I've been thinking

The reason I'd be sad to find out no one told me they thought, or even better, if they knew, that I'm autistic, or socially retarded, is because I honestly feel I've the
capacity to fix any problem once pointed out.

Unfortunately knowing this translates in no way to an alleviation of my self-diognosis-osis. Especially not after I've strapped someone down, arm hair to deck chair with severely sticky duct tape, told them this (what I persistently label "my problem"), and they look back at me like I've accidentally ruined Ludwig Van for them Clockwork Orange style. They just cliché straightjacket scream at me. They just scream "sorry", and they just scream "stop it".

All I need is to be told.

Until whether or not that ever happens, I'll just meander around with these patterns of clothing iron skin meltings on Malcolm McDowell.