Remember my blog about ditching that control freak who tried to micromanage where we should go, what I should say, and how he could put me down? Well, a few months ago, I updated that with a post about how we’d had a nice reconciliation and became friends again, but now that’s all evaporated like the inexpensive beers he’s so fond of. It’s back to square less than zero.
See, the other night, I ran into the guy at Marie’s Crisis piano bar where, over heartwarming showtunes from Fiddler on the Roof, we got all huggy and friendly and shit. We ended up at Pieces, where he was considerably tipsier, and we made a big scene making out for the crowd of amused Jerseyites. He was saying all the right things and everything was going well enough to make me forget our long-ago mismatch disaster. But then the booze clearly clicked into his fat skull and he turned into his monster half again. “I’m pretty sure you’re autistic,” he messily contended as the room went silent. Mama say what? “Huh? Um, no I’m not,” I assured him, a little stunned. I mean, I may exhibit some behavioral quirks due to various reasons you can find in my medical files, but so does he–in fact, he told me he almost died twice last year and he’d hit his head just the other day!
“I’ve accomplished a lot,” I crowed–the kind of absurd thing you always find yourself having to say to a boozy putdown artist like this. “I know, but let me test you sometime for autism,” he ventured, unfazed. “I’m pretty sure you’re autistic. Let me test you sometime!”
“Hey, this isn’t really romantic talk,” I said, squirming out of his grip and glancing toward the exit. “Let me test you for brain damage!”
“You’re autistic,” he repeated, as if saying this for the first time and finding it absolutely brilliant. ” I really want to test you for it.” Oy. Rather than encourage such repetitive behavior (reminiscent of autism, by the way), I proved I’m of sound mind by prancing out the door and going elsewhere for some lovin’.