You got asperger, kid!
Aspierap! You got Asperger’s, this ain’t a barbecue. It’s your whole afternoon though, lost down a rabbit hole, looking for a timepiece, wonder when your date’s at, wonder if she’ll visit you at all today — relax. Wonder how many ribbons to expect in her hair — to deflect talk of triplets in respect for the pair or to stare at the bow made of four different colors — didn’t notice someone talking to you: there were others in the room, out in the gloom of the periphery. To shift your focus for a moment is to give the ribbons liberty, and that’s to suggest they make escape. This is a secret from the future: can’t rewind like a tape. Got to make the best and the most of each moment as it happens, got to keep your eyes on those bows, got to trap in your vision all four of them ’cause this is a first: she might have noticed last time that you like ribbons that are hers. And sometimes you wish you didn’t. Sometimes it slips your mind. But when she’s supposed to visit isn’t one of those times, and you’re on one of those lines of thought that you encounter when you’d rather your surroundings were quieter instead of louder so that you could focus on other than a clock tick. You don’t want to talk shit but the one who made the clock made the cog stick. Minutes are violent noise, obliterating what you thought of as silent poise . Miles of boys before you done got crushed out on a girl like that, her hair flush with ribbons on all occasions and every day. If only making study of the …


