Once upon a time, I lived in Brooklyn and occasionally went on dates with guys I found on OKCupid. In a depressed and likely alcohol-motivated attempt at getting over a minor sexual rejection, I accepted a date with a fellow I didn’t find especially interesting.
Sleeping on the floor did wonders for my backache. It also produced a wonderful clarity of mind and no-nonsense, no-bullshit attitude that I needed to survive the next day and a half. Or maybe I could just see the light at the end of the tunnel now.
I’m not always mean and sarcastic, but when I am, it’s because I’m depressed and have a smelly, irritating Men’s Rights Activist taking up space in my apartment.
Before I continue with the story of Michael, the hair-fondling MRA, let us be clear about at least one thing: You cannot diagnose yourself with Asperger’s. Not even if you have a BA in psychology.
Five minutes after meeting him, I wanted to break every one of his fingers and his stupid face and send him packing, out of my apartment, my life, and my mind, but the motherfucker still reaches out to me even to this day. God only knows why.