zara's picture

For such a supposedly smart chick, I'm pretty fucking dense.

I know it's my younger sister who is the one with autism but there are times when I wonder just how close I am to the edge of that spectrum's umbrella. Normally I believe my gut when it comes to trusting or distrusting people or situations. I haven't been wrong enough to think that my system doesn't work. But I haven't been right 100% of the time either.

Perhaps the most frustrating part of my brain's operating system is that once I feel as if I've gotten a bead on a person, I forget to keep checking to see if all thrusters are at maximum capacity. That is to say, I don't read their facial expressions as much the longer I've known them. I stop registering nuances in the way an eyebrow gets raised or a side glance gets thrown.

The detail in the tone of a person's voice will change for me too. Where I once heard humour, I continue to assume is humour. Not dissatisfaction, annoyance or pure anger. "That voice is sarcastic funny voice!" my brain giggles to me from the sound of the initial syllable uttered. After that, the words all come out in the context that my brain has cataloged for them.

I started thinking today about how dealing with me, if you choose to on a long-term basis - requires a lot of quarters and good hand-eye control. Because when you need to get through to me, you're going to feel like you're playing a round of Whack-A-Mole.

I'm not advocating that my friends and acquaintances turn to physical violence to get their point across with me. (Hmm... thinking back over the course of my life, suddenly all those pillows to the face and other objects hurled at my head suddenly make a helluva lot more sense now.) What I'm stating is that you need to be really direct when dealing with me.

Envision that arcade game in front of you. If you're cursed to call me a friend or lover, know that my personality and obnoxious tendencies are as rampant as the multiple holes in the table of that game. Get yourself prepared for me to jump out of one. You don't know which one, but it startles and then pisses you off.

Wanna win those tickets and make that twenty-five cent investment count? Swing your hammer and whack me on the head.

Bad Zara!

I'll go back into the hole with a frazzled giggle.

But you will have scored some points and earned your prize.

If you're direct with me, if you whack me on the head and tell me to knock it off, simmer down, shut up, THIS IS WHAT YOU'RE DOING WRONG, and not pussyfoot around (those whacks only tally points if you really smack the thing, not just gingerly graze it), you will win the game.

Think of whatever your impression of me is. Take into consideration how well you know me personally. Now scrap all that shit and understand this: I am overly sensitive to criticism. I will probably cry or whine or run away when you whack me. Just like the game will quickly retract its paint-chipped pop-up vermin.

But after a short amount of time, it will emerge once again. And it'll be really no worse for the wear. I'm the same way. You gotta smack me (figuratively, people... although I completely respect that burning desire many of you who know me well have simmering to go the literal route), let me get my bearings and I'll be ready to play again.

Does all of this mean that if you hope to maintain a relationship with me, you'll have to keep playing a game of smacking me when I misbehave only to see me do it again with no apparent lesson learned?


Many of you aren't going to be into playing a game like that over and over, which is cool. There will be a Mortal Kombat or Donkey Kong or Dance Dance Revolution for you somewhere else in the arcade that you might enjoy more. It's all about what's most satisfying to you.

Keep in mind that all those tickets add up at the end of the night and the more tickets you have, the higher shelf with the more rewarding prizes you get to choose from.

Plus, you KNOW smacking stuff is fucking fun.


Wonder what those moles do

Wonder what those moles do in that box when no one's looking?


Probably quietly lamenting the fact that this is the only job they could get with their chosen degree.

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