Fruity goodness

I literally hate all fruit: it’s not a taste thing (usually); it’s wholly tactile. The only two fruits I can stand are apples and cantaloupe — and, even then, they have to be cut a certain way, in very tiny pieces, for me to stand them. Fruit is slimy and chunky and gross, and biting often involves a sensation that I imagine is analogous to chewing styrofoam or eyeballs.

I’ve taken to getting nutritional value by eating baby food, specifically, banana baby food. All fears of potassium deficiency can be alleviated, thanks to Gerber. Of course, many people find it “strange” or “psychotic” that an adult woman would willingly eat and enjoy baby food. I think the invisibility of sensory dysfunction affects me most — why is pureed food such a “bad” or “socially inappropriate” thing? Why are soft foods infantile and chewy steaks manly? Who made these decisions?

bananaGerber, fresh from the freezer.

I loathe chunks, gag on chunks, and baby food hasn’t got any chunks. It also hasn’t got any pulp, and I don’t have to worry about my lips touching the food because I can spoon the food straight into my mouth. (Dirty/gritty sensations on my lips drive me into panic. Literally. I am the paper napkin/wet nap queen.)

In short, banana baby food pwnz0rs.

Obligatory introductory inaugural post

My seventh grade Language Arts teacher often commented that I crafted “interesting” story leads.

Interesting, over the years, has come to signify a catch-all word that means anything from beautiful to bile-inducing to uninteresting but so friggin strange that someone must find it interesting. I am, therefore, quite weary of interesting, and Ms. Fox’s insistence that my introductory statements possessed twinges of interestingness did little more than creep me out, quite frankly. With each piece due, I’d attempt to de-interestify my leading sentences, hoping for remarks such as creative or good, but still I’d receive interesting.

In college, professors no longer coined my essays as interesting, but rather insisted that I stop reading Flannery O’Connor and Christopher Durang. This was hard to do, especially since I enjoyed their morbid senses of humor, but I managed — that is, until I realized stop reading Flannery O’Connor and Christopher Durang in fact meant keep reading Flannery O’Connor and Christopher Durang, that it was in fact a compliment, not a command.

This blog, I think, will be a combination of many things — mostly, whatever the heck I want — but I mainly wish to explore rhetoric through my autly lens, a lens I’ve always perceived as normal until told otherwise. Perhaps interesting will still be thrown around since normal isn’t applicable. But, then again, who are these normal people? Who belongs to the all-powerful majority discourse, and do they have a postal address within the continental US?

Lately, as I’ve been coming to grips with my status as an autistic PhD student, slowly outing myself to the world at large, I’ve felt more insecure. As a rule, I rarely disclose, but the few times I have disclosed have either resulted in, 0MG! I so T0T4LLY KNEW IT!!!1ONEONE!11, or Wow! You must have outgrown it/you must be super high-functioning.

[NOTE: I’ve never been one for paraphrasing.]

Autism explains me, allows me to overanalyze my strengths and weaknesses, allows me to overanalyze every rhetorical move that emanates from my socially awkward self. My autistic tendencies have their own rhetoric; they are my commonplaces; they provide context for my actions and (mis)interpretations.

I mostly, though, enjoy the logos of it all.