Armchair Psychics

One of the most goddamn irritating thing about having Asperger’s, is having to explain on a somewhat regular basis that I’m not irritated, upset, or “in the mood for killing”, when it looks like I am, which—ironically makes me angry and want to dissociate from all of humanity on a remote island so I don’t have to deal with that goddamn bullshit. Imagine being interrogated by cops. They’re laying into you hard and trying to get you to say something that you know is not true. That’s me. Every week. With everyone.

“Why do you look like you wanna kill everyone, Mitch?”, “why do you never smile, Mitch?”, “why do you never stop, say hi, and ask me how my day’s doing and all this other gay shit, Mitch?”, “why don’t you do all these things that I expect of you, while simultaneously expecting nothing of me because that would make you a good little cuck, Mitch?”

The answer to your simple-minded questions is a fittingly simple one: you’re an idiot. You think you’re a mind-reader, and I got news for ya, dumb fuck. You’re not. That feeling you have about what goes on in my head, the one that’s not your’s, yea. Sorry to shatter your hopes and dreams, but uh—you’re mistaken. Yea. It is possible, believe it or not: to think someone feels one way, but for them to actually feel an entirely different way than the way that you conceived of. I didn’t wanna believe it either. I know it sounds like hocus pocus now, but let the ol’ noggin sit on it. You’ll eventually realize hopefully, “oh yea, I don’t have access to that person’s brain, so I know fuck all about what they know, think, and feel.”

Or maybe you’ll just continue living this sad existence where you walk around all snooty, asking for people to rub your genitals and tell you how spot-on you were about their problems, Captain Hindsight. Hey, whatever works for you. I’m just saying ya know. Maybe if you don’t know something, don’t say ya do. Kinda sort of a common sense thing, ya know. Ya pick it up in first, second grade-ish. You obviously don’t know what I’m thinking. I don’t know what makes you think you can contest this. But yes. My brain’s in my head. Your brain’s in your head. That means that can read my mind, and you can read your mind. But that doesn’t mean I can read your’s and you can read mine.

So, here’s the thing. The situation often escelates like this.

Dumb ass: What’s wrong, Mitch?

Neutral Mitch: Nothing.

Dumb ass: Mmm. You’re in one of your moods, again.

Now Somewhat Irritated Mitch: Nope. Just—being. Can I do that?!

Dumb ass: Pfff. Well, good morning to you, too.

Fully Irritated Mitch in his Head: Ugh, if only I knew the correct answer—the key out of this perpetual, miserable conversation where I hear regurgitated, condescending bullshit I’ve been hearing since I was twelve. 

Dumb ass: Not talking to me now?

Still Irritated Mitch in his Head: (sigh) Patience. It’s your only option, Mitch.

Dumb ass: You’re gonna have to talk to me at some point, ya know.

Still Irritated Mitch in his Head: He’ll run out of steam soon. Just nod your head and be a yes man for a minute—for the fortieth fucking time today.

 

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