A Man, Overboard

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Hi. The culture here seems to be cautious about identity, so I'll hold back for now.

As a child I rocked back and forth in bed. It was soothing. I gave up when the lady hit me with a book.

I handflapped until I shook my Apple Watch apart. (The Genius said that shouldn't happen, $0. The repair depot sent me a Shameful Photo (of the watch), $275. I said Aspies are probably not uncommon among early adopters of Apple products, and did they want to retool, or eat the cost of a few replacements? $0.)

I'm self-supporting, for a given value to self-support. I'm a well-respected software developer, for a given value of well-respected; sorry for the stereotype, I gotta be me. I'm articulate, in the sense of writing 1500 words in an hour, or 250 in five. I've written five books (yes, printed, by commercial publishers). My department is very generous with accommodation.

I used to be a lawyer, but my boss felt people who refuse to keep regular hours are slackers.

I play at improv — pretty well, I'm told. I learned to look people in the eye, when I remember to. I'm very lifelike.

(Warning, possibly upsetting subject in this paragraph.) I can tell you the most effective placement in my town for a certain kind of weapon of a certain size, why that size, five or six notable effects in my neighborhood, limitations on some of the estimates, and some surprising things about the outcome.

(You can come back now.)

High-functioning, me.

I've bathed twice since last weekend — that's an improvement. I lost 100 pounds a few years back, I have a 39-inch waist, and somewhere on my bedroom floor at least one pair of 58-inch trousers. I hold my breath every time a maintenance worker enters. There are three wine glasses on a living room table, never used, left over from my last visitors in 2012; I leave them there because I'm sad that I alienated them.

Having failed to collect my mail for a few months, the postal service taped over my mailbox and is returning my mail addressee-unknown.

By paying attention over the course of months, I pieced together (confirmed) the worst secrets of not one, not two, but three women… but were they grateful? Strangely, no. ← sarcasm Part of it is that when faced with sincere over-disclosure, people disclose.

Even I am too embarrassed to say how the combination of intensity, affective empathy, intuition, a dear friend's (intuited) tragedy, alexithymia, and a week-long gap in a comorbid medication… turned out.

I have had a supportive relationship for three out of the last 940 weeks.

I'm scared that my luck is running out and I'm unemployable.

So yeah, I'm really high-functioning. See how articulate I am? ← sarcasm

This went long, didn't it. Drat. There's something wrong with me. ← sarcasm

Welcome to Wrong Planet.

Hi fritza & welcome. You seem very talented. I cut my hair and took a shower today and felt a little hope.

Welcome to Wrong Planet!

[quote="fritza"]Hi. The culture here seems to be cautious about identity, so I'll hold back for now.







High-functioning, me.

I've bathed twice since last weekend — that's an improvement. I lost 100 pounds a few years back, I have a 39-inch waist, and somewhere on my bedroom floor at least one pair of 58-inch trousers. I hold my breath every time a maintenance worker enters. There are three wine glasses on a living room table, never used, left over from my last visitors in 2012; I leave them there because I'm sad that I alienated them.

...piker. call me when you get to two years.

Having failed to collect my mail for a few months, the postal service taped over my mailbox and is returning my mail addressee-unknown.

... I developed a mailbox phobia with similar results.

By paying attention over the course of months, I pieced together (confirmed) the worst secrets of not one, not two, but three women… but were they grateful? Strangely, no. ← sarcasm Part of it is that when faced with sincere over-disclosure, people disclose.

Even I am too embarrassed to say how the combination of intensity, affective empathy, intuition, a dear friend's (intuited) tragedy, alexithymia, and a week-long gap in a comorbid medication… turned out.

...
So that's why the damaged female persons would tell me their deepest darkest secrets- but never ever f*ck me. I even bathed.
Dammit. It just seems so unfair. They made me feel like a cull.
...
are you female? please be female.
...
edit: oh I see you are male, god-dammit.

Welcome aboard the SS Wrong Planet, fritza (or at least, one of it's life-rafts!)

Yes, I do ← not sarcasm

Maybe I'd not think that if we met face-to-face, who knows? You'd hardly spot my hyperlexia, either, I should think. That is; if you didn't run away suspecting me of being a vagabond intending to harass you for loose change before we had a chance to speak. My "functioning level" is level one, so I am told; capable with some mental chicanery of "functioning" as a civilised modern citizen, maybe with the assistance of the occasional pep-pill or cozy chat with someone paid to be my comrade for an hour. Lucky me.

I have come to realise that what is meant by this is merely that I am sometimes capable of portraying "functioning" in public performance, lest I scare the horses. The "functioning" which might be seen by a fly on the wall, before it joins its dusty ancestors on my windowsill, would be of a quite different kind. Assuming, of course, it should fly into my room at such a fortuitous time and be of sufficient life-span as to observe any "functioning" in progress.

And why was I ever encouraged to expect more from existence than "functioning"? The disappointment impairs my functioning!

For the dark humour of your writing at the very least, I look forward to reading more of your posts.
Best wishes.

I never heard of a mailbox phobia. What are you afraid of? Is it germs or receiving invoices for unpaid bills or something else? Anyways rather strange.

I can't definitively speak for jfmam j jasond, but to review the bidding:

* I wrote of a dumbfounding lapse in attending to a need that was obvious even to me: A wry example of executive dysfunction.

* I understood him to be offering a figurative restatement of what I said, mapping obliviousness to phobia.

He can use his words, so stepping in like this may be offensive, but see if that's ever stopped me from leaping to my feet shouting "Ooooo! I know, I know!"

(This is for the benefit of readers who are scoring at home, having difficulties with figurative, allusive, or self-satirical language.

(And if they're scoring at home, what the hell are they doing reading this?!

(I am barely containing my need to explain that added layer of punning.)

The mailbox phobia was engendered when I received a warrant for my arrest for an amount of money that was in 5 figures.
It was sent in error.
...
I have a great fear of police. as my abusive stepfather was a brutal cop.
he was thrown off the CHP for carrying a lead loaded billy club(and using it). as he explained,"when i hit a n****r, I want him to go down in one swat."
He was a horrible racist and the best thing he could say about a person of color was "that n***r is almost as good as a white man". He once shouted at me for talking about race relations," YOU N****R LOVING COMMIE! N*****Rs ARE ANIMALS!! !!"
He once stuck a shotgun my face saying"you want something to cry about, you whiny little F**!" He disliked whining.
I lived in mortal fear of him.

My caregiver this.
He was Minnesota Norwegian and so I sometimes use the "other" N word in my writings, as N********.(Get it?)
M
This minute vengeance is better than no vengeance at all.