Timmy Emojis & Text

ᴮᴵᴿᵀᴴᴰᴬʸ ᶜᴬᴺᴰᴸᴱᔆ ᵇʸ ʳᵉᵈᵈⁱᵗ ᵘˢᵉʳ ᶻᵉⁿʳʸʰᵃᵒ ᵀⁱᵐᵐʸ ᵗʳⁱᵉᵈ ʰⁱˢ ʰᵃʳᵈᵉˢᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵇˡᵒʷ ᵒᵘᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠⁱᶠᵗᵉᵉⁿ ᶠˡⁱᶜᵏᵉʳⁱⁿᵍ ᶜᵃⁿᵈˡᵉˢ‧ ᴴᵉ ʰᵘᶠᶠᵉᵈ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵖᵘᶠᶠᵉᵈ‧‧‧ᵇᵘᵗ ᵗᵒ ⁿᵒ ᵃᵛᵃⁱˡ‧ ᴴᵉ ᵍˡᵃⁿᶜᵉᵈ ᵃᵗ ʰⁱˢ ᵐᵒᵗʰᵉʳ ʷʰᵒ ʰᵃᵈ ˢᵖᵉⁿᵗ ʰᵒᵘʳˢ ᵗᵒ ᵇᵃᵏᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ᵇᵉᵃᵘᵗⁱᶠᵘˡ ᶜᵃᵏᵉ⸴ ᵃⁿᵈ ʰᵉʳ ᵉˣᵖʳᵉˢˢⁱᵒⁿ ᵐᵃᵈᵉ ʰⁱᵐ ᶠᵉᵉˡ ᵘⁿᵇᵉᵃʳᵃᵇˡʸ ᵍᵘⁱˡᵗʸ‧ ᵀⁱᵐᵐʸ'ˢ ᵐᵒᵗʰᵉʳ ˢᵗᵃʳᵉᵈ ˢᵃᵈˡʸ ᵃᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᵘⁿʸⁱᵉˡᵈⁱⁿᵍ ᶠˡᵃᵐᵉˢ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵇᵃʳᵉˡʸ ᶠᵃˡᵗᵉʳᵉᵈ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠᵃᶜᵉ ᵒᶠ ᵀⁱᵐᵐʸ'ˢ ᶠᵉᵉᵇˡᵉ ᵃᵗᵗᵉᵐᵖᵗˢ ᵗᵒ ᵖᵘᵗ ᵗʰᵉᵐ ᵒᵘᵗ‧ ᔆʰᵉ ᵇˡⁱⁿᵏᵉᵈ ᵃ ᶠᵉʷ ᵗⁱᵐᵉˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠⁱʳˢᵗ ᵗᵉᵃʳˢ ˢᵗᵃʳᵗᵉᵈ ᶠᵃˡˡⁱⁿᵍ ᵈᵒʷⁿ ʰᵉʳ ᶠᵃᶜᵉ‧ ᵂʰⁱˢᵖᵉʳⁱⁿᵍ "ᴴᵃᵖᵖʸ ᴮⁱʳᵗʰᵈᵃʸ ᵀⁱᵐᵐʸ⸴" ˢʰᵉ ᵇˡᵉʷ ᵃ ᵍᵘˢᵗ ᵒᶠ ʷⁱⁿᵈ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ᵈᵃⁿᶜⁱⁿᵍ ˡⁱᵍʰᵗˢ ᵈⁱˢˢⁱᵖᵃᵗᵉᵈ ⁱⁿ ᵗᵒ ᵖᵘᶠᶠˢ ᵒᶠ ˢᵐᵒᵏᵉ‧ ᵀⁱᵐᵐʸ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'ᵗ ᵘⁿᵈᵉʳˢᵗᵃⁿᵈ ʷʰʸ ʰᵉ ᶜᵒᵘˡᵈⁿ'ᵗ ᵈᵒ ᵗʰᵃᵗ‧ ᴵᵗ ʰᵃᵖᵖᵉⁿˢ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸ ʸᵉᵃʳ; ʰⁱˢ ᵐᵒᵗʰᵉʳ ᵇᵃᵏᵉᵈ ᵃ ᵖᵉʳᶠᵉᶜᵗ ᶜᵃᵏᵉ⸴ ʰᵉ ᶠᵃⁱˡᵉᵈ ᵗᵒ ᵇˡᵒʷ ᵒᵘᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜᵃⁿᵈˡᵉˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢʰᵉ ᶜʳⁱᵉˢ‧ ᵀʰᵉ ᵒⁿˡʸ ᵗʰⁱⁿᵍ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᶜʰᵃⁿᵍᵉᵈ ʷᵃˢ ᵗʰᵉ ⁿᵘᵐᵇᵉʳ ᵒᶠ ᶜᵃⁿᵈˡᵉˢ‧ ᵀⁱᵐᵐʸ ʷᵉⁿᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵍᵒ ʰᵘᵍ ʰⁱˢ ᵐᵒᵗʰᵉʳ‧‧‧ᵇᵘᵗ ᵗᵒ ⁿᵒ ᵃᵛᵃⁱˡ‧ ᴴᵉ ᵐᵉʳᵉˡʸ ᵈʳⁱᶠᵗᵉᵈ ᵗʰʳᵒᵘᵍʰ ʰᵉʳ⸴ ᵃⁿᵈ ʰᵉ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'ᵗ ᵘⁿᵈᵉʳˢᵗᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵉⁱᵗʰᵉʳ‧

"🧑‍🦼🦽⚫"

𝖳𝖮 𝖢𝖧𝖠𝖭𝖦𝖤 𝖳𝖧𝖤 𝖶𝖮𝖱𝖫𝖣 pt. 11 Sequel to Autism And All by NeuroFabulous https://emojicombos.com/autism-and-all Read the Autism And All one first! The room feels like it's shrunk, the air thick with unspoken words. Chip's chest tightens, his eyes stinging. He'd never wanted to make his dad feel like this. Timmy looks at him, his expression full of sympathy. "It's okay," he says, his voice soothing. "He's just scared." They sit in silence for a while, the only sound the steady ticking of the clock on the mantel. Chip's mind is racing, trying to piece together what went wrong. How could something that brought Timmy so much joy cause so much pain for his dad? Timmy breaks the silence, his voice soft. "Sometimes, it's hard for people to accept help," he says. "Especially when it feels like you're trying to change them." He looks at Chip, his eyes understanding. "But you can't make anyone feel something they're not ready to." Chip nods, feeling a lump form in his throat. "But what do we do now?" He asks, desperation lacing his voice. Timmy shrugs. "Let's go apologize.." They find Plankton sitting on his bed in the bedroom. Chip's heart raced as they approached. "Dad," he starts, his voice shaking. "Timmy and I, we just want to say we're sorry." Plankton looks up, his eye twitching slightly. "You can't fix me." Timmy nods as Karen comes in. "But we can still be there for you," he says, his voice earnest. "And maybe, we can learn together." Plankton's gaze meets Timmy's, his expression unreadable. But before anyone can say another word, Plankton's body shifts. Suddenly, his eye glazed over, and he starts to rock back and forth, his hands flapping rapidly. "Dad?" Chip asks, his voice filled with fear; but Karen understands. "It's okay," Karen says. "It's one of his seizures." Timmy's eyes widen, his hands stilling in mid-air. "What's happening?" He asks. Karen explains in a calm, steady voice. "It's called a non-motor seizure. Sometimes it's just his brain doing its own thing. We have to be quiet and let it pass. This isn't the first time." Chip watches as Plankton's body rocks back and forth, his eye unfocused. He feels a rush of fear and helplessness. This is his dad, his hero, reduced to this by something he can't control. Timmy nods, his eyes never leaving Plankton. Karen quickly moves to Plankton's side. "Remember, Chip," she whispers, her voice calm. "Just let it run its course. It's like a storm passing through." Chip nods, his eyes glued to his dad's trembling form. Timmy sits silently beside them, his hands still in his lap as Plankton's seizure unfolds. His rocking becomes more pronounced, his breathing shallow and rapid. Karen holds his hand, her expression a mask of concern. "It's okay, sweetie," she murmurs. "You're sa-" But Plankton's body jolts, his eye rolling back in his head. Chip watches his dad's autistic behavior take over in a way he's never seen before. Timmy's eyes are wide with shock. "Is he okay?" He whispers to Karen. She nods. "It'll be over soon," she promises. "It's just part of his autism." The minutes drag on, each second feeling like an eternity. Plankton's seizure subsides, his body finally still. His breathing evens out, and the color starts to return to his cheeks. Chip feels a weight lift from his chest. "It's over," Karen whispers, her hand still gripping Plankton's. Timmy looks at Chip, his eyes full of unspoken questions. Plankton slowly opens his eye. Timmy's eyes are full of concern. "Are you okay, Mr. Plankton?" But Plankton doesn't answer. He's staring at something on the wall, something only he can see. His hand reaches out, flapping slightly, as if trying to grab onto an invisible thought. But Karen's been through this before. She knows what to do. She whispers to Timmy, "It's okay. This is just his brain's way of handling too much input." Timmy nods, his eyes glued to Plankton. As Plankton's body slowly relaxes, his voice starts, a string of words that don't quite make sense. "The... the...the...spoons," Plankton says, his voice distant. Chip and Timmy exchange confused glances. Karen squeezes Plankton's hand. "It's okay, baby," she whispers. "You're okay." Plankton's eye moved around the room, his hands flapping slightly. "The... the...the...spoons," he repeats. Karen's face relaxes into understanding. "Echolalia," she whispers to Chip and Timmy. "It's a way his brain reboots after a seizure." Timmy nods, his gaze still on Plankton. "I know about that," he says. "It's like my brain's playing back a tape of everything that's happened, trying to make sense of it." Plankton's voice gradually gains clarity. "The spoons...they...they're..." Chip watches, his heart in his throat, as his dad's hand still flutters in the air, his eye unfocused. "It's a sensory thing," Karen says, keeping her voice low. "Sometimes, his brain gets overwhelmed." Plankton's voice grows stronger, the words more random. "The...the...did," he says, his hand moving in patterns that seem to have a rhythm only he can understand. "They were...were...were..." Karen's eyes never leave Plankton's, her gaze full of patience and love. "Just breathe, baby," she says, her voice soothing. "Take your time.." Timmy watches, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern. "What's he saying?" He whispers. "It's okay," Karen reassures both Timmy and Chip. "It's just his brain trying to find it's bearings. Just let him find his way back." Plankton's words become more nonsensical, his hand still moving through the air as his voice cracks. "They...they were...were..." His eye flickers, and he swallows hard. "They were always...always..." Timmy's eyes never leave Plankton's, his gaze filled with understanding and compassion. He's been here before, in his own way. His hands start to move slightly again, as if he's trying to connect with Plankton's thoughts. "It's okay," he whispers. "You don't have to push." But Plankton's voice doesn't listen. "They were always...always... were...were...pats," he says, his hand moving in a pattern that makes no sense to him. Chip feels his heart break for his dad. This isn't the first time he's seen a seizure, but every time, it's like watching a piece of Plankton get taken away, leaving behind a man who's lost in his own world. Timmy, though, seems to understand. He reaches out his own hand, mirroring Plankton's movements. "It's okay," he says again. "We're here for yo-" But Plankton isn't listening. "They were always...were...pats," he repeats, his voice getting louder. "They were always pats!" He starts to chuckle. "Pats, pats, pats!" His hand hits the bed. Karen smiles sadly. "Plankton, I see you," she says, her voice a whisper. "You'll come back to us." Chip watches, his heart racing. Timmy's eyes are wide with understanding. He's seen this before in himself. "It's okay," he says, his voice calm. "You can come back whenever you're ready." Plankton's hand still flaps. "I'm here, Mr. Plankton," Timmy says. "You're not al—" But Plankton's voice rose in pitch. "The...tck...tck..." He's ticcing now, Chip realized. Each syllable punctuated with a sharp, staccato twitch of his face. "Tck...tck...tck..." Karen's grip on Plankton's hand tightens slightly, her eyes full of love and understanding. "You're okay," she murmurs, her voice steady. "Just let it out. It's okay." Karen turns to them. "This helps him," she whispers. "It's like...like releasing pressure." Timmy nods, his own hands still in his lap. "I get tics too," he says, his voice barely audible. "But not like that." He looks at Chip. "Sometimes it's ju—" But then, with a blink, Plankton comes back to himself. He looks around the room, confused. "What...what happened?" He asks, his voice slurred. Karen smiles gently. "You had a seizure, sweetie," she says. "But you're okay now."

𝖳𝖮 𝖢𝖧𝖠𝖭𝖦𝖤 𝖳𝖧𝖤 𝖶𝖮𝖱𝖫𝖣 pt. 12 Sequel to Autism And All by NeuroFabulous https://emojicombos.com/autism-and-all Read the Autism And All one first! Timmy watches him, his expression a mix of empathy and curiosity. "Is that normal?" He asks, his voice soft. Karen nods. "It's part of his autism," she says. "And his seizures. Sometimes his brain just needs a moment to recalibrate." Plankton looks at Timmy, his eye searching. "Do you...do you ever feel like that?" He asks, his voice tentative. Timmy nods. "Sometimes," he admits. "But not like that. My tics are more... predictable." He shows them his hands, which have started to move again. "It's like...like a little dance my brain does." The room feels a little less heavy as Plankton's tics slow, his hand coming to rest. "It's okay," Timmy says, his voice gentle. "We're here." Plankton nods, his gaze flitting around the room before settling on Chip. "I'm sorry," he says, embarrassed. "You don't have to apologize," Karen says, stroking his arm. "It's just part of who you are." But Plankton's eye is still on Chip, his expression uncertain. "I don't want you to be scared of me," he says. Timmy looks from Plankton to Chip, his eyes thoughtful. "You know," he says, "I used to think my tics were something to hide. Something wrong with me." He pauses. "But then I realized, they're just how my brain works. And sometimes, they're even pretty cool." He grins, his hands moving in a complex pattern. "Like, if I flap just right, I can make things fall over." He laughs, his eyes sparkling. Chip can't help but smile at Timmy's candidness. Plankton, though, remains silent. Timmy's words hang in the air, a gentle reminder that autism isn't just about the struggles, but the unique quirks that make them who they are. Chip's mind whirls with the weight of his dad's apology. "You don't have to be sorry for being you," Chip says finally, his voice shaking. Plankton looks at him, his expression unreadable. "But I don't want you to be afraid," he says. "I don't want you to think I'm a monster." Timmy's smile fades. "You're not," he says firmly. "You're my friend's dad. And you're a person, just like me." Karen nods, her screen shiny with unshed tears. "He's right, Plankton," she says. "You're more than just your autism." But Plankton's gaze remains fixed on Chip. "I just want you to understand," he says. "I'm not like everyone else." Chip swallows hard, his throat tight. "I do," he whispers. "I see you." Timmy then shifts. "I've to go, but I'll see you at school, Chip!" Timmy leaves, and Chip moves closer to his dad. "Dad," he says, his voice quiet. "I'm not afraid of you. I'm afraid f-for you." Plankton's eye blinks, his hand stopping momentarily. "You don't have to hide from me," Chip continues. "Your tics, your stims, your seizures...they're just part of who you are." The next day, Timmy goes to the Krusty Krab to get himself a Krabby Patty. Mr. Krabs, the owner of the Krusty Krab restaurant, sees Timmy waving his hands. Mr. Krabs, a burly red crab known for his love for money and quick temper, doesn't understand Timmy's behavior. "What's the ruckus for?" He barks. Timmy's eyes dart around, his hands flapping faster. "I-I-I'm just...just..." He stammers, his words tangling in his mouth. Mr. Krabs raises an eyebrow. "Ye okay, kid?" He asks, his tone gruff but concerned. Timmy nods, his hands still moving. "I'm just excited," he says, his voice quick. "I-I-I like Krabby Patties." Mr. Krabs' expression shifts. "What's wi-" "I have autism," Timmy says, his voice clear. "It makes me flap and talk fast when I'm excited." Mr. Krabs looks confused, his claws paused mid-air. "A- uh...what's that?" He asks, his usual gruffness replaced by curiosity. Timmy takes a deep breath. "It's like my brain works different," he explains. "Some things are hard for me, but I see things others might miss. It's a type of...neuro-diversity. My grandma has it as well, and they think I've inherited it. It can manifest in different ways, being why it's called Autistic Spectrum. I've always been this way! There's no 'cure' but I'm proud of who I am. Autism is classified as a disability, yet it's also a gift, really. And sorry for rambling on, sir.." Mr. Krabs nods thoughtfully. "So, what exactly is the autism spectrum? And what type of disability is it?" He asks Timmy. Timmy smiles, happy to explain. "The autism spectrum is like a rainbow of brains," he says. "Some people are at one end and others are at the other, and everyone's different. It's like we're all unique snowflakes, but with brains instead of snow." He pauses, then continues. "It means we process things differently. Some of us have challenges with social interactions or sensory overload.." Mr. Krabs nods slowly, his claws still. "So, it's like, sometimes you see a Krabby Patty and it's just so good you can't help but wave your hands?" He asks, his eyes twinkling with the beginnings of understanding. Timmy laughs, his hands stopping for a moment. "Sort of," he says. "But it's more than just being happy. Sometimes it's hard to communicate or deal with too much noise or touch." Mr. Krabs looks concerned. "What do ye mean?" Timmy takes a deep breath, his hands starting to flap again. "Well, if it's too loud or too bright, or if someone touches me in a way that feels weird, my brain gets overwhelmed. It's like my brain is a computer and it's trying to run too many programs at once. It can be really tough." Mr. Krabs' expression softens. "I had no idea," he says. "But you're still a good kid." Timmy nods, his smile genuine. "And it's okay to ask questions," he adds. "That's how we learn. And as for communicating, it can be hard for an autistic person to find the right words, but it doesn't mean we don't have anything important to say. But misunderstandings can happen because of it. And the big emotions can come out in ways that seem unexpected. So my flapping is a way to communicate my joy. And it's important to let us express ourselves without judgment." Mr. Krabs looks down at his claws, realizing their potential for harm. "I'm sorry if I made ye uncomfortable, Timmy," he says, his voice low. "I didn't mean to. I just...I don't think I've ever really talked to someone with autism before." Timmy's hands still. "It's okay," he says. "Lots of people don't know what it's like. That's why it's important to tell them. And it can be hard to tell, because everyone's experience is so different." Mr. Krabs nods, his eyes thoughtful. "I see," he says. "So, what can I do to make your dining experience here today more comfortable? I want to make sure you're happy." Timmy's smile grows. "Well, thank you, Mr. Krabs," he says. "Could I maybe sit in a quieter corner?" He suggests. "And maybe I could have my Krabby Patty without the pickles?" Mr. Krabs' eyes widen. "Of course, Timmy," he says, snapping his claws. "I'll get that taken care of right away." He turns to his staff. "Ye heard the boy!" He barks. "Give Timmy a VIP seat and get him his Krabby Patty, no pickles, and make it snappy!" The employees jump into action, and within moments, Timmy is seated in a quiet corner of the restaurant, his Krabby Patty steaming on the table in front of him. Mr. Krabs sits down opposite him. "So, tell me more about this autism thing," he says, his eyes genuinely curious. "How does it affect folks?" Timmy takes a bite of his sandwich, savoring the taste. "Well," he says thoughtfully, his chewing slowing down. "It's like we see the world through a different lens. Some of us have super senses—like I can hear the fryer sizzling from across the room, and noise can hurt my ears—but others might not notice at all." Mr. Krabs leans in with interest. "And what about stimming?" He asks. "Is that what you call it when you wave your hands around?" Timmy nods, swallowing his food. "Yes," he says. "Stimming is self-stimulating behavior. It helps us focus and deal with the sensory input. Like, when I'm excited about something, I flap. That's just my own way of stimming. But not all autistic people do." Mr. Krabs nods, his claw tapping the table. "And what about social stuff?" He asks. Timmy thinks for a moment. "Some of us find it hard to read social cues," he says. "It's like everyone's playing a game of charades, and we don't know the rules. And some people might not like to be touched, or they might not understand jokes right away. But that doesn't mean we don't have feelings or want to be friends." Mr. Krabs considers this, his eyes thoughtful. "So, it's like each one of ye has a secret handshake, but it's not really a handshake at all?" Timmy grins. "Exactly!" He says. "Everyone's got their own way of saying hello. And it's okay if we don't always get it right. What's important is trying to understand each other." Mr. Krabs nods slowly. "I see," he says. "I wanna make sure that everyone who comes here feels welcome. I mean, all the autistic folks." Timmy's eyes lit up. "Thank you," he says. "That means a lot!"