QUIZ: A, B, or C? Your Answers Might Just Explain Your Entire Life
A personality journey through school, love, work, and everything in between 💫
From your first gold star to your last group chat, the choices you make (and the ones made for you) shape the person you become. Take our quiz to find out which life path feels most like yours. Will you coast, climb, stumble, or survive? Are you thriving—or just trying to get by?
Pick the options that feel most familiar. Trust your instincts. You’ll see which route reflects your experience best—A, B, or C.
No right answers. Just real ones.
She was born like most of us into waiting arms, tagged with a name that fit her wrinkly, puffed out face. A name that would define her.
She wasn’t Madeline. Or a Dynasty.
We’ll call her Sarah. Or Jane or Julia. It doesn’t really matter.
What’s in a name when you’re destined for nothing?
From her first outraged screams and her mother’s nipple thrust into her mouth, she was entirely unremarkable.
As most are.
She cried like we all do.
She fed, she slept, she soiled.
→ Was she a “good fit” at school?
- A – She wore her blazer right. Got gold stars for neat handwriting. Her mum donated to the PTA. When she called a boy a prick in Year 10, the headteacher laughed. “Fiery, isn’t she?”
- B – She got stopped in the hallway for wearing trainers. She was on report by Year 8 for “attitude.” When her locker was broken into, they searched her bag. Said it was “routine.” She got excluded after a fight she didn’t start. No one asked what he’d called her.
- C – She twitched. She flapped. She laughed at the wrong time. They called her “a disruption.” Someone filmed her melting down. It went around the school group chat with clown music over it. She bit herself in the toilets and got detention for vandalism.
→ Was she taught what she needed to know?
- A – They taught her about periods, condoms, and boundaries. She asked if it was okay to say no. The teacher smiled and said, “Of course, darling.”
- B – Her sex ed class didn’t mention girls. When she asked about pleasure, they laughed. At 15, she had to Google how to tell if it was rape. She still isn’t sure what counts.
- C – Her PE teacher groped her to “correct posture.” The school called it “unfounded.” They never explained how her body worked—just told her not to touch anyone. She learned about consent through fanfiction. It was the only place she saw herself.
→ Did she leave home?
- A – She moved into halls with a Monzo card and a crockery set from John Lewis. Her dad wired her money “just in case.” Her flatmate braided her hair before nights out.
- B – She got into uni but not into halls. Slept in a hostel the first week. Worked in a takeaway till 2am. Her landlord let himself in. Her first year project was a presentation on food stamps. She failed. She had no laptop.
- C – She left home because it wasn’t safe. Slept on a stranger’s floor with a chair wedged under the door. Signed up under her deadname because the system wouldn’t let her change it. Couldn’t afford hormones. Bought them off Reddit.
→ Did she make it work?
- A – She volunteered at an NGO and networked at book launches. Her godmother helped with rent. She submitted her application for a grad scheme and got three callbacks. She chose the one with flexi-Fridays.
- B – She got stopped and searched three times in six months. Once for a “matching profile” near a stolen bike. She did three nights in a cell for possession of something her white flatmate said was theirs. She missed a shift and got fired.
- C – She got beaten in the street outside a gay bar. They broke her wrist and spat in her face. The police said “it’s your word against theirs.” She lost her job because she couldn’t type. She said it was a cycling accident. They didn’t ask.
→ Did she marry?
- A – He proposed in Barcelona. They posted it on Instagram with a picture of churros and matching rings. The venue had fairy lights. Her dress cost three grand and no one asked who was paying.
- B – She married a man who didn’t love her but got her out of the country. He said she owed him. She lived in fear of paperwork. When he left, he took the microwave and her passport. She still calls it a love story.
- C – She married someone who called her “beautiful” in the way she always wanted. But the certificate had the wrong name. The hospital refused to call her next of kin. When her partner died, the morgue called her “sir.” She screamed till her throat bled.
→ Did she have time to rest?
- A – She took up pottery after her second maternity leave. Did Couch to 5K at 46. Hosted cheese nights with women named Claire and Jo. Her boss called her indispensable. Her GP referred her for “mild anxiety” and she got six sessions of CBT.
- B – She worked until her hips gave out. Got moved to a back room, then let go. Her PIP got denied twice. She learned to microwave porridge while lying down. The church gave her groceries. She missed three funerals because she couldn’t afford the travel.
- C – She spent most days horizontal. Pain made everything slow. The GP called it psychosomatic. She learned to ration meds by symptom severity. Her partner said they’d grow old together, but didn’t. She kept the mug that said “We’ll Make It.” It cracked. She used it anyway.
→ Was she remembered?
- A – Her daughter gave a speech with a slideshow of baby photos. Her husband sobbed. They planted a tree. Everyone wore lilac, her favourite colour. Her name was in the newsletter at her old workplace. They called her kind.
- B – Her neighbour found her. The TV was still on. Her sister paid for the funeral. They used a stock photo of lilies on the order of service. One friend came. They hadn’t spoken in years. No one from the council ever called her back.
- C – Her death certificate used the wrong name. The vicar refused the eulogy she’d written herself. The landlord cleared the flat before her friends arrived. Her toothbrush was in the bin. Her name trended for twelve hours. Then the news cycle moved on.
She lived.
She lived.
She lived.
Like you.
Your favourite colour, borrowed from someone cooler at the time.
Your untouched dreams in a drawer next to the paracetamol.
Your voice, lowered year by year.
She didn’t vanish.
She was never really here.
And neither, are you.
Choose.
He was born like most of us into waiting arms, tagged with a name that fit their wrinkly, puffed out face. A name that would define him.
He wasn’t a Clive. Or a Barack.
We’ll call him Tom. Or Dave or Jake. It doesn’t much matter really.
What’s in a name when you’re destined for nothing?
From his first outraged screams and his mother’s nipple thrust into his mouth, he was entirely unremarkable.
As most are.
He cried like we all do.
He fed, he slept, he soiled.
→ Did they cheer when he arrived?
- A – His father raised a toast. “A boy!” The nurse called him perfect. The name had been passed down three generations. Photos went on Facebook by morning. They said he looked like a leader.
- B – His mother clutched him close. The midwife didn’t smile. Someone asked if the father was “involved.” She filled out the forms alone. His name was mispronounced before he was out of the cot.
- C – They paused at “It’s a…” and stumbled. The form said “F.” The nurse made a joke. His mother didn’t laugh. The first time someone called him “she,” he screamed. No one understood why.
→ Did he walk on time?
- A – Yes. By the book. His parents clapped and recorded it. “You’re so strong,” they said. “So clever.” He was given a mini rugby ball and a T-shirt that said “Little Legend.”
- B – He walked early, but no one noticed. His mum was working three jobs. The babysitter filmed it, but the file corrupted. His aunt said he’d be running from cops before he turned ten. No one disagreed.
- C – He walked with a wobble. They called it delayed. Physio said “unusual gait.” His parents worried. His nursery flagged him for “noncompliance.” He just wanted to walk without everyone watching.
→ Was his name easy to pronounce?
- A – It was easy. Short. Strong. Familiar. The teacher read it like it was already carved in a trophy. He got birthday cards from the headteacher. Everyone said it sounded like a CEO.
- B – They stumbled. Laughed. Asked if they could call him something shorter. By Year 2, he was “J.” It was easier that way. He stopped correcting people. His name didn’t fit on the school jumper tags anyway.
- C – It didn’t match his voice, or his face, or his chest. He asked them to use a different one. They said no, not until the paperwork changed. He didn’t speak for the rest of term.
→ Was he safe at school?
- A – He was disruptive sometimes. Called out, threw a pen, once punched a wall. They called it “energy.” Gave him sports. Told his parents, “Boys will be boys.”
- B – He wore his hoodie up once and got sent home. Got stopped by police outside the Co-Op. Matched a profile. When a white kid threw a chair, he got detention. When he did it, he got the school cop.
- C – He used the wrong bathroom and got shoved. Asked for a name badge with the right pronouns and got silence. The counsellor said “It’s a phase.” The other boys locked him in a cupboard during PE.
→ Did he fall in love?
- A – He met her at 16. She wore lip gloss and laughed at his jokes. They kissed under the bleachers and everyone clapped. Their prom photos made the family calendar.
- B – He dated quietly. No holding hands in public. When her father found out, he got a restraining order. The police called it a misunderstanding. He still remembers the sound of the door slamming shut.
- C – He fell for someone who saw him. Who called him “he” without being told. But they didn’t kiss in public. Didn’t hold hands. Their parents never met. When she was attacked, he wasn’t allowed in the ambulance.
→ Was his body his?
- A – He lost his virginity on a camping trip. It was fumbly, consensual, forgettable. He told his mates. They cheered. “She lucky or what?” they said. He shrugged and grinned.
- B – He was told to be the man. She cried. He apologised. Said he didn’t know what went wrong. She said he didn’t either. Her brother hit him. No one called the police.
- C – He didn’t say yes. Or no. Froze when it happened. Later, someone said “but you’re not really a guy, right?” He bled for hours and said nothing. Didn’t eat for days. Cut his hair short. Felt cleaner.
→ Did he go to university?
- A – Yes. His mum cried when the offer came. His dad bought him a laptop. He joined the rowing team and hosted pre-drinks in a house his parents helped rent. Everyone called him “a good lad.”
- B – He went. Barely. Commuted three hours a day and held two part-time jobs. Got stopped and searched outside the library—matched another profile. Missed his midterm because he was in holding. Failed it. No extensions. No appeal.
- C – He got in. Deferred. Tried again. They wouldn’t let him enrol under his real name. Student services “couldn’t accommodate.” He stayed home. Watched lectures on YouTube. Took notes he couldn’t submit.
→ Did he work?
- A – His godfather knew someone in publishing. He started on £28k. By 27, he had a team under him. The intern who called him “sir” too often was let go. He told himself he earned it.
- B – He applied to twenty-three jobs. Got one call back. They asked if he had “reliable transport.” When the till was short £5, they searched his bag. He took a break to visit his mum in hospital. Came back to “position no longer available.”
- C – He worked under the wrong name. Got misgendered on emails. Applied for funding and was told his identity didn’t match his paperwork. Worked freelance, got ghosted on invoices. His binder cracked a rib. He kept working.
→ Was he punished?
- A – Once, for weed at a party. The police let him off with a caution and a wink. “Boys will experiment.” His dad made a donation to the department.
- B – He spent six months in prison for “resisting arrest.” There’s no video. Just two cops’ word and his broken wrist. It’s hard to find work now. “Formerly incarcerated” doesn’t fit neatly on a CV.
- C – He was arrested for defending himself. They found him bleeding outside a bar with a broken bottle in his hand. His attacker walked away. The officer called him “miss.” The paramedic refused to touch him until he explained what he was.
→ Did he marry?
- A – Yes. She wore ivory. He wore a navy suit. The best man cried. Their vows were printed on handmade paper. Their honeymoon was in the Maldives. They still hold hands in Waitrose.
- B – He married late. She kept her surname. They argued about bills, about race, about how to raise their son. But they loved. When the neighbours called the police on their BBQ, she held his hand. He didn’t flinch when they arrived.
- C – He married in a registry office where no one said “Mr and Mr.” Their rings didn’t match—one bought, one passed down. When she died, his in-laws didn’t let him speak at the funeral. The priest said “daughter.” He walked out.
→ Did he have children?
- A – Two. He coached their football team. Took paternity leave and made banana pancakes on weekends. He told them they could be anything. They believed him.
- B – One. She calls him “daddy” with a defiance he lives for. He cries at her school plays. When the teacher confused him for the janitor, she corrected them. He smiled like he’d won.
- C – None. Not allowed. Not safe. Not possible. He tried, once. The adoption board said “unstable environment.” He wrote his unborn son a letter every year on his birthday. It filled a box under his bed.
→ Did he rest?
- A – He retired at 64. Moved to Cornwall. Took up birdwatching and sourdough. He wears slippers before 6 and calls it a day well lived.
- B – He worked until his spine said no. Got denied disability pay. Begged his landlord not to raise the rent. Eats toast for dinner. Says he’s grateful. Doesn’t sound like it.
- C – He stopped working when they stopped calling him back. Still wakes up at 6 out of habit. He sits on his floor, in the quiet, and imagines what his name would sound like if said with love.
→ Was he remembered?
- A – The funeral was tasteful. Polished oak, cream roses, eulogy by a colleague. His children recited poems. His name is carved on a granite headstone beneath a tree.
- B – The undertaker spelled his name wrong. The priest got the year wrong. His daughter lit a candle. His wife buried him with his worn-out wallet. There was no headstone. Just a patch of grass she visits on Sundays.
- C – The council cremated him unclaimed. His real name was never on the record. A friend posted about him online. It got a few likes. The landlord sold his mattress. The charity shop refused his clothes.
They lived.
Like you.
Your favourite colour, borrowed from someone cooler at the time.
Your untouched dreams in a drawer next to the paracetamol.
Your voice, lowered year by year.
They didn’t vanish.
They were never really here.
And neither, are you.
Choose.
Your Results ✨
Mostly A: You got lucky. Let’s be honest, the world bent toward you more often than it broke you. You still had to show up—but the ground was less shaky. You’re the kind of person who gets called “hard-working” while others get called “angry.” Just remember: ease isn’t the same as effortlessness. And you don’t have to feel guilty. Just aware.
Mostly B: You survived the tightrope. You’ve balanced between rules and reality, always aware of the edge. You’ve worked twice as hard for half the credit, and you’ve still managed to show up for others. You’re the reason people think grit is admirable. But grit shouldn’t be a requirement. Rest is your right.
Mostly C: The system fucked you. Let’s not sugarcoat it. You’ve been erased, mislabeled, sidelined, and gaslit—and still, you persisted. Not out of inspiration, but necessity. You are here despite it all. That’s not resilience. That’s resistance. And no quiz result can capture the weight of that.
What now?
You could scroll on. Or you could sit with it.
That part’s up to you.
#LifePathQuiz #UnderlandTestsYou #MostlyCClub
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