Nov 22nd 2016

Weaponized Autism in People suck. Cats are awesome. Dogs are alright.

  •  Nov. 22, 2016, 9:17 p.m.
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I don’t care whether you’re right or wrong. I don’t care how valid or logical your point is. I don’t care how necessary you think the conversation is. If I’m overstimulated, you’re going to back the hell off or you might very well wind up in the hospital and I might very well wind up in jail.
It took the Male a while to learn that, but he seems to have, finally. As I sit in my room, blaring Nine Inch Nails “Reptile” at deafening volume on my headphones, focusing on taping up a box to mail to a friend.
When I left the room he was trying to show me something. To back up his case. Validate the cause in some trivial argument. And intellectually, I know he might be right. But intelligence isn’t the only thing at work here. I said “show it to me tomorrow, when I feel less like killing you”. He said, “of course you don’t want to see it. It’ll prove you’re wrong!”.
No, you blockheaded Neanderthal, as I have far too often explained, when I tell you to hold up, to wait, to stop, there is an extremely valid reason for that, and YOU SHOULD F@#$ING LISTEN.
So I came to my room, and at least he has enough active dendrites to know better than to pursue me.
Right now I could chop his head to pieces with that hatchet that I keep by the door, (we live in a “rough”neighborhood), and feel nothing but satisfaction. And maybe a twinge of disgust at the incredible mess that would make. Tomorrow I’d feel not remorse, but fear of incarceration. Tomorrow night I’d probably be crying, finally making the emotional connection, and remembering all of the good things he’s done for me over the years.
But when I’m on the verge of or having a meltdown, all I feel is hate and rage. No conscience. No guilt. No love. No nothing.
He should be grateful that I have the foresight, from vast experience, to know that I will love him again in a day or two, (or three, or ten, depending upon the situation), and therefore not to just dump him now, out right.
He should have a little more respect for the incredible amount of effort that it takes to not just dump him, out right, when he pushes me, unintentionally or not, into this state.
In this condition I’m coiled rattlesnake. A bomb. Don’t f@#$ with me.

Last updated November 22, 2016

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