Little Random Rants and Notes

I seem to have a thing about headlines. They provoke strange thoughts even if I don’t read the articles they’re trying to lure me into. Like the one on that I just stumbled over: At What Age do People Stop Shopping at Ikea. That’s just loaded with implications, and I don’t even need the accompanying photo of a deliriously happy young man standing on a scooter outside an Ikea store and waving at me. Ignoring what it’s trying to tell me, probably about millennials, I’ll say: at the same age you should stop shopping at all similar stores, when you’re ready to stop acquiring stuff and are ready to just live.

In completely unrelated news, I’m very glad I stayed home for Christmas and had a completely normal day. Because, looking back, I’m pretty sure that would have led to an unnecessary overload to push me further into my current state of mind-death. I shuddered at the thought of having to interact with five adults, including a guest/stranger, plus two dogs, sitting around for hours with absolutely nothing to do, and waiting for a dinner I wouldn’t have been allowed to help with. Even on days when I know I’m not going to be able to write, that’s a form of torture I don’t need.

At the moment, I’m dithering about whether to go to the drugstore a block away, just to get a little fresh air, and roam the aisles more or less mindlessly. It’s about 32 degrees outside, which makes the decision more difficult than usual, what with having to put on the layers of clothes I’ll need, gather up keys, etc. It reminds me that beneath this dithering and a lifetime of not doing things that need to be done because the preparation seems more complicated than I can deal with, is a failure of executive functioning. That’s just one of the many little quirks of my neurology that goes along with Aspergers. 99% of the time I don’t think about it, or any of the others, but they’re always there, little roadbumps that keep tripping me up. At times like this, when the whole world seems determined to go to hell, they pile up, and come to consciousness in a very ugly way. Theoretically, writing about stuff like that bleeds off the stress, but it rarely does.

If you’d like to read a provocative analysis of one of my current irritants, here’s


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