Saturday, July 23, 2011

I'm onto you.

Every once in a while I'll reach a level of self-awareness (or sometimes just drink enough) where I get an glimpse of a larger picture that has always been hidden from me. My brain cells misfire in such a way that the illusions necessary for everyday life to continue wiggle just enough for me to register they might not be real. And what secret truth is revealed to me as the curtains are parted ever so slightly? That I am a mentally handicapped person.

Now, I don't mean "autistic" like so many other people my age who have found a convenient excuse for their unreasonable fear of interacting with other people-- as much as I'd like to have a reason to say "ASSBURGER" on a daily basis. No, I mean full-on helmet-wearing, velcro-shoed, derp-derp retard.

On these rare and illuminating occasions, I will discover that everyone who is nice to me is more of a benevolent care-taker who will laugh at my jokes to boost my self-esteem and have conversations with me to help exercise the parts of my brain needed to function in the world, and that I'm not homeless right now only because it would be inhumane in modern society not to provide state-sponsored care for people of my limited capacities.

And if I were to ever bring it up, my handlers would exchange sideways "uh-oh" glances, like I was a 4-year old who just asked where babies came from. Then they would coo and calmly reassure me that I was just like everyone else and that I was also special (whatever sense that makes. But what do I know, I'm retarded) and they would strap my helmet back on and we'd make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or play some more video games, instead of doing whatever a grown-up should be doing at my age. Trading stocks or renaming yachts or taking care of blissfully unknowing retarded man-children.

Maybe this was a bad time to quit caffeine.