If you're looking for a massive vat of existential angst, you have found it.
At the grocery store, the cashier might ask if I just put a rutabaga on the conveyor belt, and I’ll answer so oddly and nervously that it sounds like it’s actually a rutabaga-disguised bomb. Then, I might try to make up for it with some “I’m a normal person, really I am” type of banter that might or might not do the job. I never know which.
I’m a late diagnosed autistic woman. I write from this perspective because I can't help it.