Six days out

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Down the rabbit hole

I woke up for the first time in months without pain and feeling totally refreshed. It was PERFECT… until a few minutes ago.

Then I picked up the phone just so they wouldn’t leave a pre-recorded message on my machine (which doesn’t let me delete messages because it’s a cheap pos) when OMG this happened:

“Hi, is this Jonathan?”

A live person wants to talk to me!

“Hi, Mr. Twaay-gear? I’m calling to let you know we can reduce your property insure…”

Of course.

Less then thirty minutes into my day, and it’s already ruined.

It’s not her fault. She has a job to do, and she clearly likes it as much as I do… but she just HAD to say: “n-no, don’t hang up! If you give us the make/model of the car you drive, we can also save you…”

I’m flattered that she thinks I can drive… even if its SOLELY so she can make money off it, but the emotional rabbit hole she effectively threw me into was what derailed my otherwise perfect morning,

The rabbit hole with various side burrows and booby traps, think of it like Oak Island in reverse. The worst part is I never know what’s going to trigger said hole – and then once I’m in it…

Good luck getting out of it, all on your own, without any help from anyone.

That’s the part that REALLY hurts me.

Sure, I can often distract myself for a moment or two but as long as it has even a little of my attention, I’m not out of it yet. It helps that these side burrows often lead to sad/traumatic memories often from years ago that I was never “allowed” to feel because that’s just not how teens/adults deal with things.

Nope.

The supposedly “correct” order of operations is: Alcohol, cigarettes, drugs or some combination thereof… and if all else fails therapy. The problem was, once my parents decided to get the latter for me, the school they sent me to didn’t provide the “safe, therapeutic environment” mentioned in their brochure.

No, you had to stick to THEIR script (whether it was true or not) and then they would flip anything you said against you without any help or guidance on their part. Cleaning up the mess they caused is YOUR responsibility not theirs. In fact, the closest thing they gave me to a “tool” was:

“You want to know what’s causing all of your problems? Look in a fucking mirror.”

Deep man. Really deep…. unfortunately, it’s not very, you know, helpful. I’ve tried looking in mirrors. All I see is a fat, ugly dude who needs to shave more often. I, however, have yet to find any SOLUTIONS there.

Yes, I know I look ridiculous ranting in a mirror about lowering the insurance rates on a car I don’t have but am expected to have anyway JUST so if I got hit by a car I can say “I lost my car and license after a really bad accident but I continued paying anyway just in case this happened.” To which they’d inevitably say, “you’re an IDIOT” – and they’d be right!

But nope, at least FOUR people at the hospital asked me for MY car insurance – even though I was the VIC… Oh, sorry, wouldn’t you know it? She has other calls to make.

In the meantime, my reflection and I have to find my own way out of this damned rabbit hole…

Cold coffee blues

So, I’m having a stressful evening mentally. I was going to get coffee at the Wawa on I-Drive to distract myself, but I decided self-care was more important. The lights of traffic outside (at 8pm no less) were blindingly bright (streetlights are pretty much non-existent in my area) and the mobile concerts were almost deafening at times, #sensoryhell neither helps with my perpetual headache so I came back inside.

Besides, LAST time I went to Wawa, I was forced to figure out how to react to someone sending this page a message about my personal profile being “banned” from an unspecified page (a kind of weird thing to do, plus it took me two and a half days to figure out which one).

The plus side is, I have more money for rent and bills. Oh, and I can still go out tomorrow morning if I really wanted to…

Battle of the bans

Yesterday, my Facebook page received a rather rude pm about it’s author being “banned” from an unspecified page, presumably for having an opinion of some sort (perish the thought).

That isn’t what bothers me, but what DOES is that I was probably supposed to feel something: mad, sad, guilty or like I was being “punished” for some vaguely described crime… but I didn’t.

I simply stood there for a moment in the middle of the Wawa with my newly acquired coffee in hand like “okay, that was petty, but why is she sending it to my page?”

I know she sent it for a REASON (however petty), and I knew I was supposed to react a certain way… but I didn’t. Am I cold, unfeeling or is ennui a viable option? I did send a cursory response when I got back to the apartment roughly 20 minutes later, but I was in too good of a mood to argue with her.

I was going to send her message at 9:35am (12 hours after the instantaneous response that I never read) but decided to simply delete it instead. I am 38 years old. Like it or not, I’m an “adult” now.

Thanks for reading this. I didn’t intend to go on so long, I just really needed to get this out of my system. Servus.

 

Update: We have another cold front passing through Orlando this week. So, I’m having a hot coffee, so far, nobody has “banned” either me and my “negative and insulting comments” or my overly positive Autism affirming page from anything… yet. (12/10/18)

 

Best 500th post ever

All of these memes have something in common. See if you can guess what it is.

Heroes in a hard-shell

I just got a quick snack at a national Mexican food chain on I-Drive. They were out of hard-shell tacos in the tray in front of her, so she went in back (I didn’t ask her to do this) to get some. She comes back with two (one short of the combo), and then immediately asks if I want “hard or soft shell?”

I said nothing, and she immediately snaps “what the hell you have to be so RUDE to me for?! It’s uncalled for.”

While I’m trying to figure out what’s she’s talking about, her (male) coworker at the next station leans in and gives me this “aw, sheet, you in trouble now” look.

“I ask you a simple question,” she continued, “and you got this look like I stupid or something. I wanna know WHY? Huh? HUH? Hmpph, that’s what I thought…”

“The irony is, only one of us is shouting.”

“I ain’t ‘shouting,’ I’m just trying to get your order. YOU’RE the one being all rude here for no reason. I just askin’ why, now what kind of ‘tacos’ do you want?”

“If it please the gentle lady,” I replied without a shred of sarcasm (which wasn’t easy), “may I have the finest diced chicken with-”

“Now, you just being a damned jerk. STOP IT!! Geez.”

Yea, sooo being polite is now “being a jerk,” and her coworker still said nothing.

“Get over yourself already. I mean, Jesus, you ain’t THAT important. Just drop the damned thing and tell me if you want on your tacos. It ain’t hard.”

“I wish it was THAT easy,” I said, she rolls her eyes, “but it’s not. Now may I please get…”

“See how easy that was? Do you want anything else?”

“Yes, I want your shouting to stop echoing around in my head so I can eat in peace.”

“That wasn’t my question: Do you want additional toppings or not?”

“No, thank you, kindly, ma’am.”

“Pay at the register,” she said coldly.

Fortunately, the cashier seemed friendly enough, and offered a quiet apology for the experience. While he sounded sincere enough, it wasn’t enough to save my meal.

The coffee (from the nearby Wawa) that I finished drinking while writing this post was decent enough, so there’s that…

 

P.S – I worked fast food so I know the kind of pressure they’re under to be fast and friendly ALL the time. It’s very taxing – especially on a Friday night when you’d rather be with your friends. Fortunately, all that justifies the rude behavior displayed towards me here.

Photo: An ecstatic announcement

Autism Pride Day

Photo: Five days out

Two sides, same coin

My dishwasher has been out of commission for the past week or so, but they finally sent someone up to “fix” it this afternoon – and by “fix” I mean they ran half an empty cycle before deciding it was “good enough” for me to use (even though that’s exactly what they did LAST time I reported this and obviously, it worked because I reported it again).

Since my dishwasher was out of service, I have been forced to hand wash my dishes, so I didn’t have a huge reserve available for a test load. However, I did it anyway, but since I hate the amount of noise it makes when it’s running so I went out to eat at the Golden Corral on I-Drive (in the plaza as Cici’s and 1-2-3 Dollar).

Anyway, I leave the apartment and when the trolley arrives, I sit in the front row behind the driver and across from a young family visiting from DC who were complaining that their 2yo daughter couldn’t get on any rides at the Magic Kingdom.

“Come on, you think Disney, you think ‘KIDS.’ So, of course, I took my kids (ages 2 and 1.5) with me, but the only ride they were tall enough to ride was fricken Dumbo. I’m sooo glad we paid all that money to get into a KIDS park without any kids rides. Grrr, what a rip-off (neglecting to mention that both of his kids got in free, and that height requirements for all rides are easily found online). We’re going to take the trolley to Discovery Zone or SeaWorld tomorrow afternoon – at least THEY have kids’ rides.”

“Actually, it’s Discovery COVE, and it’s a fairly far walk from the nearest troll-”

Suddenly, he leans forward and taps the driver on the shoulder, he then gestures towards me and says:

“Buddy here’s got a question for you.”

“Wait, I do? I was trying to-”

“No, no, buddy, it’s okay. You’re allowed to ask questions here. Go on, I got his attention for you.”

“What ‘question?’ I don’t HAVE a ‘question.’ Why do I need to come up with a question I don’t have to ask the driver when I was trying to tell you about Discovery Cove? Then he can answer the question you are forcing me to come up with, so you can justify getting his attention, so I can tell you more about SeaWorld and Discovery Cove.”

That’s the point when his real message finally hit me. Fortunately, because I’m crazy and stupid, he gave a nice summary of his ordeal…

“God, buddy, what is your problem? I’m trying to be NICE to you here, you freakin’ jerk.”

Am I your “buddy” or am I a “freakin’ jerk,” make up your mind? However, I have been doing this blog long enough to know “what is your problem” is an insult. Period. I can give a wonderful explanation of Aspergers’ and Autism completely on the fly (okay, not really), but it would invariably fall on deaf ears because no presumably smart and/or sane person likes (as a far blunter observer once put it) “being lectured by crazy-ass retards.”

The Golden Corral is stop 31, and when I got off “buddy” was his buddy again. Also, crossing southern I-Drive can be tricky at times, but I managed to get across pretty easily. The parking lot was unusually full, there was no line to get into the restaurant nor did I have any particular trouble finding a table.

I’m never sure if I’m supposed to wait for my server to stop by and “sign” my check or just go up to the buffet, but since the former is usually easier, that’s the one I chose. I came back to my booth and the check was signed so all was good.

She came back as I was eating to find out if I wanted another drink which I declined, but instead of going away, she stepped closer, taking my plate, asking what kind it was and I repeated I “wasn’t ready” for another drink at which point she makes a sassy comment about “I was asking for next time” and storms off as if I did something wrong (or at least not intentionally).

I go up to get my second (and last) round of food. I am nearly finished, and had opened my wallet to see if I had enough to give her a tip when I hear a sharp: “You want another root beer?”

I tried to tell her “no” because I was busy, but instead of going away, she comes right up to my table, essentially blocking me in and says “I couldn’t hear you from back there. What did you need again?”

“I’m trying to determine if I have enough money for a tip, so I can leave the restaurant without getting another drink.”

“Oh, let me see that… Oh, ’21.01’ that would make a ten percent tip $2, a fifteen percent tip $3 or a twenty percent tip $4. You never answered me if you wanted another root beer or not.”

Apparently, I’m an idiot.

“Well since I don’t have $4 on me, I guess I might as well give her 15%. Yes, I already answered your question: I said I needed to ‘figure out your tip so I can leave your store without getting another drink.’”

“There is something seriously WRONG with you,” she said as if I couldn’t hear her. “Who the hell gets scared by someone asking for another drink from four tables away?”

It was technically TWO, and she were saying it rather loudly – just as she had the “questions” poste above. At least she got out of my way to “ask” them. It wasn’t until I got the first exit door that I realized the irony of this evening’s conversations.

Fortunately, when I went to the discount grocery store next door, the cashier barely spoke to me. She coldly rung up my order, and we didn’t talk. It was quite refreshing actually… kind of like coming back to mostly clean dishes.