So Puddy wears a man fur?

I’ve been listening to Carrie Fisher read her books via Audible.  Hearing her voice while she shares about her life is such a comfort.  I’m halfway through her latest book and need to set up rules for listening.  I tend to forget other people can see me and much of it is hilarious.  I got caught chuckling alone in the elevator earlier on my way upstairs.  Then again when almost to my door, when I was laughing about getting caught the first time.  I’m pretty sure I’m on my own if our building catches fire.

There was a catfish incident on Twitter, and although I don’t know what happened, I got the impression a lot of people got burned.  I’ve never been able to keep up with group gymnastics.  It eventually makes me feel vulnerable and dumb which is irrational.  An annoying circle of wasted time, that.  I think it’s a combination of conflict anxiety and recognizing it’s a situation where my autism is a disability.  I guess feeling vulnerable makes sense.

It’s weird that I still feel a bit like it’s playing with the neighborhood kids when I play hashtag games.  I suppose it’s because I’m not funny.  It’s not a requirement for playing, but it does make it a lot more interactive.  I just cracked myself up.  See?  I was funny one time, though.  Once in two years is a horrible record but it doesn’t dampen my enthusiasm.  The guy who first introduced me to the games unfollowed me.  I assume it has something to do with my recent political meltdowns.

The kids that grew up near me used to include me in ways that disturbed my mom.  I love repetitive tasks, especially if they’re productive.  When we played with Barbie dolls, my sister and the other kids were playing while I was arranging accessories and acting like a coat check girl.  At some point, my mom saw they were dumping out toys in piles around me for me to arrange while they played together.  All I remember is that I was having a blast.

I see it as child empathy.  Kids are empathetic, but their behaviors vary from those of adults because they have less information about the world.  They’re literal.  Figuring out what made me happy, then arranging it for me is incredibly empathetic.  It’s just not how many adults do it.  Neurotypical adults add rocket science level equations, keyless secret codes, and a dash of sarcasm to their words to insulate themselves from vulnerability automatically.  I think they remember life before they started doing that, though.  It’s fear, but it comes from being hurt.

I guess I’m sad that one person hurt so many and now people I find hilarious are probably going to be harder for me to connect with after having their realities fucked with.  It’s pretty selfish, but I can’t help it.  One of the main reasons I love Twitter is because of the funny people.  I’ve had moments when the Depression Monster had me in a headlock, and a corny joke flew by and freed me.  That’s a gift, and I’m quite attached.  Especially now with the ongoing political nightmare.

I’m probably going to have to put myself on another Twitter time-out.  I keep getting stuck on frenzied retweeting while in shock over what’s being proposed for our future.  Then I come up for air and more time has passed than I realized, and my TL has 10 tweets that say the same thing with different pictures.  I amuse myself by imagining one of my followers breaking through the door to my apartment and unplugging a large, symbolic cable to the internet with ferocity, then shouting, “You shall not connect!”