Thankfully, April is over.

I wonder, at times, exactly what goes on in the minds of curebies, especially when they make a song and dance. In case any of you missed it, curebies decided that April was “autism awareness month”, and have done so for a few years now to my knowledge. Autism civil rights activists have tried to reclaim April, dubbing it “autism acceptance month”. Good for them.

I like to think of it, however, as “fukk off curebies”… wait, that is just what I feel twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and twelve months a year. It never stops. It is just that in April, I see a lot more curebies reminding me that they exist.

Curebies, if a person professing to be a doctor and calling himself Garcide turns up dead tomorrow or at any point in the future, violently so, it is on you. Today, whilst trying to chase down help yet again from the fragmented and frankly idiotic disability care system that still seems more like an excuse to employ useless people in Australia, I repeated Garcide’s question to the person across the desk.

“So what makes you think you have autism?”

Garcide, if you are reading this, hand in your resignation to any and all services you work for, especially Housing New South Wales. Because you will not walk away from our next meeting.

Again, this is on you, curebies. If you did not spend a whole month telling me how baaaaaad I am for not having a clone of your brain between my ears, I would not be so incredibly angry.

And of course, there is the usual crap in the news about people expressing their understanding of people who kill autistic children. Sorry, but no. Stephen King said that best in one of his first-person “thoughts” during It. (For those unfamiliar with King’s writing style, when someone thinks something and King wants you to know about it, he will write it in italics, usually in its own paragraph.) To me, “oh that poor mother who just murdered her daughter for having autism” (derisive enunciation mine) is exactly the same as Yeah, I know you got killed, Belch, but I got one fuck of a splinter under my fingernail to me.

After struggling with Sony’s Reader software for much longer than I should, I found the exact quote:

“I got lost,” Henry whispered, as if to tell the ole Belcher that he had paid, too. It sounded weak, like saying Yeah, I know you got killed, Belch, but I got one fuck of a splinter under my thumbnail. But it had been bad… really bad. He had wandered around in a world of stinking darkness for hours, and finally, he remembered, he had started to scream. At some point he had fallen — a long, dizzying fall, in which he had time to think Oh good in a minute I’ll be dead, I’ll be out of this — and then he had been in fast-running water. Under the Canal, he supposed. He had come out into fading sunlight, had flailed his way toward the bank, and had finally climbed out of the Kenduskeag less than fifty yards from the place where Adrian Mellon would drown twenty-six years later. He slipped, fell, bashed his head, blacked out. When he woke up it was after dark. He had somehow found his way out to Route 2 and had hooked a ride to the home place. And there the cops had been waiting for him.

I am quoting the whole paragraph so no curebie asshole or apologist can tell me I am quoting this out of context. This is what comes to mind every time you say you can understand why some piece of shit who does not know how to abandon something murdered their child.

In fact, that part is pretty insulting, too. Whilst it is well-known in scientific circles that we have many more people on this planet than this planet will be able to feed in 2100, there are many, many men and women who, for whatever reason, are not able to have children of their own. The foster care system has a raft of problems with it, but there must be at least a few carers out there who would be glad to care for and help an autistic child grow to be an autistic adult that has reached their potential.

Murdering a child for not living up to your expectations of what you want them to be (a selfish ignorant normie pig like you, basically) is the ultimate display of selfishness. No matter how you try going forward, you will never be able to more powerfully broadcast that you are a selfish piece of shit whose place on this planet should go to someone else.

This is what April brings to the fore, curebies and morons who think that there is any room for anyone other than autistic people to decide our fates. You might as well be saying to us “Yeah, I know you [autistic individual] got killed, but our curebie friends have got one fukk of a splinter under their thumbnails”. Only not just once, but over and over again, every second, of every day, throughout the month of April.

Note that I said April. The truth is, the message goes up and down in intensity during the entire year. There is no way to escape it without taking some very hard drugs, dying, or going into a coma. We get this message when you (suspect on its face) claim a person who shot a school full of actual special needs children is autistic (without any evidence). We get this message when some ignorant asshole moron commenting on same says they should go and hurt some autistic children to make up for it, apparently not understanding the implications of “special needs school”. We get this message when similarly ignorant assholes try to pull a rabbit out of their arse and say that Kelli Stapleton deserves any sympathy. Or that her conduct is on the same planet as excusable.

We get this message all the livelong year, curebies and curebie apologists. But imagine if you will a volume dial. Imagine it has three settings. These settings being 10, 11, and 24,689,699,202,000 (that is the distance between where you are sitting and Proxima Centaurii in miles). During “normal” times, that volume is at 10 for me. That is, everywhere I go, everywhere I look, I am receiving a signal that a difference in the structure of my cerebral cortex that I did not know about until about ten years ago makes my living unacceptable to you. Loudly enough that I have to fight to hear people speaking to me from right in front of me.

At times like Kelli Stapleton being told “oh you poor lady who has just tried to kill her little girl for having autism” (again, I am enunciating that disgusting phrase like it is the equivalent of “being a jigaboo” or similar), that dial is at 11.

So can you guess what 24,689,699,202,000 represents on that dial, you ignorant fukk who tries to say that Autism Speaks For Normie Assholes must be doing some good amidst all their calls for us, me, to be murdered? You guessed it, 24,689,699,202,000 is the month of April for me. Even mentioning autism near me during April, when the dial is set to 24,689,699,202,000, is likely to result in violence.

Which brings me to something I want to tell those like Jennifer Ridenour and the “waaah haters” crowd. Hate is, like all emotions, a response. For a few words, I will tell you something that all psychologists and psychiatrists learn within days of embarking on the long path to their chosen vocation: in all sentient species, the INTELLECT is subservient to the EMOTION.

Read that aloud. Read it aloud ten times, and then read it aloud a million times. Read it aloud until it is echoing in your brain the way Cruciform’s songs echo in mine.

Your.
Intellect.
Is.
Subservient.
To.
Your.
Emotions.

Got it? Good. Now let us consider what comes out of Autism Speaks For Normie Assholes, simply on a content basis. We apparently ruin families, murder dreams, and destroy hopes just by existing. That is what Autism Speaks For Normie Assholes says about autistic people, Jennifer. Although they have gone to great lengths to bury the quote, Autism Speaks For Normie Assholes’ leader has stated in this exact wording that she wants to see a day when autism is only read about in history books, Jennifer. That means she wants to see a day when all autistic Human beings are basically dead.

Tell me how that differs from

Today I want to be a prophet once more: if international finance Jewry inside and outside of Europe should succeed once more in plunging nations into another world war, the consequence will not be the Bolshevation of the earth and thereby the victory of Jewry, *but the annihilation of the Jewish race in Europe. (*die Vernichtung der jüdischen Rasse in Europa in the original German)

please, Jennifer.

When I am confronted by these expressions of hate towards me by people who do not know me from Adam, I am unable to feel anything other than hate towards them. This is not rocket science, Jennifer. In fact, during a preliminary dialogue in the original (good) Lethal Weapon, Danny Glover and Mel Gibson, in character, exchange the following words:

Murtaugh: God hates me. That’s what it is.

Riggs: Hate him back; it works for me.

Riggs was not merely talking out of his butt, Jennifer. When someone hates you strongly enough, you hate them back. That is the natural order of things. Especially when the person hating you in the first place is hating you for no other reason than your possession of a characteristic you neither asked for nor had any say in. When someone hates you for that reason, you either hate them back with every breath in your body, or you end up dead.

So yeah, in case it is not getting through to anybody, I hate the month of April now. I am not terribly pleased with the months December through March, since they tend to be blisteringly hot, but thanks to Autism Speaks For Normie Assholes, April can now officially go fukk itself with a shovel.

It says a lot about how negative the impact a group is having on your life is when you hate a month that they have coopted.

Let me finish up just by saying one thing. Acceptance is neither here nor there. You can accept me, or I will put my boot in your butt.

But the kind of awareness that Autism Speaks For Normie Assholes has brought? I do not want it. It feels like AIDS, Cancer, Diabetes, Diarrhoea, and a zillion other unpleasant things all at once. It feels like being raped.

I would rather than you were completely unaware of autism than the awareness you have right now.

Ponder that for a while.

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