The real question is: do I want to talk to The Deli Man?
I really don’t know. I’ve gone insane, after all. I’ve got all this pretend information floating through my head, driving me batty. The voices never really give me all that much time to digest what’s happening; I like to reflect upon things and think them through carefully and guess lots of things and then narrow them down to the most likely things and then I can ask intelligent questions (which may or may not make people think I’m a telepath.)
I think I do. But only if he thinks I’m funny. I want to be surrounded by laughter for the rest of my life. It’s almost like the Safety Dance, but with laughing. “If your friends don’t laugh, then they’re no friends of mine!”
I’m pretty sure he’ll dance if asked, so I won’t go there. They always, always say yes. The voices. Since sometimes those voices involve God as well, I’m pretty confident that it’s a yes. (What, you weren’t going to ask me that one?)
Being that I’m autistic (you’re welcome, people who knew me and always wondered WTF was wrong with me), my human experience is awkward. I’m super high-functioning and didn’t even realize I was indeed autistic until God made me look it the fuck up. (See Traumatism vs. Autism in my backlog for more information.)
I have now gained a neurotypical experience thanks to the G-man and I don’t like it. (God, you ninny. It’s short for nincompoop.) Being neurotypical is like being a paraplegic. You have feelings, you just don’t use them. You’re all monsters that don’t give a shit about how you’re poisoning everything — and I do mean everything — all around you. Saving the planet is a middle class thing to do, not a responsibility we all share as adults.
I’d posit that not a single neurotypical person is a real adult. You don’t have deep enough feelings to care about the things around you that aren’t you. I broke a spiderweb this morning on my way to the first floor of the house and I didn’t even shed a tear for Danny, my spider friend. I could’ve killed him! (I didn’t because he was already dead, which in itself is very concerning: why didn’t I cry for him?!) I have lots of spiders, it’s true, but still… I passed that guy every day for the last thirty days.
I did cry when I passed the roadkill on my way to and from Wegmans. A lot, actually. I think I’m being reverted back to my normal self. THANK FUCK. You twats don’t know it, but you’re ruining all of everything as casually as you ruin your own souls.
[Record scratch.] Souls?
Oh, come on. You knew it was coming eventually.
Anyway, I would like to be my normal self again some day. Being neurotypical is literally a kind of hell for me. I buried a cat with barely a tear! (What is wrong with you assholes?!) I had that cat for 18 years. He was my baby. My guardian angel. He couldn’t walk one day last month and I had to take him to the vet to put him down. Within four hours, I went from having a sweetheart to putting him in a hole in the ground.
R.I.P. Bill kitty. I will love you furever.
(Thank you for shedding that tear, whoever you are.)
I know his spirit lives on. Every time I do cry about him (at the instigation of assholes in my head, no less), he comes by and calms me down. It’s as quick as a snap of my fingers. The tears just turn off. He’s still my baby, he just doesn’t have a body anymore. Neither does Edmond, my resident ghost. Poor guy. His psycho brother spooked his horse and got him killed two hundred years ago.
He’s a handsome man, I gotta say. I guess I’ve had some sort of crush on him since I was a teen since I’ve developed a type and he is it. It’s a bit weird, too, and not just because he’s dead. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s not like I can literally see a phantasm in the likeness of a human being. I get an impression in my mind’s eye what he was like. And, sometimes, he pops up and asks “What about ME?!” in the middle of assholes in my head telling me stories to waste all my time and try to make sure I never take care of myself appropriately.
But still stranger, I’m demi-sexual, which means I don’t really give a rat’s ass what a person looks like. I care about what they are like on the inside and how they treat me. Which is why it pains me that The Deli Man is all fantasy made up by my nemeses: BenjaNick and Lucien.
Blech. The frosting I made is too sweet. I even left out the sugar in the cake, but it’s overpowering me. Vanilla, the finest of the flavors.
How is he made up? Well, there’s obviously a body at the deli in the Wegmans, that part isn’t negotiable. That’s reality and I see it with my own two eyes just about every time I go in, even when I think I’m shopping too late. What isn’t reality is the insistence that he wants to dance with me, that he asks me questions that are as good as interview questions, that he tries to get to know me rather than simply sexing me up. [It’d be nice if he was real, but let’s be sane for a moment: I do not have telepathy.]
We’ve done so much role-playing. What if he asks this, that, or the other thing. “Will you have dinner with me tonight?” That was a question they asked me, telling me he’s daydreaming. I said, “Sure, at your place.” (Well, I said about a hundred words that boil down to that, anyway.) But there is a reason and it’s not just being a dick… I can’t go out to eat. I’m dairy-free and not a single fucking restaurant in the city of Erie is dairy-free. Not one! There is no vegan restaurant anywhere, not even a vegetarian one. For a tourist destination, this place is the pits. And, to make it worse, all the crap in the Wegmans deli is either contaminated with dairy or proudly has it featured as an ingredient. (If not that, it’s gluten.) I also cannot eat paprika, potatoes, tomatoes, eggplant, cumin, cilantro, citrus, fungus… or, well, most anything, honestly.
So I either have to go to a restaurant and be that girl that customizes her order to the Nth or… I can just say, “Take me home with you.” Well, I’ll drive myself, but you get the gist.
“But what about the bong I left in plain sight! OH NOES! What might you think of me?!” Uh… so what? “But the socks I left on the couch!” And? Do you really want to pretend that you’re so tidy that it impresses me… or do you want to be yourself and accepted for who you are? By the way, I can bring the steaks if you bring some broccoli and onion. I trust you know your way around the kitchen, Deli Man?
And I’ll bring the avocado oil. Unless… you have some? Olive oil might work… but obviously not butter. That’s the whole reason it’s your place, not Texas Roadhouse.
Anyway, this is the shit going on in my head. ALL DAY. EVERY FUCKING DAY. I can’t get shit done, not with that peanut gallery constantly turning over and over again. Most of the time, I’m convinced it is someone fairly kind… but then BenjaNick hijacks the narrative and tells me lies on top of it. Today? Hahaha. Today, they tried to convince me he has a girlfriend. He’s giving me eyes, but he’s got a girl.
News flash: ALL MEN ARE TAKEN. That is how I operate. Good for him. Hope you enjoy that babe while it lasts, but I bet she takes a shit on you and leaves eventually. Why? Because she wanted to use you all along. Most women do. Most men do. We’re all stepping stones between now and tomorrow(TM). At least, that’s what relationships with premarital sex involve.
And by the way… if you do have a girlfriend and you’re actually out there, asking me these questions and involving me with your stupidity in my head, then SHAME ON YOU! If you aren’t all about that girl, fucking leave already. Stop playing with hearts… Especially your own(TM).