I have made a lot of angry, spiteful, and even violent remarks concerning what I see as unjust behaviour on the part of others. That is true. Like, for example, when London police saw fit to force a severely disabled boy who, according to the article, has a mental age of five into handcuffs and leg restraints. As one woman who commented on a Fudgebook link put it, she would really like to hurt people who hurt children and “special needs children”. She asked if this was possibly “mother instincts”, but I disagree. I think this is what I call “decent Human being instincts”. And really, if a police officer things it is somehow warranted to hurt a child in this manner, I suspect perhaps they need to consider another career. Shovelling fish guts, for example.
Note: if you are sensitive or trying to eat and read this article at the same time, stop now. Whilst it takes a lot to make me nauseous, reading complaints from idiots who were warned six ways to sunup that negative consequences might be entailed by continuing is not my idea of fun. So if pictures of a man’s face after he has been divested of much of his cheek might make you ill, turn off your browser’s image display capability or just stop fukking reading.
Oh, and The Independent, if you can hear me? [The boy in question] “suffers from autism…” is most emphatically not on. Nobody suffers from autism. Suffering and autism are not compatible concepts. Suffering as a result of abuse due to poor understanding, yes. Suffering as a result of digestive and immune system “differences” that seem to correlate (but are not necessarily caused by) autism, yes. But suffering from autism? Again, do people in editorial positions ever stop to think about how a person who suffers from repeated skin cancer scares, repeated real skin cancers, diabetes, and breathing difficulties for which a doctor has prescribed another course of antibiotics, and happens to be autistic, might feel about this wording?
Which brings me to a point I think I need to get out in the open now before things go too much further. I am not well. Physically, as I have implied, I have a solid lump in one side of my face. That lump is unyielding, believed to be cancerous (and the tests, to quote one paperwork, have not ruled out malignancy), and in the exact same part of my face that the other cancer was dug out of. In case people are still in the dark as to what part I mean, I have included the image of my face from after the initial extraction. The spot in which the cancer has been detected is further back toward my neck. Basically, the doctor who has looked at it so far after all of the testing was done has said that removing this cancer will also entail removal of the parotid gland in that side of my face.
There are (obviously) potential complications to that procedure. Because I already have an abundance of scar tissue in that side of my face as a result of two operations to remove the other cancer and restore a normal-looking beard line, the surgery for this cancer is going to need to be more exploratory in nature. They are going to need to carefully navigate the maze of scar tissue and snip out the parotid gland a bit at a time, as I understand it. And a slight misstep in the removal means my face will droop like wax melting off a candle from that point going forward. Like I need more to have to psychologically adjust to on top of how excluded and thrown away I feel. (Seriously, if I did not have diabetes, I would have turned into Clarence Boddicker by now.)
So I have already told at least a few people that I would like it if the doctors just basically took at look at my cancer and told me “oops, we are X weeks too late, it has already spread” and such. One, so that I can tell my asshole male parent that all of the cancelled appointments at the last minute would not have happened if I were in Sydney. That they would have taken the fact that cancers need to be determined in severity and likelihood of… well, killing the fukking patient… so that a game plan can be established as quickly as possible. You do, stuff that I consider the purview of decent Human beings as opposed to Queenslanders. Stuff that helps the situation, as opposed to leaving the patient in a whirlygig of unknown-related fear?
I am not exactly sure why people, or at least I, believed that the future would be such a wonderful and happy place in the era just before I was born. It seemed that during my childhood, things changed into the situation that I see now, with our future being depicted as either bleak or unchanged compared to the present era. And no, home video critic I cannot remember the name of for the life of me, it was not just a “passing trend”. You see, one thing that I believe the science fictions of the 1980s predicted very well is that as the population continued to grow and grow and grow, our resources would scale poorly with that. Look at Human resources, for example. Not only was I told recently that last-minute cancellations of appointments was fairly normal at the Queensland medical facility I was booked into, but making my anger known about the manner in which one of its staff spoke to me produced the response that I was not the first person to make such a complaint about that individual staffer. Seriously? I know I cannot be the only one in the Northern edge of Brisbane who wonders how it is that the people they have dealings with have not been sacked for incompetence. I have already gone on at some length about how a McDonald’s comparison between the two states leaves a person cold about one competitor, but Odin above…
So it probably should come as no surprise that I am, as they say in some circles, feeling like shit. I mean, sure, I could have it worse. I could be out somewhere where I will be a slave, soldier, or criminal until I starve and they put my head on a stake. There always is that possibility. But I am going to let you in on a little secret about how mental and especially emotional health works that might comes as a bit of a shock to some. Just like fictions, our health in the neurological sense depends on conflict. We need to have some sense, however illusory, that we can make a difference in our own lives by the decisions that we make at a given time. Once we stop having that illusion, and you would be surprised at how easy it is to shatter the illusion of any kind of control in an autistic individual, our emotions and perceptions begin to suffer.
Even when I am asking a question that I already know the answer to, I do not, will not, and cannot believe in rhetoric or rhetorical. I never ask a question or make a statement to which I am not genuinely interested in the answer. If I ask a person who thinks that the autism civil rights movment is somehow misguided or mistaken because of their belief in Autism Speaks’ message about the colour of the sky, I am genuinely interested in their answer. I might be asking them a question with an answer so deceptively simple that they are justified in wondering if I am fukking with them. And to put a fine point on it, I am fukking with them in a certain way. But what they have to say in response to the question will shape exactly what I think of them from that point going forward. Dismissive refusal to answer my question, or smartarse answers, will mark the person as someone I would not want on my planet, leave alone in my backyard. But if, on the other hand, you were to formulate an answer indicating you had some insight into why I asked it in the first place, I might be inclined to talk to you in a manner commensurate with beginner-level respect. Is it not funny how the input-output principle works?
Last night, as I was struggling with my own usual level of evening dietary and medicative difficulties, I happened across a link on Fudgebook to one of the entires on this journal (no, I will not like either here at this time). So a normie comes along and tries to proclaim that I am exaggerating about Autism Speaks For Normie Assholes, how they are really good, and so on and blah fukking blah. This is about the absolute limit for me, because if as many people suffering from diabetes complained as hard about Diabetes America or Diabetes Australia as the autistic do about Autism Speaks, there would be no question about it. And I am going to be blunt here. As far as I am concerned, there is no planet, no solar system, hell probably not even a galaxy, big enough for people who think that Autism Speaks has a shred of merit and me. On the world depicted in such stories as Kronisk’s Mirror, such people would be given three choices. Learn the truth, just plain stop thinking such bullshit, or go somewhere where you might be tolerated. And given that the only place known to exist on Kali-Yuga that meets such a description is currently the nation of the Overlanders, that is a big might.
I hate to speculate about what goes on in the heads of others (that is assuming it is anything at all), but I suspect that how I feel about curebies and curebie apologists is not that far removed from how people in such “outlaw” armies as the Irish Republican Army, the Viet Cong, and so forth felt about the enemies they had their sights on. Yes, cooperation brings us better results than competition (anyone who has played videogames of the 1980s knows that cooperative games are assloads more fun). But there are times, with which history is littered, where the refusal of one group to cooperate with another has caused one group to view the other in similar terms to a cancer, one that must be cut off the face of the planet if said planet is to remain healthy. That, in a nutshell, is how I and I do not doubt at least a small amount of others feel about curebies. Because although not every curebie is this extreme, the business end of them cannot be bargained with, cannot be reasoned with, cannot feel any pity or remorse, and will not stop. For those who have never seen and heard Michael Biehn describe something I see in similar terms to Autism Speaks For Normie Assholes that way, I will give you a count of how much effort his character and Linda Hamilton’s went to in order to stop that character. The amount of ammunition fired at that character would be sufficient to rob ten banks. Said enemy went into a wall in a car going at a speed that would kill Thor. Said enemy was dragged behind a truck far enough that pretty much any living thing of this world would die. The total amount of explosives used against it could level the shithouse in which my male parental unit slinks about. And still it took being crushed in a hydraulic press to actually kill the thing. That is the level of effort I fear it is going to take to make curebies stop, and it is a level of effort I would delight in expending if I were in a sufficiently organised unit to do so.
Oh, and for the record, in case anyone is keeping up on this, there is a good reason why I ask idiots who try to compare curing autism to curing cancer to go offering a cure “for blackness”. Attacking autism and attacking autistic people are the same thing, for all of you normie retards out there. No amount of whining otherwise will ever change that.
Oh, and political correctness assholes: retard is a Latin word with the meaning of reduction, diminishing, and decreasing. In context of the intelligence of normies, it is the only word to use.