tiny, very confused stranger. Karen felt a tear roll down her screen. "Plankton, can you hear me?" she asked, her voice quivering. "I'm not just 'Wife Karen', I'm your Karen. Your partner, your best friend." Plankton's response was a mechanical nod. "Affirmative," he said, his tone unwavering. "Karen is wife. Plankton is husband." The coldness of his words cut through Karen like a knife. Her eyes searched his, desperately trying to find any sign of the man she knew was in there. "Plankton," she said softly, "it's me. It's Karen. Do you understand?" He nodded again, his antennae barely twitching. "Understood," he replied, his voice devoid of inflection. "And Karen is upset?" Karen nodded, trying not to crumble. "Yes, I'm upset," she managed to say, her voice choked with emotion. "But more than that, I'm scared. You're not acting like yourself, Plankton." He blinked, his gaze shifting slightly. "Scared," he echoed, as if trying to understand the concept. "Why Karen scared?" "Because you're not you," Karen managed to whisper, breaking with every robotic response. "You're acting so... different." Plankton tilted his head, trying to process her words. "Different how?" he asked, his voice still lacking any emotional depth. Karen took a deep breath, trying to explain something she didn't fully understand herself. "You're not showing your feelings," she said. "You're not... connecting with me like you usually do." Plankton's face remained a mask of confusion. "Connections," he muttered. "Emotional bonds." He nodded slowly. "Important for relationship. Plankton in love with Karen." Karen felt a flicker of hope. "That's right," she said, her voice gentle. "I know you love me. But you're not showing it, not like before." Plankton's antennae twitched slightly as he processed this new information. "Plankton must adjust behavior to align with Karen's desired emotional output; how?" Karen felt a pang of sadness. He was trying to understand, but his usual charm was nowhere to be found. She took his hand in hers. "Just talk to me," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Tell me what you're thinking, what you're feeling." Plankton looked at her, his expression still vacant. "Plankton thinking about Karen," he said, his voice flat. "Plankton feeling determined." Karen's eyes searched his, looking for any sign of the emotion his words conveyed. "Determined to what?" she asked, hopeful. "Determined to what," he echoed. "Karen saying, determined to what. Plankton determined to show Karen love, Karen saying determined to what." Karen realized the depth of his change. This wasn't just a concussion or a temporary loss of memory; it was something much more profound, something that had stripped him of his very essence. "Plankton," she began, her voice shaking, "I don't know what happened to you, but I need you to try. Can you tell me how you feel?" But then he starts to rock back and forth to stim, humming their wedding song. The sight of her husband's usually expressive features now so vacant and his movements so repetitive was alarming. Karen felt a sob rise in her throat, but she pushed it down. She needed to stay strong, for him. "Plankton," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "Look at me. I need you to focus. Can you tell me how you feel, in your own words?" He stopped rocking and turned his head to look at her, his eye still distant. "Feelings," he repeated. "Love, anger, sadness, joy. Concepts. Plankton has them. Karen saying, determined to what." Karen's hope sank. The realization was setting in. This wasn't just a case of a bump on the head. Plankton's accident had changed him in a way she didn't fully comprehend. The lab, once filled with the warmth of his passion and dreams, now felt cold and sterile. Her mind raced as she searched for any indication of the man she knew. The way he spoke, the way he moved, it was as if a switch had been flipped. "Plankton, does your head hurt?" "Cephalgia via blunt force trauma. Getting better." He responds, flapping his hands. Karen's eyes widened at his unexpected use of medical terminology. "neurodivergence," she thought to herself. Could it be that her husband had somehow developed something from the fall? It was a long shot, but the lack of emotional connection, the repetitive behaviors, and the rigidity of his speech patterns were all hallmarks of it. She scans his brain and connected herself to the monitor. Plankton looks over and sees the brain scan. "Plankton's brain?" "Yes, Plankton.." Karen says. "Cerebellar cortex reduced synapses and showing minimal activity in the corpus callosum. Irreversibly reduced blood flow in between hemispheric..." "I've no idea what you're saying, honey." Karen interrupts. Plankton's face falls, his usual playfulness replaced by a look of confusion. "Neurotypical communication error," he says, his voice laced with frustration. "Karen, Plankton trying to say the fall caused disruption to myelination.." Karen's eyes widen in shocked confusion. "Myelination? Plankton, are you okay?" she asks, her voice laced with fear. Plankton nods, his gaze fixed on the brain scan. "Neuroplasticity. Synaptic pruning. Autism acquisition," he says, his words coming out in a rush. Karen's mind reels at his diagnosis. Autism? It couldn't be. But as she looks at his rigid body language and his lack of emotional expression, she can't deny it.
new karen has a lesson Karen x Plankton Karen & Sheldon J. Plankton plaren 2
á¶ Êłá”ƒá”—á”‰Êłâżâ±Ëąá”ƒá”—â±á”’âż âœá”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ á¶ á”ƒâżá¶ â±á¶œâŸ final Pt. 6 finale â€œáŽźá”‰á”—á”—á”‰Êł ⁿᔒᔗ ᔐᔉⁿᔗⁱᔒⁿ ⁱᔗ á”‰á”›á”‰Êł á”ƒá”á”ƒâ±âż, áŽŸâ±âżá”Êž!” “᎔ á”–Êłá”’á”â±Ëąá”‰!” áŽŸá”ƒá”—Êłâ±á¶œá” ˹ᔃⁱᔈ âżá”‰Êłá”›á”’á”˜Ëąâ€§ áŽ¶á”˜Ëąá”— á”—Ê°á”‰âż, á”ƒâżá”’á”—Ê°á”‰Êł á”âżá”’á¶œá” ᔒⁿ ᔗʰᔉ á”ˆá”’á”’Êłâ€§ “áŽșá”’Ê· ʷʰᔃᔗ?” á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ Ëąâ±á”Ê°á”‰á”ˆ, á”’á”–á”‰âżâ±âżá” ᔗʰᔉ á”ˆá”’á”’Êł á”—á”’ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âżâ€§ “᎔ ᶜᔃᔐᔉ ᔃ˹ á¶ á”ƒËąá”— ᔃ˹ ᎔ á”–á”’ËąËąâ±á”‡ËĄÊž á¶œá”’á”˜ËĄá”ˆâ€§ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á¶œá”ƒËĄËĄá”‰á”ˆ á”‰á”ƒÊłËĄâ±á”‰Êł ᔗᔒᔈᔃʞ á”—á”’ ᔗᔉ˥˥ ᔐᔉ áŽčÊłâ€§ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą Ê°á”˜Êłá”—â€Šâ€ â€œáŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż, ʞᔒᔘ á”ˆâ±á”ˆâżâ€™á”— ᶜᔒᔐᔉ á”‰á”ƒÊłËĄÊžâ€Šâ€ “᎔ Ê·á”ƒËą á”–ËĄá”ƒâżâżâ±âżá” ᔒⁿ ËĄá”‰á”ƒá”›â±âżá” á”‰á”ƒÊłËĄâ±á”‰Êł ᔉᔛᔉⁿ á”‡á”‰á¶ á”’Êłá”‰ ʞᔒᔘ á¶œá”ƒËĄËĄá”‰á”ˆâ€§â€ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”‰ËŁá”–ËĄá”ƒâ±âżá”‰á”ˆâ€§ â€œáŽ”â€™ËĄËĄ ᔗᔃᔏᔉ ʞᔒᔘ ʰᔒᔐᔉ Ëąá”’ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ ᔃⁿᔈ áŽŸá”ƒá”—Êłâ±á¶œá” á¶œá”ƒâż Êłá”‰Ëąá”˜á”á”‰ á”—Ê°á”‰â±Êł á”ˆá”ƒâ±ËĄÊž á”ƒá¶œá”—â±á”›â±á”—â±á”‰Ëąâ€Šâ€ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”—á”’ËĄá”ˆ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€§ The End
new bobplank patbob plaren fraternisation
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new karen plankton plaren
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."
new a life of diversity AI Story Generator neurodivergentcore karen plankton plaren plabsen braincore headcore i
áŽłá”’á”’á¶ Êž áŽłá”’á”’á”‡á”‰ÊłËą pt. 1 âœá”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰áŽźá”’á”‡ á¶ á”ƒâżá¶ â±á¶œâŸ "á”€Ê°á”ƒâżá”Ëą á¶ á”’Êł á”á”ƒá”â±âżá” ᔗʰᔉ âżá”‰Ê· ᔇᔃᔗᶜʰ ᔒᶠ á”–á”ƒá”—á”—â±á”‰Ëą!" áŽčÊłâ€§ áŽ·Êłá”ƒá”‡Ëą á¶œá”ƒËĄËĄá”‰á”ˆ ᔒᔘᔗ á”—á”’ Ëąá”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᔃ˹ ᔗʰᔉ Ê·á”’Êłá” ᔈᔃʞ á”‰âżá”ˆá”‰á”ˆâ€§ "᎔'ᔐ ᔒⁿ ᔐʞ ʷᔃʞ á”—á”’ ᔐᔉᔉᔗ áŽŸá”ƒá”—Êłâ±á¶œá” ᔃᔗ ᔗʰᔉ ᔍᔒᔒᶠʞ á”á”’á”’á”‡á”‰Êł'Ëą!" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰ ᔇᔒᔇ Êłá”‰á”–ËĄâ±á”‰á”ˆâ€§ áŽŽá”‰á”ƒÊłâ±âżá” ᔗʰᔉ á¶œá”’âżá”›á”‰ÊłËąá”ƒá”—â±á”’âżâžŽ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔈᔉᶜⁱᔈᔉᔈ á”—á”’ ᶜᔃᔗᶜʰ ᔘᔖ ʷⁱᔗʰ ʰⁱᔐ‧ "á¶œá”ƒâż ᎔ ᶜᔒᔐᔉ?" ᎎᔉ ʰᔒᔖᔉᔈ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᔐⁱᔍʰᔗ á”‡ËĄá”ƒá”‡ ᔃᔇᔒᔘᔗ á”á”ƒá”â±âżá” á”–á”ƒá”—á”—â±á”‰Ëąâ€§ "á”†á”˜Êłá”‰âžŽ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż!" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâžŽ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᔃⁿᔈ áŽŸá”ƒá”—Êłâ±á¶œá” ᔉᔃᶜʰ ᔍᔒᔗ ᔃ á”—Êłâ±á”–ËĄá”‰ á”á”’á”’á”‡á”‰Êł á”‡á”‰ÊłÊłÊž Ëąá”˜âżÊłâ±Ëąá”‰â€§ "᎔'ᔛᔉ âżá”‰á”›á”‰Êł ʰᔃᔈ ᔒⁿᔉ á”‡á”‰á¶ á”’Êłá”‰âžŽ ᔇᔘᔗ ËĄá”’á”’á”Ëą ᔍᔒᔒᔈ‧‧‧" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”—á”’ËĄá”ˆ ᔗʰᔉᔐ ᔐᔒᔘᔗʰ Ê·á”ƒá”—á”‰Êłâ±âżá”â€§ "áŽłá”’á”—á”—á”ƒ ᔇᔉ á¶œá”ƒÊłá”‰á¶ á”˜ËĄ ⁿᔒᔗ á”—á”’ ᔉᔃᔗ ⁱᔗ á”—á”’ á¶ á”ƒËąá”— Ëąá”’ ᔃ˹ á”—á”’ ⁿᔒᔗ ᔍᔉᔗ ᔐᔘᶜʰ Ëąá”˜á”á”ƒÊł Êłá”˜ËąÊ°â€§â€§â€§" ᔆᔗⁱ˥˥ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż á”ˆâ±á”›á”‰Ëą ⁱⁿ➎ ⁿᔒᔗ Ê°á”‰á”‰á”ˆâ±âżá” ᔗʰᔉ Ê·á”ƒÊłâżâ±âżá”â€§ "ᎎᔉʞ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ʞᔒᔘ'Êłá”‰ á”‰á”ƒá”—â±âżá” á”—á”’ á¶ á”ƒËąá”—!" áŽŸá”ƒá”—Êłâ±á¶œá” Ëąá”ƒâ±á”ˆâ€§ áŽŹá¶ á”—á”‰Êł á¶ â±âżâ±ËąÊ°â±âżá” Ê°â±Ëą Ëąá”˜âżá”ˆá”ƒá”‰ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż Ê·á”‰âżá”— á¶ á”’Êł Ëąá”‰á¶œá”’âżá”ˆËąâ€§ "áŽčÊž â±á¶œá”‰â»á¶œÊłá”‰á”ƒá”!" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á”‰ËŁá¶œËĄá”ƒâ±á”á”‰á”ˆâ€§ "áŽșá”’ á”á”’Êłá”‰ á¶ á”’Êł ʞᔒᔘ!" "Ꮀᔒ ʞᔒᔘ Ê·á”ƒâżá”— ᔐᔉ á”—á”’ ᔍᔉᔗ ʞᔒᔘ á”ƒâżá”’á”—Ê°á”‰Êł?" "áŽșá”’ á”—Ê°á”ƒâżá”Ëą ᎟ᔃᔗ‧" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ÊČá”˜Ëąá”— ᔏᔉᔖᔗ á”â±á”á”ËĄâ±âżá” ⁱⁿ Ê°â±Ëą Ëąá”˜á”á”ƒÊł Êłá”˜ËąÊ°â€§ "᎔ á”—Ê°â±âżá” ᔗʰᔉ Ëąá”˜á”á”ƒÊłËą á”á”‰á”—á”—â±âżá” ᔗᔒ‧‧‧" "á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ Ê·Ê°á”‰Êłá”‰'Ëą ᔐʞ â±á¶œá”‰â»á¶œÊłá”‰á”ƒá”?" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ˹ᔃⁱᔈ â±âżá”—á”‰ÊłÊłá”˜á”–á”—â±âżá” ʰⁱᔐ‧ "á¶œá”ƒâż ᎔ ᔍᔉᔗ ᔃ ᔇᔃᔗᶜʰ ᔒᶠ á”Êłá”ƒá”‡á”‡Êž á”–á”ƒá”—á”—â±á”‰Ëą á¶ á”’Êł ᔐᔉ?" "᎔ á”—Ê°â±âżá” ʷᔉ ËąÊ°á”’á”˜ËĄá”ˆ á¶œá”ƒËĄËĄ ⁱᔗ ᔃ âżâ±á”Ê°á”—â€§â€§â€§" "áŽŸá”ƒá”—Êłâ±á¶œá” Ê°á”ƒËą ᔗʰᔉ â±á¶œá”‰â»á¶œÊłá”‰á”ƒá”â€§â€§â€§" áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ˹ᔃⁱᔈ➎ ᔇᔘᔗ á”—á”’ á”ˆâ±Ëąá”’Êłâ±á”‰âżá”—á”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ Ëąá”—á”ƒâżá”ˆ á”˜á”–Êłâ±á”Ê°á”— á”—á”’ ᔍᔉᔗ á”—á”’ ⁱᔗ‧ "ʞᔒᔘ á”ƒÊłá”‰âż'á”— á”—Ê°â±âżá”â±âżá” Ëąá”—Êłá”ƒâ±á”Ê°á”—!" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ Ëąá”ƒÊžËą Ê·â±á”–â±âżá” á”ˆÊłá”’á”’ËĄ ᔒᶠᶠ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€§ "ᔆᔗᔃʞ ˹ᔗⁱ˥˥!" "᎔ á”ˆá”’âż'á”— Ê·á”ƒâżá”— á”—á”’ Ëąá”—á”ƒÊž ˹ᔗⁱ˥˥!" "᎔ á”—Ê°â±âżá” ᎔'ᔐ ÊČá”˜Ëąá”— á”á”’âżâżá”ƒ ᔗᔃᔏᔉ ʰⁱᔐ ᔇᔃᶜᔏ➎ ᎟ᔃᔗ‧" "᎔ á”ˆá”’âż'á”— Ê·á”ƒâżâżá”ƒâ€§â€§â€§" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ ᶜᔃᔘᔍʰᔗ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔃ˹ ʰᔉ Ëąá”˜á”ˆá”ˆá”‰âżËĄÊž á¶ á”ƒËĄá”—á”‰Êłá”‰á”ˆ ⁱⁿ á”‰ËŁÊ°á”ƒá”˜Ëąá”—â±á”’âżâ€§ "ᔆᔗᔃʞ ʷⁱᔗʰ ᔐᔉ âżá”’Ê· áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âżâ€§â€§â€§" "᎔ Ê·á”ƒâżá”— ʞᔒᔘ ᔃ˹ ᔐʞ á¶ Êłâ±á”‰âżá”ˆâžŽ ⁿᔒᔗ ᎟ᔃᔗ‧‧‧" á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á”âżá”‰Ê· ᔗʰᔉ Ëąá”˜á”á”ƒÊł á¶œÊłá”ƒËąÊ° ᔐᔃᔈᔉ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ⁿᔒᔗ ᔃᶜᔗ ËĄâ±á”á”‰ Ê°â±Ëą âżá”’Êłá”á”ƒËĄ á”‡á”‰Ê°á”ƒá”›â±á”’á”˜ÊłâžŽ Ê°á”ƒá”›â±âżá” ʰⁱᔐ Ëąá”ƒÊž Ëąá”˜á¶œÊ° ᔃ á”—Ê°â±âżá” Êłâ±á”Ê°á”— á”‡á”‰á¶ á”’Êłá”‰ á”ˆá”’á¶»â±âżá” ᔒᶠᶠ‧ "á”†á”’ÊłÊłÊž ᔇᔘᔗ ᎔ ᔍᔒᔗᔗᔃ ᔍᔒ ᎟ᔃᔗ‧" "᎔ᔗ'Ëą ᶠⁱⁿᔉ➎ á”ˆá”’âż'á”— Ê·á”’ÊłÊłÊžâ€§ ᔆᔉᔉ ʞᔒᔘ!" áŽŸá”ƒá”—Êłâ±á¶œá” ʷᔃᔛᔉᔈ‧ á”†á”–á”’âżá”á”‰á”‡á”’á”‡ á¶œá”ƒÊłÊłâ±á”‰á”ˆ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ᔇᔃᶜᔏ á”—á”’ ᔗʰᔉ ᶜʰᔘᔐ ᔇᔘᶜᔏᔉᔗ‧ ᎎᔉ á”‰ËŁá”–ËĄá”ƒâ±âżá”‰á”ˆ á”—á”’ áŽ·á”ƒÊłá”‰âż á”‰á”›á”‰ÊłÊžá”—Ê°â±âżá” á¶ Êłá”’á” ʷʰᔃᔗ áŽŸËĄá”ƒâżá”á”—á”’âż ˹ᔃⁱᔈ á”‡á”‰á¶ á”’Êłá”‰ ᔒᔘᔗ á¶œá”’ËĄá”ˆâ€§ to be cont. Pt. 2
new patricktonbob planktrickbob goofygoobercore patbob plankrick goobercore icecreamcore highcore goofy goobers
KAREN HAS A LESSON pt. 3 (Autistic author) KAREN HAS A LESSON pt. 3 (Autistic author) "Sorry," Plankton says, his tone still flat. "Plankton, sorry. Plankton's brain different now. Difficult for Karen?" Karen shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes. "No, Plankton, you're still you," she says, trying to smile. "I just wanted to understand." Plankton nods, his gaze returning to the brain scan. "Understanding important," he says. "Plankton still loves Karen. Just different now. Permanent." Karen breaks at his words, but she knows he's trying. They sit in silence for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Karen takes a deep breath. "I love you, Plankton," she says, her voice steady. "And I'll always be here for you, no matter what." Plankton nods, his expression unchanged. "Karen love Plankton," he responds. "Plankton love Karen." They sit together on the couch, the silence between them heavy with the weight of their new reality. Karen tries to find comfort in the familiar rhythm of his words, but it's like hugging a statue. There's no warmth, no give. But she can tell by the look in his eye that it's present. "Plankton," she says softly, her voice trembling slightly. "Do you want to go to the anniversary dinner?" He pauses, his gaze unwavering from the brain scan. "Anniversary dinner," he repeats, as if tasting the words. Then, with a sudden nod, "Plankton will accompany Karen." Karen swells with hope. Maybe this wasn't the end of their connection. Maybe they could find a new way to be together. "But Plankton," she says, her voice tentative. "I need you to be comfortable. If going out is too much for you, we can do something else." Plankton's antennae twitch, his face contemplative. "Understood," he says after a moment. "Home dinner preferred. Less stimulating." Karen nods, feeling a weight lift slightly from her chest. "Okay," she says, swiping at a stray tear. "We can have dinner here. I'll make your favorite." Plankton's antennae perk up at the mention of food. "Karen cook?" he asks, his voice betraying a hint of excitement. Karen smiles, relieved at his interest. "Yes, I'll cook," she says. "How about some Chum?" Plankton nods eagerly. "Chum. Yes." Karen rises from the couch, determined to make the best of the situation. She heads to the kitchen, her mind racing with ideas for a simple yet delicious meal that would be easy on his senses. She chooses a recipe that doesn't have too many ingredients or smells that might overwhelm him. As she starts cooking, Plankton watches her with his newfound detachment, his eye following her movements with a clinical interest. It's as if he's studying her, trying to understand her actions. "Plankton," Karen says, trying to engage him, "can you help me set the table?" Plankton nods, his movements mechanical as he rises from the couch. He takes the plates and utensils she hands him and arranges them with meticulous precision. Each item is placed exactly 1.5 centimeters apart, the forks and knives aligned at a perfect right angle. It's something she's never noticed him do before, but it's a part of him now. As she stirs the pot of simmering chum, she glances over at him, his single eye focused intently on the task at hand. She wipes a tear from her eye, her heart heavy. But she can't dwell on the sadness. They have a life to live, and they'll figure this out together. "Plankton," she calls out, trying to keep her voice light. "Could you please grab the napkins?" He nods and heads to the drawer, his steps measured and deliberate. When he returns, he doesn't hand them to her but instead counts them out loud. "One, two." He holds up both napkins, one for each place setting. "Is this correct?" Karen nods, her smile tight. "Yes, thank you." She tries not to let the sadness seep into her voice. This was their new norm, a dance of understanding and patience that they were still learning. As they sit down to eat, Karen notices that Plankton doesn't touch his food until she does. "You don't have to wait for me," she says gently, trying to ease into their new routine. "You can start whenever you're ready." Plankton nods, his movements precise and deliberate as he takes his first bite. Karen watches him carefully, noticing that he's chewing his food much slower than normal. She wonders if it's because his sensory input has changed or if it's just part of the neurodivergence. They eat in silence, the only sound being the occasional clink of their utensils and the bubbling of the chum. Karen tries to think of something to say, something that won't cause him discomfort or confusion. But her mind is a whirlwind of questions and fears. "Plankton," she says tentatively, "Do you like the chum?" He nods, his movements methodical. "Chum. Yes. Good." His voice is still flat, but she can see the faintest glimmer of satisfaction in his eye. They continue their meal, Karen forcing down bites while her mind spins with a whirlwind of emotions. Fear, sadness, hope, and love all intermingling in a tumultuous storm. "Plankton," she says, her voice soft and tentative. "What are you thinking about?" He looks up from his plate, his eye focusing on her for a moment before returning to his food. "Thinking," he says, his voice monotone. "Plankton thinking about Karen. And Plankton with Karen." Karen aches at his response, but she tries to keep her expression neutral. "Do you like spending time with me?" she asks, desperation tingeing her voice. Plankton pauses, his eye flicking up to meet hers. "Plankton enjoys Karen's company." Karen clenches at his words, so devoid of the warmth they once held. But she knows she has to be patient, to give him space to navigate this new world. "Do you enjoy talking to me, Plankton?" He considers this for a moment before nodding. "Talking is good. Plankton learns things. Plankton feels safe." Karen feels a tear roll down her screen. "That's all I want," she whispers, reaching out to squeeze his hand. His grip is firm, but there's no warmth in it. It's as if he's trying to mimic the physical cue of comfort without understanding the emotional connection. "Karen crying sad?" He asks retreating his hand. "I'm sorry," she says, her voice cracking. "I didn't mean to hurt you earlier. I just wanted to spend our anniversary together." Plankton nods, his expression unreadable. "Understood," he says. "Anniversary. Special."
new karen has a lesson Karen x Plankton Karen & Sheldon J. Plankton plaren 3