267: Cats and Dogs and Penis Envy

I awoke before four in the morning today with words and images twirling nonstop in my mind. I felt like a giant lollipop being dipped in the swirls of sweet wisdom.  Although I was sleepy, and wanting to fall back into a deep slumber, I was made awake, wrapped spiritually in what could essentially be called a lesson review of sorts.

The images and thoughts came swiftly, and with a touch of deliberate humor, ended with memories of my first college course, where I sat a plum-faced, shy freshman girl, surrounded by upper classmen. I had signed up for Psychology of Human Sexuality Course on a whim, having had no clue that the course would actually be about real sex!

I giggled this early morn, as the lesson dancing in my head wrapped up, and I was reminded of the term penis envy, a popular belief back in the early days of my schooling: the thought that many of women’s psychological insecurities are caused by their subconscious desire to have the same package as men.

I chuckled inside at the memory of class, of going around in a circle, and each of us female members of the group describing our degree of envy. Back then, I was so malleable, still am, that any belief system set upon me, I innocently absorbed as truth. Thusly, I went around for many years thinking I wanted to grow male stuff.

Today, in the wee hours of the morn, as the lesson began, with my mind’s eye, I saw numerous dogs and cats posed in various ways in their silly hats and wearing their silly expressions. And then I saw a massive amount of other animals, starting with the more common American pets of snakes, turtles, and hamsters, and ending with pigs and rats, and even monkeys. The debate came to my mind between cat lovers and dog lovers, and then I saw how silly the debate was. I saw that as a society we created these pets as our favorites, and then divided the camps. I thought about why they were our favorites: cuddly, responsive, expressive, fairly clean and predictable, sensitive, and perhaps even thoughtful.

And then I thought that the love of dogs and cats was all by choice, that as a collective we could easily have chosen a pig and a rat as our favorite pets, that instead of cats and dogs that pigs and rats could be there in their place…perhaps in another time or universe.

I began to visualize the various poses of pigs in their holiday wear and with their big eyes, and with captions written across their photos. I could see the rats too, all decked out for the season, with jingle bell vests, and more. It wasn’t such a leap out of our current reality.

In truth, much of what happens is all about what we as a whole choose to make our reality.

Then I realized that the expectations we have upon animals do actually affect the behavior of the overall species. With millions of people thinking dogs are awesomely friendly, no wonder they walk around with goofy grins and wagging tails. I imagine that if the collective believed all natural brunettes were brilliant, fascinating, and someone to aspire to be, I would walk around with my bum shaking a bit too, with goofy smile to boot.

I began to wonder what would happen if we replaced all the cats and dogs (temporarily and in theory only) with two other animals. I visualized the majority of pet owners with a snake at their side, cuddling during a television show, with the turtle tucked under the covers with their owner at bedtime.  And the thoughts didn’t seem so farfetched; for with enough conditioning and collective belief, we have the potential to mold any species’ behavior.

I had intense laughable visuals of a pet owner holding their ant farm during a movie or even housing a bee’s nest in their home and keeping a window open for free access to the fields. I began to see how anything was possible, if enough people believed or accepted a norm. This is evident from culture to culture, when considering what animals are revered, accepted as pets, or eaten for supper.

These thoughts led to the concept of ownership, and the fact that most domesticated dogs are entirely dependent upon their owner. I imagined what that dependency must feel like for dogs, how they must wonder when the food will come, the fresh water, the walks, the grooming, the holding, the words “good dog.” How they live their lives essentially as a prisoner to their master’s behavior, wherein the pet is entirely dependent on what their owner does.

I began to think that perhaps this dependency could cause some dogs a type of sadness, as I believe was in the case of my Goldendoodle, Scooby. For the first couple years of Scooby’s life, Scoob appeared mostly sad and withdrawn, until we brought home another dog. Then his spirit lit up and he seemed to come alive. But then he fell into another sadness spell, shortly after we moved to Washington, and he had less of a yard for roaming. He began to crave walks, and beg for walks, and on the days there were no walks, he sat in the corner forlorn. Scoob also despised all dog food. Most of his days he set about to steal whatever people food he could from out of the sink or atop the stove—like some grizzly bear at a picnic. He was adorable, but primarily a sad pup. Being empathetic to animals, I always sought to cheer him up, through fur massages and rough housing with a stuffed toy, even dancing to music. Still, he seemed to feel as if he was trapped in a life I ordained for him, that I ran, that I created.

This thought led me to the idea of the human experience, that we, too, as a people, have our own masters: our accepted beliefs; and that in truth, the only thing we can control, as many ancient teachings state, are our thoughts.

I suppose my Scooby didn’t have that capacity—to control his thoughts. Instead all he could see at certain times was missed opportunity. Even on the days we walked, he longed for more. Perhaps he would have been the happiest on a ranch estate. Perhaps if he’d had the capacity to daydream, that is where he went, to the golden fields where he could run until his legs gave out beneath him. I like to think that is where he is now, with a perpetual wet-nosed smile upon his face.

From here my thoughts turned to the social taboos of societies. It was at the age of eighteen, in that human sexuality college course, I first learned about how a society actually creates what is socially acceptable. I remember pondering about the collective creating ideals of rights and wrong, popular and unpopular, and loved and unloved.

The way my professor explained social taboo, forever stayed in my mind. The professor asked the class to visualize a planet in which it was socially unacceptable to eat in front of another person; to imagine a place where you were only allowed to eat in private or with a special significant other, a world in which people ate in the dark of their bedrooms, even under the covers; a place where chewing in public was seen as vulgar and disgusting, and punishable by law. My professor explained about how the body opening of the mouth was only to be used for practical purposes in public: for breathing, drinking, and talking. Laughing was a risk, for the mouth might open too wide.

This other world’s eating taboo he then compared to sexual intercourse and the naked flesh taboos of this world.

I remember then that a light bulb turned on in my mind. It was in that classroom I understood that much of what I was told and much of what was modeled were based on a collective’s culture and belief system, and that I was living in a world with unpredictable and shifting values.

In theory what was a norm that day and what was deemed taboo at the same moment would shift with the passing of time. I remember feeling extreme discomfort. I recall analyzing the current taboos of the time, particularly mixed-race marriage and homosexuality. I concluded that in time people’s views would shift, and as a whole our outlook and perception would change, that the unacceptable would become accepted, or at least move in the direction of the majority accepting.

The reality of the collective establishing truth boggled my mind. I could see clearly how I was a part of the collective and even though I was aware that I lived in a society that created truths and rights and wrongs, that even with my awareness I was continually molded by these created truths. I was in essence powerless.

I wondered where the truth really rested, how I could reach it, and how would I know.

I recognized that at a certain level, beyond conscious awareness, I was affected by what others accepted as truth. I recognized ultimately I was affected by what others thought. Living on this planet, the collective belief system was to a degree always to be a cornerstone of my own belief system—their reality, my reality; their conclusions, my conclusions.

I innately knew, I wouldn’t be able to fully grasp multi-dimensions, the supernatural, and the magic of the world, until the majority accepted this as a possibility, but that even then, whatever was believed and grasped onto by the whole could and would once again shift.

I was a dependent part of an intricate and mind-blowing mechanism, no less and no more, and entirely unable to escape. In a sense, I was my dog, my Scooby, waiting in my chair to see what the masters did.

It wasn’t until this morning, through all of these aforementioned thoughts that manifested in a span of twenty-minutes, that I recognized what was happening to me with more clarity: a shift was occurring.

More and more people were expanding their awareness and understanding of the illusion of the world and the power of thought, and thusly so was I.


Day 193: Screaming for Justice

On the Fourth of July I settled myself into a matinee of half-smiles and smoke at the McNeil’s cluttered kitchen table.  Justice, my dog, had made the two hundred mile road trip with Mother and me, and nestled nervously at my feet.  Mrs. McNeil, looking a bit on the raunchy side after having partied into the late night, yawned exposing a tongue covered in a dense layer of white.  Mother fluttered about the kitchen.  Pale-faced Cousin Betty wad donned in her white shorts and a white tank top with one red stripe. I thought she resembled an inflated bowling pin. There were dime-sized bruises on Betty’s goose-pimpled thighs; no doubt the result of a hangar beating from her mother.

Sitting there that morning, I felt acutely aware of Betty’s pain.  It was ever present in her absent stare.  I wanted to reach out to her, to help, to rescue. But attempting to converse with Betty was like throwing a ball against a wall—as hard as I tried, nothing came back, except what I threw out.

Maybe, for most children, the McNeil’s house would have been a playhouse of television, music, junk food, and entertainment, but for me it was a home where I repeatedly felt misplaced and saddened.   I had a hard time breathing at the McNeil’s, not so much from my seasonal allergies or my recent set of  silver braces, but from the hardened and bruised hearts that were all around me.  Theirs was a house of broken dreams—relatives of all shapes, sizes and ages, who appeared lost and lonely even though they were all gathered together.

Most of the hoots and hollers were the fruits of too much drinking and drugs, which I perceived as futile attempts to wash away the past and present.  Much of the conversations revolved around sorrows and disappointments: divorces, loss of jobs, cheating, stealing and what have you.

Although my good friend Jane, the McNeil’s daughter, was there with me, she too was somewhat lost in the shuffle of pain.  Though she was my friend and kept me company, she did little to change the feelings stirring inside of me.

Having my little black dog Justice at my side was my only comfort.  He carried within him a calm loving spirit that nurtured and guided me.  Even though he was a fearful and timid dog, his mere existence gave me a sense of inner peace and balance.

Still, with all of my emotions revolving around the McNeil’s home, I understood why my mom visited the family.  There was some value in these people.  Certainly, there were aspects of the McNeils which brought cause for liking.   Mrs. McNeil was a spirited lady, with enough spunk in her to draw anyone out of their own dismal thoughts.  And she instinctively knew how to both nurture and humor my mother.  As lonely as my mom was, I understood she needed the McNeils, much as I understood how I needed my dog Justice.  I was never angry with Mother for bringing me to the McNeils, neither was I disappointed; instead, I was rather disheartened; for there was a bitter taste in my mouth whenever I entered their house, an immediate feeling of homesickness, even if my mother was right at my side.

If I had to choose, this wouldn’t be the place I would have wanted to lose my dog.  But in life, I know now, as I discovered then, I don’t get to choose how my losses play out.  Going back in time, I would have preferred to see Justice live to a ripe old age, and watch him pass in my arms at the vet, beside the protective watch of my mother and father.  Though, by then, my father was barely visible in my life, and Mother needed my protection more than I received hers.

Nonetheless, I wish sometimes to go back and rewrite Justice’s end—to claim my right and his right to a formal departing embrace.

That hot, hot summer I lost Justice, some one hundred and ten degrees of sweltering heat, I partook in one of the McNeil’s Fourth of July traditions.  An event I believed all people participated in on Independence Day; that is, until I was an adult and I discovered differently.

As the sun set behind the mountains and the sky turned a hazy velvet-pink, twelve people piled into an old yellow pickup.  Mother, dressed in her skimpy halter and cutoff shorts, sat in the shadows of the truck near the tail end.  Her dark tan in striking contrast to pale Betty, who took a seat to my left, and balanced her generous backside on an ice-chest.  That evening Betty was smiling, as she peeled back the wrapping of the white taffy candy that she had stolen from my suitcase.  I took my place in the back of the rusting bed, alongside my friend Jane.

From the back of the pickup, one beer bottle clanged against the side of the metal bed then rolled back tapping the heel of my shoe.  Up above bottle rockets flared through the air arching like flamed rainbows.  And Beside me, Jane ducked nervously under a beach towel.

The truck puttered up a steep suburban hill. I took in the air, a mixture of stale ale, cigarettes, exhaust, and the smell of heat escaping the asphalt.  As the darkness set, together, the entire group, myself included, stood up in the rattling bed and banged pots and pans. This was our ritual. The way we celebrated our inherent freedom. “Happy Fourth of July,” everyone hollered. Some with slurs, some with screams, and others in quiet whispers. And then more and more banging.

Riding along, I was overcome with the sounds and sights, trapped between a sensation of elation and trepidation. I feared the constant movement and constant sound. But I was also filled with a sense of danger. I was pulled back in my mind with flash backs and reminded of my recent nightmare. At that time my dreams, if they were to manifest in real life, typically came true in seven days time. This day marked the week’s end. The seventh day. The day of reckoning. And I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten to remember.

The noise was my signal, my sign. I knew instantly, with the sounds all about me, obliterating my senses and tightening my stomach, that Justice was gone.  I’d woken seven days prior screaming and running to Mother’s bedroom. I told her Justice had died. I told her of the shooting lights and loud banging. I told her of the lit up sky. Of Justice being stiff and dead in an unfamiliar road in an unfamiliar town. I had seen a fence. I had seen Justice leap and escape. And I had seen myself crying and lifting my flaccid friend into my arms.

I knew innately, in that instant, as the dream flashed back before me, that Justice was gone to me forever. Gone were the days of romping pirates in the neighborhood garden. Gone were the bubble baths. Gone were the nights Justice rest curled at my toes slurping at his backside. Gone were his predictable dives under the coffee table with the arrival of strangers. And gone forever was his thick curly dark fur, his hot breath, his tickling tongue, and the depths of his amber eyes.

When we arrived back at the McNeil’s house, I was already deflated, left and forgotten in my own pain, as all around me people laughed and joked. My eyes grew dim, my heart heavy, while I approached the backyard, the first to escape the noise into the frightful silence. Nowhere in the yard was my dog. No sight of him. No sight of anything to remind me of him except his tattered red leash. I already missed his red collar, the one with the silver studs. I missed it like that collar was my own throat, the very thing that held my voice and breath.

For a few moments, I was overcome with denial and fear. For a while I grasped a sliver of possibility—the chance my dream was wrong. I gathered my strength, and wrestled through the shrubbery, the heat of the night still on me like a warm blanket. I screamed, and screamed again: “Justice! Justice! Justice!”  But Justice did not come.

I searched until my hair was covered in oleander leaves and grass. I searched the yard, the house, and then I searched the streets—a lonely, straggly-haired girl sprinting in the dark with the fireworks above her, crying out for Justice.

Day 137: Justice Black


Justice Black

By mid-afternoon, with my face tattooed in tomato sauce and specks of scented marker, Justice and I skipped across the street to the open field, where the sky was a baby-blue, a preferred color in my box of crayons, and the air tickled our noses with a fresh smell of eucalyptus trees.  Together, we galloped through the high grass to the aged stonewall lining the perimeter of my mother’s vegetable garden.  In my hand, as I stepped along the wall, I clutched a tie-string sac filled with pebbles, seagull feathers, and anything else which caught my fancy, while Justice carried a rolled up roadmap inside his silver-studded collar, and circled the perimeter of the wall two-feet below me.

On this day, as most, the two of us were fierce pirates, for I did not much care for princesses.  I preferred my jelly-filled Stretch Armstrong doll, with his rubbery skin and big muscles, which I could yank and yank and still not pull apart.  Barbie dolls, I had discovered, had heads I could pop right off.

Jumping down from the garden wall and standing tall on a large boulder, while keeping an eye out for treasure and rival pirates, I recited The Pledge of Allegiance, with my hand over my heart, shouting, “And Justice for all,” on the last line.  Justice jumped up on the flat boulder then, nuzzling his pointy chin into my side.  In return, leaning in, I embraced my dog, taking in the foulness of his breath along with the tenderness of his eyes.

I held onto him for a few minutes, up top on our boulder, imagining our ship had taken sail and an opposing fleet of ruthless pirates was off of our port bow.  Justice, with his long jagged teeth protruding from his sideways grin, breathed hot at my side, his crimped black hair blowing in the slight breeze.

If Justice had been born human, I figured he would have required braces and a thorough cleaning of his yellowing teeth with a firm-head toothbrush; however, being a dog, his teeth and everything about Justice, suited him just fine.  In fact, all of his qualities combined together nicely, like a cake batter, to produce a perfect end result.

When we’d out-sailed the pirates, Justice and I played hide-and-go-seek beneath the shadows of the burly walnut trees.  Only Justice, being a dog, as much as I had tried to make him into a person, still could not comprehend when he was supposed to cover his eyes and count.

After a long day of romping in the grassy field, Justice faced an unfrequented territory:  a bathtub loaded with popping bubbles.  From the front door forward, I tugged at his red collar with all of my might and nudged him towards the bathroom, leading him to the edge of the tub, then heaved his body up and over the side.  Leaning over, I pressed my face into his sudsy black fur, belly-laughing in pure delight.  Justice parked himself for all of sixty-seconds, just long enough to shake crazily and cover me from head to toe in soft white foam, before he broke free and sprinted into the hallway, slipping and sliding at each and every turn across the hard floor.

I found him all sopping wet and out of breath under my bed.  He looked ridiculous there, his rump high in the air, his fur appearing to be parted a thousand times over, and his twiggy tail waving—a garden sprinkler on full speed.

Later in the day, I egged Justice on along the sidewalk with a wild pirate snarl and a pinch of cake, all the way around the block to Shirley Temple Black’s house. Then I ran a stick along the high wall surrounding her property.  Stopping at the gate, I peeked in, but Mrs. Black was nowhere in sight.  In all my times searching, I never did spy here there.  I’d hoped I would; sometimes I even came with a notepad and pen in hand, just in case.  It was strange thinking about Shirley Temple skipping along the Good Ship Lollipop all white-haired and wrinkled.

I scampered back to our backyard and slithered head-first down my slide into a dinky plastic pool and then crashed through the spiraling sprinkler like a mad taxi driver.

At sundown, Mother found me in my usual spot, high up on the thick branch of a mossy oak tree with the top of Justice’s taut leash wrapped around my sneaker.  “You’re going to choke that poor dog.  Let him loose,” she said.

“No, I’m not,” I insisted.  “He’s keeping guard.”

“From what,” Mother asked, guiding me down to the warm sidewalk with a wink and two strong arms.

“From the giant caterpillar in my nightmares,” I explained, pulling down my bunched up panties.

Mother smiled and stroked Justice’s back.  “Of course; what a good dog,” she said.  Justice made his grin—a twist of the mouth, a side-poke of an eraser tongue, and a lift of his sad-happy eyes.  Then he panted while slurping Mother’s leg like a Popsicle.

“You’ve got hitchhikers again.” Mother stooped down and picked the pointy oak leaves out of my double-looped braids.

I pushed my mother’s hand away.  “Mrs. Dover yelled at two kids,” I said, “about stealing her white rocks.  And Sandie Lyons crossed the street without asking her dad.  And I think Mr. Cosh’s uncle from England is visiting again. And there’s a ball on our roof.”

“My, oh my, Miss Busy-Body, you’ve got a whole article there,” Mother laughed, as I strutted through the front door reading from my chicken-scratch notes.

Inside the living room Drake poured himself a glass of golden-liquid and then struck a match to light a thick cigar.  Justice got free of his leash, darted ahead, a blur of fuzzy slate making way to the underside of my mattress; life was easier for Justice there, I suspected.  Since day one at our house, with any unexpected noise, Justice’s ears stood in salute and his stubby legs flayed in midair, before he scurried like a rat to the oak coffee table or my bed.  There he would remain, under his roof, motionless, with his fuzzy black bottom straight up in the air and his damp nose buried beneath his paws.

Admittedly, sometimes I wished for a dog with a grander stature, a fierce canine to protect me from danger, but I only let those feelings sit with me when I was frightened.  More often than not, I was extremely grateful for my dog.  He was my warm blanket on cold nights.  He was a pliant creature, a survivor and a constant in my days.  And I loved him with all my heart—the only way a child can ever love her dog.

© Everyday Aspergers, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. 

Photo on 2012-05-31 at 14.50

Day 121: Violet in the Morning

(Teacher says: Music I posted in comment section is a must to play while reading.)
 This is Violet in the Morning. My little Labradoodle. I also call her Spastic Colon, but I thought the title Spastic Colon in the Morning might give you the wrong idea.  I am carrying her in my arms in this photo. That is my scarf. And, yes, those are her very sad eyes. This is my first time taking a camera on a walk since I moved to Washington. Violet was initially very excited to walk. She showed me this by jumping up and down about three feet off the ground and wrestling with her leash. But once we were outside the front door, she didn’t seem too happy. She was tugging, and pulling, and shivering. I thought she must be cold and said, “You’re a dog. Toughen up!” And I giggled. Because giggling in the morning is fun.
This is my tree. I call him Fred or Sheldon. I can’t decide. He doesn’t care, because trees will go by any name, as long as you hug them. 
When I passed this tree Violet was still shaking. A few blocks later and she was pulling back on her leash. Being the logical gal I am, I thought to myself, “Hmmmm. Maybe she senses danger. Like a mountain lion or wild leash-free dog.” I was still a bit clueless and exaggerating events in my mind.
About the time I reached this stump, I leaned down and soothed Violet with gentle pats, and reassured her she had a fur coat to keep her warm and that there was no pending danger.
This crow was watching us outside the lama barn. We kept walking, Violet shivering and tugging, and me clicking away happily.
Flowers by my home
 Early Morning Mist. Can’t beat this calming scene.
 One of my favorite properties. They have outdoor weddings here sometimes.
About the time I captured these ducks flying overhead, and was thinking I wish I had an audio recorder to capture all the bird sounds, I realized poor Violet wasn’t cold or scared. In fact, she was having a doggy seizure! This wasn’t her first. So I scooped her up and held her. And I continued the walk with her in my arms.
I have a friend who I promised to carry in my thoughts today. So as I carried my doggy, I imagined I was carrying the person’s burdens. This worked for quite sometime.
This scene caught my eye. The two friends, the dog being held, but then I noticed the broken leg. Made me wonder a bit about things.
Me wondering about life.
 Fake seagull in ivy
 Neighbor’s yard
 Fish atop a mailbox
 Hidden School Bus
Old Bus Stop

 Here comes the sun
I had to keep setting Violet down because my neck and back were aching something terrible. She was sweet. Just sat there and smiled up at me.
Interestingly, this was the least violent seizure she has had.
Here are photos of my favorite part of the walk. To me, this is one of the loveliest places in the whole world. I carried Violet most of the way. First down the hill and then back up, sometimes in a cradled position and sometimes like a baby slung over my shoulder. She shivered. But with every step I took with her, she calmed more down. I kept my friend in my mind.  It was a very enlightening experience. Especially considering my sensory issues of having dog breath in my face and my physical issues of having difficulty lifting things. I was quite happy and pleased with the way the walk turned out. I reflected on the way life is—how we never know what to expect—and that sometimes it is best to just make the best of things. And so we walked on.
Do you see that little blue light? I like that very much.
 Green, green, green!
 Love this
 What a lovely tree
 Pure Bliss
 Looking up and smiling
 My favorite road
 A little red
 More of my favorite road
 And then comes the water
 Just heavenly
 More lovely nature
See how small the people are and how tall the trees are?
Swings! Lisa, do you see the swings?
Violet felt better after I carried her for about forty-five minutes.
And I leave you with my favorite trees. I call them the Humping Trees. Can you see why? I love when nature makes me giggle.

Day 61: Another One Bites the Dust!

Would it be entirely inappropriate to modify the title of this post to: ‘Another One Bites the Dust!  Bite Me!’?


Most people wouldn’t get the vampire pun.

This week I’ve lost a couple of blog followers. Pausing for sniffles.

Even though Little Me repeatedly reminds the Geek Posse that we’ve gained cool new followers, the Posse remains in perpetual mourning. Crazy Frog is convinced it is my husband who unfollowed us.

Along with all of the commotion—the dressing in black attire, the donning of veils, the depressing funeral music—the Geek Posse put anonymous slips of papers in an empty fish bowl. Papers that explain why we lost followers. If you are a regular reader, you might be able to tell which ones Crazy Frog wrote.

Reasons People Stop Following the Geek Posse

(Words found on slips of paper) 

1. They came to find out what a brain of a female with Asperger’s syndrome is like. They found out. They left.

2. It’s tax season in America—your posts are far too long.

3. You didn’t visit their blog enough.

4. People who knew you in high school when you were a homecoming princess and cheerleader (gag!) are entirely disillusioned.

5. That non-stealth creature that keeps stealing your articles, snuck out after seeing the dorky sign you wrote and posted about her.

6. You used far too much “churchiness” in that post about Angel and Mary.

7. They think you are a false prophet.

8. You published twice in one day!

9. Their name starts with the letter D.

10. Your music selection is way old school.

11. You post corny old songs.

12. You repeat yourself.

13. Some people’s IQ-levels are too low to catch your humor.

14. They think you are a real vampire, alien, or a frog.

15. Your mental health therapist unfollowed you.

16. Someone over identified with the Reactive Reaper people-type.

17. Someone realized you meant him when you listed number 10 in Why People Follow Blogs.

18. This picture of the dog in large size scared them:

19. You write too little about Aspergers.

20. You write too much about Aspergers.

21. Your blog is better than theirs!

22. Grandma is confused.

23. They left with the intention of rejoining your blog under a fake identity.

24. They finished their thesis research paper on frontal lobe syndromes.

25. They fear you will track them down and try to be their real friend.

26. A traumatized man fled in fear, after discovering you are premenopausal.

27. The word is out that you are Italian and can’t cook.

28. They were drunk when they pressed the follow icon.

29. They are tired of lists.

30. You removed the distinguished profile picture of Crazy Frog that was posted in the My Lingo section.

31. They pressed My Lingo Button.

32. They are pissed off that they might have Aspergers after reading your list of traits.

33. They don’t like the words boob, dumbass, or pissed off.

34. They think Aspergers sounds like a butt-burger; and they are a conservative vegetarian.

35. You deleted them from your Facebook group page.

36. You told your husband one too many times: “Fine! Stop following my blog, then!”

Geek Posse at Everyday Aspergers