Allow me to reintroduce myself. My name is Sarah, and this whole time I thought I was neurotypical, it turns out I just really like that nice linen-blend neutral shit they do at Uniqlo.
Every time I used to walk through the doors of the last clothing chain I feel vaguely moral about shopping at, I thought I was among neurotypical friends. We were one tribe, one community, one nation under an especially hand-wash-friendly God. We all liked to dress like each other, in stylish yet unchallenging cuts and moisture-wicking tank tops with the bra inside. I had found my people.
But it was not to be. I don’t know whether it was one particularly overstimulating experience among the sales racks, or that day they moved the self-checkouts to the opposite wall and I lost my goddamn mind, but I eventually realised I was nothing like these people, and I hated them for making me think I was. My friends were the corduroy cryptids, the slogan-tee burnouts, the moody goths, the cottagecore youth. The autistics. Not these poseurs.
Since then, I have abandoned nearly all traces of my so-called ‘neurotypical’ life. I don’t buy food that isn’t breaded. I say no to social gatherings that don’t involve polyhedral dice. I wake up every day and look in the mirror and I don’t recognise myself anymore; my shoulders no longer sag under the yoke of that prep-kid charade.
What of my precious high-quality separates in eminently wearable block colours, I hear you ask? I kept them all. They’ll last until the inevitable nuclear Armageddon, and long after I’m dead. After all, why should the neurotypicals have all the fun?
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