How am I special needs? Let me count the ways. I’ve listened to the same song for weeks now. We’re talkin’, hour after hour. Day after day. Week after Lindsay Lohan week.
And in seemingly unrelated news (to be said in the dulcet tones of a newsreader whose balls have most definitely dropped) … when I was a kid, I ate Muesli Flakes every day for months; until my Pop, like a cowboy galloping furiously to get ahead of this crazy train, bought twenty boxes to stock up for a special needs winter. I stopped the next day.
His defeat was more palpable than Pope Benedict on rye.
In joining these compulsively-aligned dots, it’s my weak (probably oughta strive for convoluted) theory that I’m mildly autistic. Not in a ‘star with Bruce Willis in a shite movie of Mercury Rising proportions’ way … but in a ‘if you smack your gums once more, I’ll hang you by a wedgie so atomic, it’ll set off ground alerts in Hiroshima’ kinda way.
I often find myself on sensory overload (making Cult Boy – with his slurps, hums, taps, smiles that assault my eyes like a novelty apron with inbuilt airbags – the gift that keeps on giving).
Cut to: listening to King of Anything so many times, my neighbours are now rocking back and forth in an extended foetal, sobbing uncontrollably, their ears bleeding at being assaulted by a song they once cherished like their first puppy (aka Robert Reed) (ergo Mike Brady).
I’m not without Repeaters Guilt (sometimes I’ll crowbar another track in), but I also can’t bear to turn it down. I dance, I sway, I clench my buttocks in an ecstasy not seen since We Are The World. (Except on this occasion, I’m the charity case.) I now understand that which my little brother always knew, as he’d grab his 20-cent cheeks to fuel an adolescent rage – one’s buttocks are the source of all ground swell (metaphorically speak-ing).
So! In addition to forming a girl-crush on Sara Bareilles for most enchanting of lyricals, it was on this autistic path that I found a pebble of thought; and here I pick it up and turn it over.
It’s possible that in listening to this glorious tune 10,001 times, I may be brainwashing myself. As in, behavioural modification, motherfuckers. We’re talkin’, Jason Bourne programmed to become a snub-nosed spy of “Red bag. Red bag. Stop right there!” magnitude.
Could my Bareilles bromance lead me down Assassin Avenue in the township of Treadstone, wherein David Webb resides as Mayor? After spending time longer than legs of Geena Davis harking this puppy, I gotta ask – what’s it doin’ to my cranium mush, yo?
Will I live in fear of equine, afraid someone’ll expect me to jump up on board with them, to ride off into their delusional sunset? Will I randomly karate chop those I suspect of making maps with my name on them (in all caps)? I mean. Fuck, man.
I could be programmed to kill the Mattress King or Sofa King. The kings of anything.