after all, what are friends for?

-Shattered Fanto

[Just to get an idea of who she is as a character.]

H-Hi everyone!! I’m Abstract, Abstract the Bat! Eheheh… sorry, I’m a little shy. I’ve been told I’m talented since I can draw, sing, use powers, speak sign language, and the thing I like the most, my bow can turn into any weapon!! I really love space, especially the moon!! Uhm… that’s all really… I hope to have lots of fun!

Extra:

Super Sonic from Fleetway's Sonic Comic is being blended is being blended!!

Kirby, Bandana Waddle Dee, Meta Knight, and King Dedede from Kirby are being blended!!

•They’re agender and use they/she/he/it pronouns

•They’re a selective mute and use sign language to communicate

•^sometimes they quietly whisper to someone they’re close with

•It follows people around when he gets close to them and sometimes they’ll rest on the persons shoulder, head etc.

•Imagine them floating around at the bottom your feet and she looks up at you lifting it’s arms up to be carried or hugged teehee

•She has a completely bonkers obsession with cheesecake

•They’re definitely a liminal space enjoyer

•He’s always willing to listen to someone’s problems and be there for them

•He talks to other plushies, sentient or not.

•She stops her feet when it gets mad

•He chases his tails

•It’s little antenna is highly sensitive. No touchy.

•They like wearing little doll accessories

so here, like a "take one" bowl for anyone else stopping by :)

Okay, so, freshman year, I’m deep in my “everything sucks and I’m stuck with these assholes” mentality. My English teacher was a notorious hard-ass, let’s call him Mr. Hargrove. He was the guy every student prayed they didn’t get. And, on top of ALL OF THE SHIT I WAS ALREADY DEALING WITH, I had him for English.

One of the laborious assignments he gave us was to keep a daily journal. Daily! Not monthly or weekly. Fucking daily. Handwritten. And we had to turn it in every quarter and he fucking graded us. He graded us on a fucking journal.

All of my classmates wrote shit like what they did that day or whatever. But, I did not. No, sir. I decided to give the ol’ middle finger to the assignment and do my own shit.

So, for my daily journal entries, over the course of an entire year, I wrote a serialized story about a horde of man-eating slugs that invaded a small mining town. It was graphic, it was ridiculous, it was an epic feat of rebellion.

And Mr. Hargrove loved it.

It wasn’t just the journal. Every assignment he gave us, I tried to shit all over it. Every reading assignment, everyone gushed about how good it was, but I always had a negative take. Every writing assignment, people wrote boring prose, but I wrote cheesy limericks or pulp horror stories.

Then, one day, he read one of my essays to the class as an example of good writing. When a fellow student asked who wrote it, he said, “Some pipsqueak.”

And that’s when I had a revelation. He wanted to fight. And since all the other students were trying to kiss his ass, I was his only challenger.

Mr. Hargrove and I went head-to-head on every assignment, every conversation, every fucking thing. And he ate it up. And so did I.

One day, he read us a column from the Washington Post and asked the class what was wrong with it. Everyone chimed in with their dumbass takes, but I was the one who landed on Mr. Hargrove’s complaint: The reporter had BRAZENLY added the suffix “ize” to a verb.

That night I wrote a jokey letter to the reporter calling him out on the offense in which I added “ize” to every single verb. I gave it to Mr. Hargrove, who by then had become a friendly adversary, for a chuckle and he SENT IT TO THE REPORTER.

And, people… The reporter wrote back. And he said I was an exceptional student. Mr. Hargrove and I had a giggle about that because we both knew I was just being an asshole, but he and the reporter acknowledged I had a point.

And that was it. That was the moment. Not THAT EXACT moment, but that year with Mr. Hargrove taught me I had a knack for writing. And that knack was based in saying “fuck you” to authority. (The irony that someone in a position of authority helped me realize that is not lost on me.)

So, I can say without qualification that Mr. Hargrove is the reason I am now a professional writer. Yes, I do it for a living. And most of my stuff takes authorities of one kind or another to task.

My mother called the teacher, who looked at the essay I’d submitted, and said, “Someone graded this maliciously, you’re in the class.” (It had been graded by a third party.)

Later, he called her to ask if it was possible I’d plagiarized something because the writing was too mature. She laughed at him. And he believed her when she said I was too cocky to copy anyone else’s work, and from then on, he was my best English teacher at that school.