Things that need to be done for better inter-peoples communication.

You can tell a lot about a person by how they view themselves, the people they are a part of, or a particular outside group. This is an extension of “show me your friends and I will show you who you are”. It is about how you talk to your friends.

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.

Why I refer to _myself_ as autistic, part thirty million.

I will be upfront about this. I like it when people write things that I agree with. I disagree with a lot of this article from one of the Dulocks. There are reasons for this. Anyone who expects me to agree that the “voices of parents are important” is kidding themselves. A parent’s voice is never important until it agrees with the objectives of the autistic. And even then, it is but a whisper in a flood of genuinely evil voices at present.

No, your ignorance is harmful, normie.

There is a saying, or rather there are a variety of sayings, that revolve around the idea that ignorance is bliss. What you do not know will not hurt you. And on and on it goes.

Person-first attitude?

In the past, I have written so many things about so-called “person first” language that it is starting to make me angry that I have to keep doing it. But once in a while, an article comes along that is so fundamentally stupid that you just have to congratulate the author on how little they “get it”.

I hate people.

The title of this essay should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me or knows what I have been through thus far. I hate mean old stupid ignorant people.

Ah, Sydney, I have missed you so. But no matter how you try to push me away again, I am not leaving.

So, as I wrote that I would do in the last entry that I completed before I went quiet, I moved back to the place in Australia where I grew up. (This is a totally separate discussion, but do not ever call me Australian. I am autistic. If you do not understand the distinction, please go and read something else.) Western Sydney, or Central Western Sydney as the transit authority and its contractors are calling it nowadays, has always been a puzzle of contradictions. There are problems with it, some of them enormous, but the thing that has made me anxious to return to it since long before I began to experience serious respiration problems remains the same. As bad as it sometimes seems, it is often by a long road the best part of the “commonwealth” of Australia.