Life is like a box of chocolates; a cheap thoughtless perfunctory gift that no one ever asks for. Unreturnable, because all you get back is another box of chocolates. So you’re stuck with this undefinable, whipped mint crap that you mindlessly wolf down when there’s nothing else left to eat. Sure, once in a while there’s a peanut butter cup or an English toffee, but they’re gone too fast and the taste is fleeting. So you end up with broken bits full of hardened jelly and teeth-shattering nuts. If you’re desperate enough to eat those all you’ve got left is an empty box filled with useless brown paper wrappers.
- Cigarette-Smoking Man (William B. Davis) in episode 7 season 4 of The X-Files, Musings of a Cigarette Smoking Man.
If you’re the sort of shit cake who wanders around life telling everyone who has any problem, “Oh yeah, that happens to me too!” or “I was like that and I got over it!” then this is for you.
If you think Asperger’s Syndrome is cool, or if you’re telling everyone that you have it, or you’re proud to have it, or you think it’s the next step in evolution (you plank), then you probably don’t have it. You’re probably just a freelance asshole or an antisocial prick trying to sleep better.
If you think Asperger’s Syndrome is a pain in the ass, if you hate talking about it, if you wish it would just fuck off so you can live a normal life, if it’s destroyed your relationships and friendships, if you hate the way you seem to be constantly hurting and misunderstanding everyone around you, then you might just have it. Sorry.
Awesome audience guy is awesome. Because sometimes an Irish talk show can be awesome.
“Yes, you owe it to the public.”
I get a lot of shit for how I look in photos; always a cynical frowning bastard.
“Smile, Barry! Fake some emotion like the rest of us do every second of our lives!”
Not me! If you want me to smile, then you better be doing something hilarious. Pointing a camera at me is not hilarious.
So lately, I’ve been doing an exercise in timing (because I got bored of trying to get the gas pump to stop exactly on the dollar). If I’m in a photo with a girl, I say something sexist/racist/whatever, along the lines of “you’re even more Chinesey-looking than your sister” just before the photo gets taken. Afterwards, I inquire as to the manner in which they are enjoying “them” pomaceous fruits of Malus domestica.
So far, I think I’m getting results.
