Monthly Archives: April 2012

a blind date

My friends have grown weary of my preference for isolation. Their orchestrating a blind date was the preferred method of intervention, and to me is truly an endearing gesture. Had I any grace left these sentiments, my coal of a heart would’ve undoubtedly twitched. I’m not a sociopath, of course, I gather this gesture to be a testament of their faith in me. I didn’t waste time applying faith in myself, and with all else, my faith was half-assed and retractable. This meant my homies were the only ones who really had any hope for me. Of course, I’m not an ass (at least, when it involved amour from my homies), and so, consented to their subconscious wager and went on a blind date with a bird named Bea. Entirely disregarding what Nietzsche said about hope being the first sign of defeat.

I’ve never been anything short of an oddball or a nervous wreck when it came to dating. Oftentimes, both. In person, I am not as articulate as when I write. (My physical body had a fallout with my brain, and the two have been estranged ever since.) But with Bea, I had a plan. I remember always having, needing to be adored by the flowered suitors I was sentenced to. All the while in the back of my mind sat this tormenting feeling of impending panic had my dates not even bother to bat their lashes. That made me an odd-er-ball and blighted whatever wrecked nerves I had left. But I had a scheme for Bea. Sometimes, the girl would stick around for more, to catch the rest of the show. That made things worse because I was then accused of being disinterested and inattentive. But Bea wouldn’t be berating me with that bullshit, not with the strategy I’ve got bakin’ in the oven. I’d always rebuked those accusations with pretty good material, but I could never admit to them that I really was guilty of their accusations. Sort of. I mean, there had to be something wrong with a girl that wanted to see the rest of the nervous odd-er-ball wreck show, and in the front row. I’ve cooked up a plan for Bea, because I have, at last, caught onto how often I’m really checked by disappointments. They really know how to tire you out in the ring.

Then came the night Bea and I were to finally meet. We were to rendezvous at a dive downtown, which was, impressively, her idea. I was early. I remembered having been to this bar before. For a friend’s homecoming. I thought about the night of my friend’s homecoming, as I ordered lager and a shot of whiskey then took the shot as soon as it arrived. As I chased the shot with the lager I realized it didn’t make any sense to have my friend’s homecoming night at a dive in downtown because we all lived about a half hour’s drive from Downtown L.A., and not only that, we didn’t have our drinking licenses when he departed the first time. We always went to the local poolhall to drink because the employees there were incomprehensibly lax in checking I.D.’s. ‘We should’ve gone there.’ I muttered. The bartender walked over and told me to come again. I told him I was telling myself something then told him I was waiting for a blind date. He looked at me with curled eyebrows for a moment, then I clarified that my date wasn’t actually blind. The bartender threw his head back like someone who’d just remembered where they left their car keys and gleefully shouted,

‘Oooh, a blind date. I didn’t know people still went on those.’

‘Yeah, it’s probably Facebook’s fault that blind dates are an endangered form of dating.’ I joked back.

‘Right? You can see which bitches are ugly now.’ he seriously replied.

I laughed and toasted my glass. Later, I realized I’d spent my youth and young manhood as an ugly bitch, so I didn’t appreciate the bartender’s discernment of Darwinism. But I just thought he was a fucking asshole as soon as he said it. My laugh was a courtesy laugh and my toast was insincere, but were both necessary because he was in a position to get me loaded. I also didn’t want to be on the wrong foot with the bartender before my blind date had even arrived.

After the bartender dropped off my third beer, I took a peek at the new tab receipt he put into the empty scotch glass in front of me. 24 dollars, plus the expected gratuity, as it is an unwritten law that you tip the bartender. About 30 dollars altogether. 6 bucks should do it, even if he is a fucking asshole because I was the only one who knew he was a fucking asshole. I had 35 dollars in my pocket. They were in my pocket because I never carry a wallet. Wallets of mine tend to either go off on their own adventures or be forgotten by me, a mutual neglect from both parties. But I was left with only a fiver while Bea took her sweet honeybee time.

Half an hour had gone by. Since my third beer arrived. There was still two inches left in my mug. It had gotten warm because I was trying to ration the last of it and play off the notion that I wasn’t a really big drinker, and not order another drink for the rest of the night. I gestured the bartender over to me.

‘Can I pay the tab?’

‘Sure, twenty-four.’

I handed him both the cash and tip. He pressed buttons on the register. As he shut the till, he threw his head back and found his keys again. Then walked back over to me.

‘She didn’t show, huh?’


‘That sucks.’

‘Yup. Oh well.’ I rummaged through my pockets and pulled out cigarette from my cigarette box. As I began getting off the stool I was stopped by the bartender.

‘Hey man, your beer’s warm. How ’bout a refill? On me.’

I looked at him unemotionally at first, then grinned and nodded. I repositioned myself on the stool and took the cigarette from my lips as he filled my glass. Maybe he’s just an average asshole after all, I thought. He came back with a chilled mug.

‘Thanks man.’

‘No problemo. It sucks getting stood up. Did she call or text or anything?’

‘I don’t have a phone.’

‘I saw you playing with one.’

‘I don’t have a phone with service. I was looking at porn on my phone.’

we laughed.

‘I’m sure she’s got a good excuse though, man.’

‘Probably, but I’m cool. Really.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah. I was expecting to be disappointed. But I had a plan to fight that. I just didn’t think I’d be disappointed before the date even started.’

‘Haha, I know what you mean. You thought she was going to be an ugly bitch, huh?’

‘That would’ve been too soon, too.’

we laughed again. Then we sort of stood there. Awkwardly. Well, he stood and I sat. Then I said,

‘Blind dates are fucking stupid, I didn’t even get to see my date.’ then I quickly chugged my beer. The bartender laughed.

I put my cigarette sternly back on my lips and bid the bartender a good night. I got checked again even though I had a new fucking strategy, I thought to myself as I puffed out the smoke from my cigarette on the train platform. Then I smiled acknowledging the skill of my opponents.

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Ass Burger (unedited) 4-8-2012

My nascence with Asperger’s Syndrome, or Autism Spectrum Disorder was very strange in terms of the norm. The ‘norm’ being what I see now to be the landslide vote of everyone else. I had always progressed under the notion that I was simply ‘different’ from everyone else. When a child is told they were ‘different,’ they simply come to terms with whatever peculiarities they’ve fashioned. When a child rationalizes he is ‘different’ on his own accord, he is coming to terms with a world he understands and that is a world in which understanding all is not part of the norm.

There was nothing wrong with the way my parents raised me. In fact, they were quite proficient at it. My younger brother, David, happens to be finishing up a degree in engineering -field specialized in something or other that I could not even begin to apprehend. My parents are very proud of him, as am I. David and I are from two completely different universes. I am three years older than he, and have majored in, virtually, every major there are.

In the eyes of my parents, I’m a failure, simply stated. This is not due to any inefficiencies I had in my studies. In fact, I was very proficient in any studies I’d undertaken. It was the [seemingly] indecisiveness that broke my parents hearts. At the time, I could not understand why it was that I had switched over to so many different majors. Initially, I became weary of the subject because I felt I could learn no more from a particular subject. Aside from that, I felt as though there was no point in adhering to a major I had no more drive to cruise through. Instead of failing through disinterest, I simply switched over to something else I wanted to learn about.

Asperger’s Syndrome is commonly misdiagnosed as A.D.H.D. in the medical field, as well as it’s being only diagnosed clinically. That means a doctor has to see you, use their scales or whatever, and conclude that you have Asperger’s. The syndrome stemmed from a more modern prognosis and many m.d.’s are not versed in it’s speculations -some say 1 in 300 have it, and some say 1 in 140 have it. A.D.H.D. can be diagnosed for a case of Asperger’s because of the deficit of attention. The question is, how do you determine when a patient isn’t paying attention?‘ An Asperger patient reveals a heavy lack of interest pertaining to a subject or a topic, whereas an A.D.H.D. patient can NOT invest interest pertaining to a subject.

A.D.H.D. patients are distracted by environmental factors such as; birds chirping, the look of the ceiling, the folds on a piece of paper, etc., but an Asperger patient is very much so paying attention. In fact, they are paying attention more than a person of the norm. Asperger’s patients have a significantly higher IQ than most, and can tell you every minute detail about a subject they faintly inquired about. Their lack of a physical display of interest is attributed to their mental display of interest. That is to say, an Asperger’s patient doesn’t give a shit, because an Asperger’s patient doesn’t give a shit, not because he cannot give a shit. They are paying attention, however, their world of attention is colorblind; they pay no adherence to things the things that submit no personal sense of intrigue.

This was a terrible predicament to have as a child, despite individuality’s sake. Individuality to a child is as shunned upon as chickenpox, mainly during the grade school years. As I tread through those middle waters, I was not able to comprehend the value of social value. I could not see why having friends was important. Not in the slightest sense. I was content with the notion of solitude. I could not share the my precarious interests of the playground because I could not find them interesting. There was no puzzle, no mystery, no awe – nothing mental to be gained from the playground, so I opted not to digest my time upon them, despite being a playground child myself.

I had already learned that my sense of interests would not be shared by others as I marched through the sandbox battlefield, so I had forfeited my attempts to do so, long ago. Instead, I spent my nascence faking persona, to appear normal. The persona seemed correct because I was deemed to be very social despite disinvestment in my peers as everyone seemed to love me. The devising of the persona ruminated from the scoldings my parents gave me, that instated my inefficiencies in life, though I was only a child. (note: at that stage, I didn’t think there was anything wrong with me, just that everyone bored me and made me work harder.) High School would only become a repeat of what I had to endure during my k-8 years. Those were the years where I learned how to fake the more deeper senses of interests, love, being one of them, and so forth.

There is no cure for Asperger’s. And because of it’s comparability to A.D.H.D., close-minded officials of the medical community will deem it to be just as incurable. In my opinion, it really isn’t. I still suffer from it, and have a very clear understanding of it to be something far beyond the sense of apathy we all feel now and again. There is only one thing that can aid a person under going this condition. It is their own sense of rationality they can uncover during their years of assimilation with the condition. It is not unlike a ‘coming of age’ tale, as-a-matter-of-fact, it is exactly what it is like for them, however, the capacity to do so falls sternly on their state of comprehension and solving their mysteries from their youth. Once overcome, realizing Asperger’s or not, the person accomplish great things and attribute such as being a part of their nature.

I cannot be apart of such an achievement because I now have an efficient apprehension of the ‘trick‘. Once we, Asperger’s people, figure out how the trick is done, we lose interest in it, as with most and normal people in the world. I have lost interest in my life as well as where it was supposed to be headed. Reading this passage is but a curse to anyone else with my condition. The level of interest is the only thing that inspires inspiration and can be applied to the littlest of things, such as life.

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