Enter the Rabbit

It's that time again when the years shift gears, and the sights and sounds of the past make way for the hopes and fears of the future. This upcoming year, I seek to focus on the hope aspect as I make my Ass Burgery resolutions for 2011, the Year of the Rabbit, my year.

Bun
I want to keep exploring religious experiences and learn how to better understand and connect with the divine. This will mean being more open about religion with the people in my life and asking to attend services with them. I may start reading the Bible at some point in the year; I just need to figure out pacing.

Meat
I need to re-think my workout routine to incorporate more variety; instead of just doing weights during the week, it will be important to work on my cardiovascular health and flexibility. I'd like to find some new activity groups and take a class or two, if I can find one that is convenient and affordable.

Cheese
I want to make some more friends, and I want our friendships to be unmasked, which means cutting down mightily on the showmanship and focusing instead on reality and intimacy. I always vow to work on correspondence, but really, it's a struggle all the time. Surrounding all of these elements, I will be developing healthy boundaries to stave off the psychoses.

Lettuce
This will be the year I learn to love myself. This will involve taking more pride in my accomplishments, reflected on The To-Smite List, and really letting go of the past. I discovered a new technique for handling demons, which is to feed them rather than fight them. I look forward to putting this technique to the test and tending to my family of pet demons.

Tomatoes
I want to get a stable job and put my finances in order. I'm already taking steps toward this by creating a budget chart and investing in Personal Finance for Dummies. Learning to be aware of and to manage my bank accounts will be a revolutionary step toward responsible adulthood. Also, I want to train my focus so that I can finish my projects in a timely manner, while taking into account the fact that I do need to have fun here and there.

Onions
This will tie in with my demon work, but I want to learn to embrace my emotions instead of hide from them, both in my mind and in expression. I want to revel in both happiness and sadness.

Ketchup
I want to find someone who will treat me with respect, who can handle my light and my dark, and who will actually enjoy my devotion. I'd like to be in a relationship longer than three months.

The Massager

Holy crap. My parents gave me a seat-back back massager for Christmas. I'm trying it out now. Again, holy crap. This thing actually works really well. I freakin' love back massages and before now, I had to rely entirely on the two people I dated a year for anything like this, but now, this device may just be my key to independence. Reminds me of a song...

Jesus and the Purple Dinosaur

It's nice having young cousins. They have an uncanny skill to help relive the rambunctious days of yore, whether they're hitting you in the face with a lightsaber, throwing screaming toy monkeys at you, or just clobbering each other. When the family came over for Christmas night dinner, these two reminded me of an old chant I hadn't heard since Kindergarten:

Joy to the world: Barney's dead.
We barbecued his head.
Don't worry 'bout the body;
We flushed it down the potty
And 'round and 'round it goes,
And 'round and 'round it goes,
And 'round and 'round and 'round it goes.

The actual parody has been updated for the times, but I can't, for the life of me, remember who is the modern equivalent of Barney the Dinosaur. Regardless, in my younger years, I and my fellow young men never questioned the content of this song. It was perfectly justifiable to deliver the fate of Benito Mussolini upon Barney the Dinosaur because of one song:


"Love? Eww... Who talks about love? Who gives hugs and kisses? That's disgusting. We may only be seven years old, but we are MEN, and MEN do not do these things! In fact, to show our disdain, we're going to concoct our own version. As MEN. That'll show 'em."

I hate you. You hate me.
Let's gang up and kill Barney.
With a gun to his head
And a knife to his neck,
Pull the trigger; now Barney's dead.

I bring this up because the memory of my young MANHOOD happened to get triggered on the traditional birthday of another conveyor of love, who said "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind—this is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: Love your neighbor as yourself. All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments." (Matthew 22:37-40) This fellow, like the purple dinosaur, was murdered by MEN.

Is it natural to choose bread and circuses over the more complicated concept of Love? To this day, I still have a difficult time just saying the word "Love." it has been ingrained in my head that "Love" is the purple dinosaur, that Love is stupid, saccharine, and superfluous, not to mention unMANly. Not only is it difficult to say the word, but it's also impossible for me to demonstrate genuine, unmasked affection, especially through great big hugs and kisses. In order to make them more tolerable, they have to be accompanied by the lust factor. I wonder why this defense mechanism has persisted all this time.

It's not unusual for people to favor bread and circuses to the more complicated sensation of Love. It's the same reason I instantly get defensive when Christians say the name "Jesus." The ideas behind Jesus are simple, yet they feel complicated and intimidating. It is easier—and even more widely promoted among MEN—to embrace the brain-dulling ideas of anger and lust than the challenges of Love, and I have spent many years enamored of both. In the process of despising the dinosaur, I have denied myself the very thing that he preaches.

With the Year of the Rabbit starting soon, the challenge of letting go of my anger and learning to love remains at the top of my priorities. It is terribly difficult to let go of something that has been a part of one's personality since childhood. It will require new sources of support and a new degree of reward and punishment to accomplish in a new year. Once and if, however, it can be accomplished, the change will revolutionize the very foundations of my life. Super-de-duper amen!

You Know... (Part 2)

You know your love life has gotten stale when you wake up in the morning with a big hickey on your nose... from the Breathe-Right® Strip keeping your sinuses open.

You know your family knows you well when, after years of turning down alcohol at family functions, you get beer for Christmas.

You know you've been subjected to false advertising when your Bark-Off® ultrasonic device doesn't actually stop the dog from barking, but instead pisses him off and everyone else as well.

Gooble Gobble

I won't be offended if you don't get the title reference. That being said, I logged onto Meetup.com and joined a group for people with Asperger's Syndrome and other forms of High-Functioning Autism. I got a kick out of the symptoms list on the About page. The familiarity is frightening. Should I start going to meetups with my fellow aliens, I may have a blast or find myself amidst a great gaggle of miscommunication. In any case, pretty much all of the symptoms apply to my life, but these especially:

• People think you are an ass, and you have no idea why.
• You can't make accurate social conclusions: You can get a joke (stated conclusion), but you will not know someone is angry, or that they are angry with you (or you assume anyone angry around you is angry with you).
• Ever get these responses? "You think too much," "I have another call," "That makes my brain hurt thinking about it..."
• You can mimic/mirror people and an environment for a couple hours. You may have a "speech" mode and use tricks to get through social situations (feels like a performance).
• You do have facial expressions, they just don't always match. Your response will not always be perceived as as you expected it to. Example: You are excited about something, but people think you are angry. Same thing with voice inflection. You won't know why they think that, or what to do about it.

My Kid

The focus of this blog will soon shift into the realm of boundary setting, following the guidance of this marvelous book I've just completed; however, before I do, I would like to refer to a recent violation of my boundaries in which I was approached on the street and told that I would, then and there, sponsor a child with Children International.

Lacking the ability to say no, I caved, even though I was not sure I wanted to or could do it. I then spent the next two weeks resenting the decision and telling myself to get out of it as soon as possible. I'd keep forgetting, and so, inevitably, I got the packet in the mail. Ergo...

This is Carlos:

Carlos is 6 years old. He lives in Chile. He loves soccer and art. His family makes $160 a month. But I... But boundaries... But... Okay, I confess. This kid's cuter than an armadillo wearing spectacles and a cravat. Apparently he's going to write me a letter in a few weeks. Then how do I respond to a 6-year old? I don't think he'll have much appreciation for an onslaught of my average existential drivel, so maybe I'll stick to drawing him pictures. Lots of pictures. Of el PieGrande.

I'm going to give this another chance as long as I can handle it. This could turn into a really cool experience, as I'll basically be helping raise a kid who has nothing. Who knows? Maybe he'll grow up to be artsy fartsy like his Unky Kyle. (Wouldn't recommend it, kiddo.) I'll add updates here as I get them, probably starting in three weeks or so.

Damnster: The Damned Hamster

Picture a hamster. Cute little devil, isn't he, albeit a little gluttonous? Well, to work off his gluttony, he decides to go for a jog on his wheel, but don't that beat all... some sadistic bastard has decided to hang a juicy strawberry just out of reach beyond the wheel. Oh God, that strawberry looks good!

So the hamster, glutton that he is, starts running. He runs and runs, or rather waddles at high velocity, over-sized testicles wobbling to and fro and catching on the bars of the wheel ever so often. In any case, this hamster is on a roll. He can see that strawberry. He can smell it. He can nearly taste it. It's a few friggin' centimeters in front of his face, and he's hustling as fast as he can to get it.

Of course, he's going nowhere. The strawberry stays suspended before the hamster's greedy, beady eyes and slowly dries up and withers. That verklempt hamster just keeps going, tears mixing with sweat as he watches his prize fade, not noticing that his own body is withering away from exertion. His own balls just aren't dragging anymore. With a groan, he seizes up and rolls out of the wheel into his wood shavings.

He stares up at his prize with his greedy, beady eyes and realizes that it's still hanging right in front of him, but now there are no bars between them. Yet, he's exerted himself so much that he just can't grab it. Damned be the hamster who cannot step off his wheel!

I won't write an essay on the symbolism behind this anecdote about greedy little rodents, but let's just say the hamster and I have a lot in common. However, today I learned how to get off the wheel. Once I get my strength back, I just hope the Powers-That-Be will replace the stale strawberry with one that is fresher and more delicious.

Be Strong, My Heart

Be strong, my heart
In time of doubt,
And trust that you
Can do without.

The gold has cracked,
The lead revealed,
But have some faith
And so be healed.

Be strong my heart,
Through darkness, shine,
Though you're not his,
You're always mine.

See Saw

My cousin sent me a text message the other day, the first I'd really heard from her in nearly two years, and that includes the times we shared Christmas Eve dinner. Apparently, she just wanted to clarify that, no matter what our grandma may have told me, she wasn't really a bitch. Small talk progressed from there, though I was able to glean that the point of contention in the conversation was myself. My cousin had brought up her current problems, and our grandma had countered by saying that I had it worse.

I continue to be astounded by how opposite my life runs to the remainder of the world. When I'm at the bottom of the world and all is doom and melancholy, everyone is suddenly busy with their own affairs, yet when I'm on top of the world and all is sunshine and peaches, I become the talk of the pity papers. It makes no sense.

It may be dependent on who gets what side of me more. I noticed the other day, as my good friend asked me to write a letter of recommendation for his marriage visa, I realized that for the last four months, the only words I'd received about his fiancé were complaints, and consequently, I felt no inspiration to write such a letter, regardless of how much my friend proclaimed his love for this person. Having received only that side of his relationship, I could not see the positive in it. I think that may be the case with how my life comes across to others.

After many years of self-loathing and fishing for compliments in the pity pool, I've found that it is much easier to change one's own attitude toward oneself than others' attitudes toward oneself. One is with oneself for every mood swing and inflection, but it is not so with others. Thus, there is a delay, and all falls to confusion when, on a bright and cheery day, you are approached with condolences. Once things are sorted out, it's hard to be certain how you felt before the conversation took place, and by the time you've convinced the other person that you were in high spirits, their negativity may very well have reversed that, putting you in a foul mood while they saunter off under the impression that you're just dandy. It's a right mess, it is.

Boundaries

I've been reading a really useful book for the past two weeks called Boundaries by Drs. Henry Cloud and John Townsend. I've responded to every chapter on The To-Smite List, and so far it's been very helpful at giving me a jumping-off point for clarifying where I end and the rest of the world begins. Check it out.

Ah! Ooh! Ah!

My body is screaming this morning. No, not literally; that would just be weird. More like a rusty gate being blown by the wind. My back is stiff, my legs are stiff, my arms are stiff, and there is a large abrasion at the edge of my armpit. And I'm still just getting started with my 20s!

My friend/grasshopper suggested we go running yesterday. I thought this would be a great idea, because I've been slacking a little too much lately on the running front. We settled on Runyon Canyon at 1:00. Swell. Well, as it turns out, this Saturday happened to be the first of the month, which means that my running group goes to Santa Monica, which is one of those things I just don't miss. So I went, and nobody else showed, which meant that I got to choose my own run, about three miles across the sand (and through flocks of snowy plovers, which, I might add, are arguably the most adorably squeaky birds in the world). It was cold, but the beach was empty and the sand pleasantly squishy. I felt pretty good by the end.

By the time young Grasshopper and I arrived at Runyon Canyon, I still felt pretty good and even suggested that we take the steep trail, just for some extra hill work. The only problem was that the last time I had done these hills, I'd been hiking, not running. Big difference. It didn't take long for Grasshopper to hop ahead of me, perhaps fifty feet after the trailhead.

By the time we reached the top of the tallest cliff/hill, I was staggering with legs of Jell-O and lungs of dust. He was tired, but hardly doubled over and wheezing. He'd joined a marathon team, on my own recommendation, and clearly, it was paying off for him. By contrast, I've been running with this group for almost two years, and I've been getting less and less enthusiastic about it by the day. Why?

I joined the group solely because it was a gay group, intent on finding instant commonality and perhaps romance. Not so. After two years, I'm still regularly the youngest person in the group by ten to forty years. I'm still regularly the fastest person in the group. Once in a while, there will be a visitor who pushes me, but as was made painfully aware to me on the run yesterday, I have been slowing down, a lot.

I acknowledge that my competitive days ended in high school and that my passion for running has largely eroded away, yet the realization that I was the struggling old man, reluctant to take that second lap, hit me hard. I'm still sitting too much for work, driving to the gym instead of running, losing my flexibility, to the point that, although I will never be a medal-winning runner again, I miss the potential. I think that I need to seriously rethink my workout plan, i.e. find a new group with better workouts and faster, more passionate runners. I'll add that to the list of New Year's Resolutions, and maybe next year, the Year of the Rabbit, I'll be ready to face those hills of Runyon again and show that young whippersnapper what's what. First, though, some hot tubbing and an Advil may be in order. Ooh... Ah...

The Final Drug

It's sad, but true. In my ongoing pursuit of self-control, which has otherwise been going swimmingly, there remains one drug to which I submit in addictive kowtow: flirtation. I love the feeling of the flirt, even though ninety percent of the time I'm flirting, I'm neither talking to the other person nor even holding eye contact. The flirt is in the glance, the gaze, and perhaps, in the unlikely event that opportunity and courage should present themselves at the same time and same location, the question.

Of course, throughout the history of Kyle, this particular drug has led down all sorts of unpleasant paths, through secrets, lies, and dreadfully inappropriate Facebook stati. Now that I'm no longer on said book of faces, and perhaps on account of the imminent winter (the season of romance), the urges are coming more strongly now. Of course, in order to hold my course and veer deftly around the jagged rocks of past mistakes, some new conditions are in order, a code, if you will. I shall call it:

Kyle's Code of Dating

1. Neither person sets foot in the other's place of residence until, at the earliest, the third date. After that barrier is broken, then both must be equally welcome in each other's home.
2. First meetings should be in the morning or early afternoon when both people are in the process of waking up and are thus either more energetic or less capable of deception.
3. If a plan is made and interrupted, it should be pushed back, not brought forward. Rushing tends to evoke a sudden sense of impropriety and convert attraction to guilt.
4. While nearly everyone deserves a chance on a first date, it is impolite, when feelings aren't mutual, to wait until the third date or beyond to set the boundaries.
5. Stick to your standards, which in this case are:
• Creativity and passion
• Optimism
• Kindness, not just "niceness"
• Solid boundaries, a code, if you will
• Healthy self-esteem
• No more than five years on either side of my age
• Enough projects that I don't need to be one of them
• Effective communication skills (verbal, honest, regular, purposeful)
• A sense of wonder
• Conflict resolution skills
• A stable family relationship
• Long-term goals
• Good grammar
• Gratitude
• A pleasant face and a pleasant smell
• An enormous... sense of humor

While this may seem like an excessive list to the unfamiliar reader, considering my long past of lacking self control, it is essential to take a rigorous path in order to get back on track. Then, once my behaviors are balanced out, I may decide I don't need to be so strict anymore. Ideally, this will be because I've met someone who actually fits in with all of them. However, the world has a talent for crushing ideals after a while. In any case, I'm hoping that this relapse gradually turns into a valuable stage of progress, as I learn how to incorporate what I've been learning about boundaries and the power of "No" into real human-to-human interactions.

You Know... (Part 1)

You know you're getting older when the Thanksgiving dinner conversation centers on incontinence and colonoscopies, yet the only thing on your mind is, "Mmm... cranberries."

You know you're getting older when you return from a four-day holiday, and the first thing on your mind is how much you need to catch up on your leafy greens and fiber.

You know you're getting older when you finally gather the courage to talk to your eye-popping, knee-quaking crush of several months, only to find that he has several children old enough to run around.

You know you've got issues when you can barely contain your excitement for a thorough airport pat-down.

Updates and Thanks

It's amazing how quickly this last month has passed, and already Thanksgiving has swept on through like a turkey with a jet pack... and a lot of meth. Nonetheless, tardiness aside, I'd like to take a moment to express thanks for a month of multi-layered progress:

Bun:
- I'm learning to add the spi- to the -ritual.
- I'm discovering that a life of misery is not the will of God.

Meat:
- I have started to incorporate stretching into every workout.
- I am learning how to subsist on more than crackers and mashed potatoes.
- I have done the unthinkable and attained mastery of my domain.

Cheese:
- Having removed myself from Facebook, I am attracting more direct and personal relationships.
- I am practicing the principle of not letting the sun go down on my wrath.
- I am learning to handle confrontation and, once initiated, resolve it.
- I am removing the pressure to socialize, in favor of something more genuine.
- I am learning to communicate more directly and efficiently.
- I am taking further interest in the detailed lives of others.

Lettuce:
- In absence of a logical reason to be depressed, I've decided to be cheerful.
- I'm discovering the things I like about myself.
- I'm raising my awareness of my limits and flaws and addressing them directly.
- I'm learning to separate my past behavior from my current, progressive self, and thus stop the trains of thought at the station.

Tomatoes:
- I have started to take more regular breaks at work.
- I'm finding ways to make work more exciting, for instance, pretending that I'm the HR equivalent of Jack Bauer with limited time to sort 500 applications.
- I'm letting myself spend money.
- I'm planning ahead.

Onions:
- I'm discovering that subduing my emotions, then chastising myself for having subdued emotions, is stupid.
- I'm exploring my feelings of sadness and anger when I feel them, instead of trying to force them into the shape of delight.
- I am acknowledging my moments of happiness with the understanding that though they may not last, they are enjoyable.
- I am letting myself be moved by music.

Ketchup:
- I am again single, but I am shedding bitterness as I become more aware of how I approach relationships.
- I am working to resolve previous issues that have corrupted my perception of relationships.
- I am re-discovering "No" with the understanding that the right people can still say "Yes" a week after hearing "No."

So Long, Book of Faces

Whenever I feel the pull toward religion, it's normally for a reason. I guess that's the point of it, right? In any case, this morning I felt the urge to attend a church service with a very good friend of mine. By the end, I was convinced that the divine is still desperately trying to speak with me despite my angry, closed ears.

The subject was Ephesians 4:26-29, on the topic of communication and how not to offend the Holy Spirit. In it, the pastor recounted four ways to keep communication godly, each one affirming the next, most critical step I need to take on my path out of Asperger's. They are:

1. Communicate Verbally
   (Nonverbal communication is so easily misinterpreted.)
2. Communicate Honestly
   (If you can't encourage each other with the truth, your relationship isn't very deep.)
3. Communicate Regularly
   (When you can help it, never go to bed with an unresolved issue.)
4. Communicate Purposefully
   (If you can't say somethin' nice, don't say nothin' at all.)

The truth is, at the root of my mania is the fact that I have flouted each and every one of these guidelines. I've hidden for years behind text messages and E-mails, afraid to be without a Backspace Button. I've molded the truth to prevent revealing my true feelings, for fear of a damaged reputation. I often adhere to an intense message quid-pro-quo: when I've sent someone a message, I do not speak to them again until they've responded, for hours, days, weeks, years, ever. Finally, when I communicate, it is largely for the sake of communication itself; I'll start a conversation without necessarily thinking about how I would like to direct it, then get upset when it dissolves into long pauses and sidelong glances.

So I'm taking the first step tonight. I'm deleting my Facebook account. I'm taking an enormous bite out of my dependence on text-based communication and forcing myself to work on actual change and actual relationships. The past has been repeating itself far too much lately, and in order to stop it, I must make a much larger change than I'm accustomed to making. Though I will no longer have access to daily updates and photo albums, I hope that the exchange will be to have an active role in more daily updates and photo albums.

Nietzsche claims many people wait for the call, "that accident which gives the 'permission' to act." I claim no great catalyst. I'm neither having a breakdown, nor moving away, nor suicidal, nor just going away and coming back in order to get attention. This is about rediscovering what is real. This is about rediscovering humanity over machinery. For the first time, I can actually thank the Bible and an unfamiliar church for their support. Sorry, Nietzsche, but that's just the way it is.

Familiar

There is a familiar deer in a familiar forest eating familiar grass under a familiar blue sky. It dines with familiar squirrels and listens to familiar birds. It hears a familiar twig snap and recognizes the familiar smell of danger. And so it bolts, in a way familiar to us.

In the past few years, dating has become a cervine lifestyle: The moment I hear that familiar twig snap, I don't care if it's a mountain lion or a careless rabbit, I'm ready to get the hell out of there. It wasn't always this way. In fact, there was a time when I used to lie down and present my vulnerable underbelly to the mountain lions and say, "Here, this portion would be rather tasty, don't you think?" Unfortunately, when the mountain lions decided I didn't taste very good after all, I learned that self subjugation hurts worse than being disemboweled. Now, I'm not so much fleeing for fear of pain as for fear of shame.

I've broken things off with the Gentleman about five times now, but we're still dating. I attribute this to the fact that I haven't actually mentioned it to him. The past two weeks, the twigs have been snapping left and right, but I just can't tell if it's a mountain lion or a rabbit trying to mess with me. I madly want to know: Is he watching me? Is he interested? Why isn't he responding to me? Why doesn't he ask me about such and such? What is he doing messing around online at four in the morning when I sent him a text message question at two this afternoon? Shit, I'm out of here. Oh... There was a family feud... and he figured I was asleep by the time it was done... and he didn't get up until late. Okay, that's kind of considerate. Rabbit in lion's clothing.

Next time: Waiting late for a call to hang out. No call. Send passive-aggressive text about call. No answer. Find answer next morning: babysitting nephews. Respond. Nothing until later.

It's this crazy pinball track from fight to flight to collapse, and it's reawakening a side of me that I really hoped had been dragged away by the mountain lions. Now, every time there is no immediate response, I instantly develop a new scenario in which he is a combination of all of my exes: their journeys that I hinder, their secrets, their affairs, their lies, their patronizations. The psychosis takes less than five minutes to start and an hour to explode into this absurd, self-loathing, woe-is-me, screw-dating mentality, which, once the rabbit pulls off the lion's mask, leaves me ashamed again, yet insufficiently so to prevent another lapse the next time.

So basically, I am a familiar deer in a familiar meadow, waiting for the familiar snap of a familiar twig, but where it is snapping and where to run, remain unfamiliar. The more I run, the more exhausted I become. But what is the alternative? How does one face the lion's mask and still be happy after it's revealed to be a rabbit? Furthermore, how does one enjoy the meadow when there may be a lion nearby? This isn't one of nature's unavoidables; there are methods of defense, but what are they... in the world outside of simile?

Update
Now that he got back to me and very casually brushed me off on our evening plans without a "Sorry" or a "Wish you could be here," but a promise that he would send pictures from his imminent week-long trip, the decision is made. I'm not running; I'm kicking his ass out of the meadow. Positive attitudes aside, I think I have a right to be angry, and in response to the stereotype that people with Asperger's can't take social cues, I'm a hell of a lot more observant than he is. And here I am shaming myself for being pessimistic. You know what? It's better to be single and alone than involved and alone on a Saturday night. Central finger... salute!

You own one too? Yes, but I loaned it to Sgt. Pepper.

I've hit a stumbling block on my path to a positive attitude, and it is the very nature by which I connect with people. I've never been able to grow close to a person through discussion of the weather or childhood frolics. No, the closest I can get to another person is through the broken heart.

Commiseration over past pain is the quickest way to intimacy, because it immediately places two people against an ominous foe: other people. They are then both on each other's side, fighting for and with each other, comrades in arms. This has long been the deciding factor in whether people become my friends or remain acquaintances. There must be a past history of pain, and in order to find the emotional intimacy I crave, I have to find it. The problem with this approach is that it invariably turns the conversation negative and frankly makes me come across as morbid. Maybe I am. Nonetheless, a story about past injury is the most revealing sort of story a person can tell, laying bare the vulnerable interior to scrutiny. Revealing it is a sure sign of trust and security in the other person. It is Connection.

So the problem being faced at this point is how to attain the same degree of intimacy, if possible, using a more positive approach, one that does not turn the conversation toward the side of gloom. Or if there is no alternative, then it becomes necessary to wait and see, to find a way to enter the subject and exit it, retaining the connection while shedding the gloom. Taking suggestions...

Baby, I'd Invert My Esophagus for You.

Camels have it easy. I'm serious. Under the whole "gotta keep a hump of fat on my back in order to stay alive when I can't drink for weeks in the blazing hot desert" facade, when it comes down to mating season, all the male camel has to do to attract a mate is to invert his esophagus and flail it around like a disgusting water balloon.


Hot.
The human male, unfortunately, cannot just unfurl his esophagus and win the love of his life. There are rules to obey, conventions to follow, standards to uphold. For instance, to attract a proper mate, the civilized male must be

strong but not controlling,
sensitive but not submissive,
attractive but not too,
trusting but not too,
interested but not intrusive,
interesting but not overwhelming,
free but disciplined,
clean but dirty,
romantic but realistic,
selfless but self-respecting,
sane but crazy,
wild as a wolf but tame as a dog.

One cannot help but wonder how human civilization has persisted so long when one beholds the grand paradox of one's own courtship display. It is amazing how much time and effort go into complicating it, and how quickly the words "screw it" undo it.

From the Rabbit's Mouth

The end of the week holds much to reflect upon. This particular Friday calls me to recollect the wise words of Thumper, the rabbit. You may remember him from his cinematic debut in the movie Bambi, especially his great big feet and penchant for clover blossoms (who can blame him?). But for me, it's his worldly wisdom that comes to mind, expressed in one line more profound than my five-year old brain was able to comprehend the last time I heard it:

If you can't say somethin' nice, don't say nothin' at all.

In the past few days, I've received a slew of critiques, both public and private, regarding the content of this blog. A fight even broke out on my Facebook profile because of it. The majority of the criticism comes from the vulgarity of the title, though "ass" is a multi-layered word, meaning many things, including donkey, buffoon, jerk, or derriere. I suppose it's true that he who maketh an ass of himself must prepare to be ridden, but by modern tastes, this statement has a wholly different connotation.

The point is this: I am an ass of the third kind, and I am so because I don't know how to limit my words, as Thumper noted, to what is "nice." A lack of understanding of social propriety is one of the most troubling symptoms of Asperger's Syndrome, but rather than keep my mouth perpetually shut as I have for years, I'm going to explore it.

Society has its own sense of disgust, and mine happens to be the opposite (e.g. daring to be so gauche as to publicly confess flatulence). Nonetheless, the intent of this blog is not to go on forever about what an ass I am, nor is it a blatant attack on the self-proclaimed "normal," but rather a way to highlight the areas in which I am most asinine and work on making them less so. While I enjoy my own brand of strangeness to the point of self-indulgence, it is simply not fun to be an alien among people.

That being said, I'm still making my burger, and I'm still working toward Thumper's philosophy. While the best I can do for those Hypothetical Post Viewers who want me to give up the journey or put the "blah" in "blog" is to present my puckered fourth kind, should someone have reasonable suggestions for how to improve the content of this blog or adhere it more tightly to my mission, I will gladly incorporate your advice into each subsequent post. 謝謝. 慢慢吃.

He Works Hard for the Money

I learned a valuable lesson in professional behavior today, and it came in a wholly unexpected form: my boss told me to go home early because I work too much. When I told her I still needed to finish these last few projects, she said, "No, you don't. That's my job. Go home."

It's peculiar how, over the years, while my employers have gotten progressively more approachable and accommodating, I have become proportionally more neurotic about doing my job. This means getting the projects done at all costs with minimal lunch time, minimal blinking, minimal breathing, and you can just plain forget about ten-minute breaks. Yes, technically I'm required by law to take full breaks throughout the day, but tell that to my brain.

I've made plenty of mistakes in past jobs, and each one has made me more determined not to make the same one again. When one combines this with five months spent unemployed and living off peanut butter sandwiches and crackers, not to mention my last semester of college spent learning how employers are basically itching for an excuse to replace me with someone better, of course I'm going to rush head-first into work. Of course I'm going to hyperactively request projects and finish them in a blaze and come home at the end of the day utterly exhausted because I felt taking breaks would be a sign of laziness and thus make me more expendable.

It's a difficult thing to digest: being told by my boss to work less, having convinced myself, preposterously, that anyone who is happy in the workplace isn't putting enough energy into their job. It wasn't until last week that I found out I could actually leave by 5:30 if I only had a half-hour lunch. I also found out that it's okay to pour myself a cup of tea using the company's supplies. Even then, I still feel like cutting out at 5:30 is slacking and using company supplies is freeloading. Now I'm not sure what to do with the free time or how to convey that it is technically free time and that I'm not just being lazy, or whether that really even matters. I guess what I'm trying to say here is... cool! Let the ten-minute relaxation commence!

The Gentleman

Old habits die hard, this one harder than the rest. It's cost me plenty over the years, and I've gone through all manners of counsel to be cured of it. It's left me sweating at night and cold in the morning, wealthy on Friday and broke by Sunday, on Cloud 9 at the start of the month and in Provo by the end. I've been "sober" for almost a year, but in the last few weeks, the great whirlpool has finally sucked me back into... dating.

Yup, I've been asked out. A couple of times in fact... And then I asked back... And so far, things have been going pretty darn well, and I'm terrified.

"Why, Kyle, would you be terrified of things going well?" might ask Hypothetical Post Viewer.

"Well, HPV," I would respond, "when things have started well in the past, they have ended very badly in the future."

"But you've made some major progress in the past few years," would retort the Hypothetical Post Viewer. "You've connected with yourself, learned how to subdue your impulses for control, and stopped idealizing other people."

"That may be so, HPV, but I have not yet tested my progress with another person. It's scary! Don't you know anything about testing?"

In any case, this particular fellow, who for now shall be known as The Gentleman, is diggable, i.e., I dig him. He's fun, creative, adventurous, and surprisingly chivalrous in a world of cads. I started off resisting the push of romance, but I think I've been won over. That makes me nervous.

While I'm constantly fighting off the old psychoses, not to mention the promise I made to myself that I would not date for a whole year from last December, there is still the strangest sense of impropriety to the whole thing, as if I shouldn't be dating again at all. It's this nagging little voice that says, "It's going to go exactly the same as before; why bother trying to stuff a sense of normalcy between cynicism and bitterness when you know how slippery it is?"

A lot of this is the past talking, coupled with advice from my elders that has stuck with me: "It is a naive infatuation." I can't have that be the case any longer; I need to know that I can feel real emotions for a real human being. The fact of the matter is that I enjoy spending time with The Gentleman more than I initially anticipated and that I want to have more adventures with him. In order to enjoy them more fully, however, I must learn to distinguish the emotions, both as I feel them and as others tell me I feel them. Then, maybe, I can get a grip on normalcy and maybe even enjoy guiltless dating. Inshallah...

Jiz and Onions

It is absolutely amazing what the tedium of filing can do for one's sense of self awareness. When one's brainpower has been reduced to a trickle, it is somehow opened to the most unexpected revelations. Case in point: today, while sorting through three hundred employee applications from New York, I realized that my most intense moments of fear, self-loathing, and doubt occur when I am exhausted.

I shook my head to clear it, realizing that the night before, when I wasn't tired but got to bed late, I was quite happy. After waking up and missing my workout, slogging my way to work with bags under my eyes that could catch a piano (you know, like that one commercial...), I discovered that I was depressed. "How odd," I thought to myself, but as I looked back on the day, I hadn't been depressed when I was interacting with my coworkers. In fact, I had been quite merry, but after I had gone off by myself to file, losing that interaction, my face reverted to tired mode, and it all came back to me what my grandma said about smiling: Do it.

When I'm tired and alone, my face sags. Somehow, this continuous sagging translates in my brain to sadness, and when my brain senses sadness, it starts to produce more, spiraling out of control until what was once a "Good grief, I'm tired," becomes a "Ugh, my life sucks!"

To test this hypothesis, I thought back to the previous night, in which I laughed hysterically over a little video called "Jiz" {Warning: video contains potentially offensive language; I mean, just look at the title}. Anyway, I started cracking up, so hard, in fact, that some of my other coworkers had to come over and make sure I was all right. The miraculous thing about it is that after I had wiped away my giggletears, my entire outlook on life had reformed. I only vaguely thought about those other things that had been killing me moments before, and I was ready to get right back into... filing.

So, on an emotional level, this looks promising. If I can keep a series of thoughts or videos in my mind that will produce a smile, I just might have a cure for my bouts of depression. Or I could just get more sleep. Nah...

Five Rules to "Have a Good One"

Over the years, my skills at meeting new people have progressively grown more and more feeble, from being able to automatically be anyone's friend in grade school to an almost deathly fear of approaching new people, post-grad. I blame much of this on the high school years I wasted, solely socializing by computer, but at least I have learned a few valuable lessons from this, which may yet be useful in the future. When approaching someone new, for instance, reading a book clearly read only by the most fascinating of characters:

1. Have something to talk about.

Me: Hi, good book?
Complete Stranger: Yup.
Pause.
Me: Well, have a good one.

2. Don't over-think it.

Me: (in my head) Okay, there's someone sitting over there reading a big book. (S)he's clearly an intellectual. Good, we have that in common. I could go start a conversation and discuss... intellectual things. But would it be weird if I just walk up and start a conversation? Will I get told off? Maced perhaps? What if I exhaust the intellectual topic too quickly? What can I talk about besides, God forbid, the weather? Oh shit, (s)he's looking at me. Now I've blown it. I should go. But now (s)he's back on the book. Maybe that glance was an invitation? Maybe (s)he was admiring the pigeon over my shoulder? Shit... literally... Wiping off shoulder... Where was I? Oh God, how long have I been sitting here staring? I probably look like such a stalker right now. But I'm told I should seize every opportunity to talk to someone, because who knows, they may become my best friend or my link to the biz. Uh oh, (s)he's packing up. It's now or never. (outside my head) Hi, good book?
Complete Stranger: Yup.
Pause.
Me: Well, have a good one.

3. The longer you observe, the less likely they will want to talk to you.

Me: Hi, so I saw you were reading that book, and I was wondering what your thoughts are on Fermi's Paradox?
Complete Stranger: I dunno. I just started. You were watching me?
Pause.
Me: Well, have a good one.

4. Don't ask for someone's contact information if you haven't actually made a connection.

Me: Hi, good book?
Complete Stranger: Yup.
Pause.
Me: Well, have a good one.
After running into them much later...
Me: Hey, remember me? We were talking about your book earlier.
Complete Stranger: Oh hi.
Me: Hey, could I have your E-mail address?
Complete Stranger: No.
Me: Okay... Well, have a good one.

5. If someone actually shows an interest in talking with you, don't leave!

Me: Hi, good book?
Complete Stranger: Amazing! Have you ever heard of Fermi's Paradox?
Me: Yeah. (inside my head) Oh my God, I'm making an ass of myself again. What do I do? Better get out of here before I make the situation any worse. (outside my head) Well, have a good one.

He Made It: The Life and Times of the Almighty

I'm hitting the home stretch of Beyond Good and Evil by Friederich Nietzsche, controversial German philosopher who posited that the Almighty has, in fact, kicked the bucket. Now, while one could easily argue that God is Existence and thus cannot not exist, I still must take a pause to consider the life of the scriptural God:

Infancy: God afraid of the dark. Makes nightlight.

Toddlerhood:  God wants to play.  Makes a garden to play in, fully equipped with awesome creatures that He made with His own two hands!

Childhood: God upset that Adam and Eve broke the rules of His game.  Orders them into permanent time-out.

Pre-Teen:  God double-dog-dares Abraham to sacrifice his son, then throws a tantrum because no one else will play by His rules, flooding the world.  God feels kind of bad about this and realizes He doesn't want to lose His friendship with humanity.

Teenage Years: God's going through changes...  He wants to make something of His life. He sets up His own fraternity of priests and prophets- no girls allowed.  In fact, it's more of a gang, prone to rumbles with a Rival's gang.

Late Teens: After a sublime one-night stand, Mary tells God she's pregnant.  Realizing He's about to become a father, God decides it's time to tone down the violence.

Early Adulthood: God revels in His son's earthly success, haunted by memories of Abraham and Isaac. He is devastated when humanity tears His own son apart.

Adulthood: Deeply wounded by this betrayal, God encourages His aging frat brothers to keep His son's memory alive and spread it across the world.

Late Adulthood: God watches His fraternity splinter into thousands of warring factions, each claiming to remember better, each prepared to crush those who remember differently.

Old Age: God finds comfort in the dwindling few who still harbor humility and love.

Humanity loses record of God's voice after Revelation 22:21.

Death?

Damn Thee, Dairy Demons!

I love my dairy. I frakkin' luuurve it. Give me yogurt! Give me cheese! Give me ice cream, sour cream, cream cheese, creamed corn, crême brulée! Let me slurp that sweetly crafted moo-moo teat-nectar! And lo, I shall low with the delight of a newborn calf.

I'll let that image burn itself into your brain for a wee moment... there. Moving on.

Halfway through a sumptuous Boston Market side of creamed spinach, I concluded that, as the cow must inevitably realize that the line it's following into a dark room does not lead to Splash Mountain, this bovine bacchanalia is over. Sorry, Bessie. My guts just aren't cut out to take it anymore.

I've contemplated vegetarianism before; I don't eat a lot of meat anyway, so as long as I could keep my eggs and cheese, I'd be fine. What? No cheese? No frakkin' cheese?! ¡Ay Dios, que no!

This can't be so. There must be alternatives. I tried rice milk for a while. It's not bad, actually, but good grief, does it have to come in such tiny, easily exhausted containers? I can content myself with sorbet and smoothies; I can eat my cereal with mango juice; but what about my cheese? I suppose there are imitations, but for someone so adamant about real things and no imitations, not to mention having a bank account that can't afford Whole Foods or 100% Organic, Hand-Grown, Vegan Ingredients, it's a suddenly daunting task.

Of course, it also raises the question of how to survive going out to eat. One cannot just order a salad when there are so many delicious delectables out there, waiting to be devoured. Yet, despite these drawbacks, the health is the priority, and a passable alternative must be uncovered. Whether an investment in Lactaid or just a long break from dairy will save the day, this certainly makes my meadows a bit darker. Time for some research. Yes... Research...

Conference Always Brings Rain

I returned to Utah for my birthday weekend. As with many of my trips home, it just so happened to coincide with the LDS General Conference. To the unfamiliar, born and bred outside of Utah, I would describe General Conference as a cross between a hajj and a State of the Union Address. It is a time to gather the flock and show them how to graze for the next half of a year.

In any case, the top hierarchy of the Mormon church consists of a president and a Quorum of Twelve Apostles, the leader of the latter known by the name Elder Boyd K. Packer, a man of intense conviction. This morning as I read the paper, preparing to catch a plane, I caught some of Elder Packer's words on the subject of same-sex marriage, including my favorite quote, "A law against nature would be impossible to enforce. Do you think a vote to repeal the law of gravity would do any good?"

In any case, the bloggers and pundits are all weighing in, but I'd like to take a moment to point out one glaring flaw in his tirade. Addressing the evidence that homosexuality is an innate tendency, he replied with "Not so! Why would our Heavenly Father do that to anyone? Remember he is our father." And there, Elder Packer, is our spiritual flaw. Allow me to elaborate.

Why would our Heavenly Father do that to anyone? Surely, He would not be so cruel as to condemn an innocent baby to a life of ambient animosity or an onslaught of pity. One can spend one's entire life denying science as the Devil's sceptre. One can label genetics an urban legend all one wants (and reference the marriages between uncles and nieces on FLDS compounds), but if God truly controls the way we turn out at birth, then God is one fickle father. Why would God allow a child to be born with Cystic Fibrosis, Hemophilia, Lou Gehrig's Disease, Sickle-Cell Anemia, or Asperger's Syndrome? Or would He? Are these infants willful sinners who just need to pray more? Are there camps for that?

If Elder Packer can confirm God's role in genetic disorders while refuting God's role in homosexuality, or else condemn all of the above without distinction, I may lend his words a bit more credit. If he can clarify how the sinful lack of procreation only applies to LGBT people and not sterile or celibate ones, I may pay more attention. If he can explain why the LDS Church had to restore face after funding Proposition 8 if the Church is the true source of righteousness, I may respect him more. For now, I only hear the recitations of an angry old man, and empty recitation, I have found, is the death of spirituality.

On Adam

I just finished watching Adam. You can read my brief review here. Lots to say about it; lots learned from it.

I'll start with the Netflix summary, which describes Adam as a man who suffers from Asperger's Syndrome. I suddenly found the description odd. At no point did he suffer directly from Asperger's Syndrome; in fact, it tended to highlight his brightness and honesty. His suffering only came from external reactions to his disorder and his desire to placate those reactions, from trying to be normal, "neurotypical," and trying to fit into a setting that didn't suit him at all. It wasn't until he had his job at the observatory, following his passion, that he found contentment with himself.

It gave me a moment to ponder the purpose of this blog. Am I only writing this in an attempt to conform, and if so, will it propagate the same suffering Adam experienced in his attempts to conform? Should I be quitting Asperger's or embracing it? The fact remains that, in order to survive in this human society, I need well-developed social skills but also the ability to distinguish my self-esteem from my social-esteem. Somewhere, there will have to be a point of balance, likely in the range of maintaining my manners of speech and courses of study while making a conscious effort to break out of routines and learn to cope among large volumes of people.

Moments that stood out for me included Adam's standard bowls of cereal and the stiff way he ate it, his love of the stars, his overwhelming discomfort at social functions, his directness about sex and Mr. Buchwald's potential jail time, and especially his complete focus upon the gyrating device when he's being counseled on his financial situation. All served as reminders of behavior to keep in mind, whether to change or retain.

While I would have liked a happy, romantic ending for Adam, it would have most likely come across as too sappy. In any case, the film moved me. I recommend seeing it as a fine specimen of independent cinema and a fair portrayal of Asperger's Syndrome.

From the Mountaintop

If anything, I've always considered myself a naturalist. Though denigrated to the root of evil and distraction, to be shunned for what is confined to death and textbook, the natural world holds enough mystery, beauty, and trials to challenge any set of spiritual pagination. I can think of no better example of this than the ascent of a mountain.

Moses ascended a mountain to find God, the Greek pantheon inhabited Mount Olympus, Jesus and Mohammad both preached from the mountaintop, and the gods are said to deposit their treasures atop Mount Kanchenjunga. The mountain peak is a high place, its path long and treacherous; one can battle all elements, hot and cold, moving and still. The path can be deceptive; "just over that ridge" translates to "just over that ridge... and that ridge... and that ridge," and even then it's not impossible to get lost. It can take hours, even days to get from trailhead to peak.

Still, once one touches the summit and looks down upon the people, the trees, the peaks, the clouds, one cannot help but be struck by the grandeur of the world, far greater than any human squabble or plague. It is at the top of the mountain, after the onslaught of obstacles, external and internal, has battered the seeker, that the seeker catches the merest glimpse of the divine hand, uncompressed by dogma or page count. One can revel in it for hours, unfettered, unchallenged, but even then, after this moment of revelry, the seeker, must still navigate a way back down among the clouds, the peaks, the trees, the people.

Let's Put a Smile on That Face...

A commonly referenced trait of Asperger's is underdeveloped facial expression. In other words, happiness, sadness, anger, jealousy can all be boiled down to:

^     ^
(o) (o)
U
---
For instance...
Any given person: Hey, Kyle, how's it going?
Kyle: Great!

^     ^
(o) (o)
U
---
Or...
Any given person: Hey, Kyle, how's it going?
Kyle: I'm feeling a little under the weather today, actually.

^     ^
(o) (o)
U
---
Or...
Any given person: Hey, Kyle, how's it going?
Kyle: You are the type of person who disgusts me in every way. Now get out of my sight before I am forced to alter my expression from

^     ^
(o) (o)
U
---
In any case, for starters, my grandma has told me to smile more for years. Ironically, it was a trip to the dermatologist with my grandpa that gave me a little lesson in facial expression. I'll try not to go into too many details (Asperger's symptom) or speak too inappropriately about the situation (another Asperger's symptom), but while the doctor stuck my left sphinctercushion with anaesthetising needles and the warning that "this may burn a bit," I concluded, amidst the searing pain, that if I screwed up my face a bit, a little crossing of the eyes and sticking out of the tongue, it wasn't quite so bad. In short, by emulating some sick love-child of Red Skelton and Medusa, the painful experience actually turned into a rather amusing one. Before I knew it, he'd sliced off the dysplastic nevus, and I was just a bundle of giggles.

~ ~
(oo)
U
O
I'm not sure whether to consider this a step forward or backward. On one hand, I was able to express myself facially, but on the other, it was not exactly the most socially appropriate time to be practicing self expression. Nonetheless, I recommend trying it the next time you find yourself undergoing minor surgery on your birthday.

{Disclaimer: I do not, however, recommend trying it when someone else is undergoing minor surgery on their birthday. It may make you out to be an ass.)

Introduction

I've found quite a few blogs written about Asperger's Syndrome, mostly by parents of children with the disorder, but surprisingly few actually written by those with the syndrome. While this may be great for parents, it sure doesn't help one's self esteem to be the subject of scientific scrutiny. Case in point: April is National Autism Awareness Month. Asperger's is an Autism Spectrum disorder. To me, that makes April "National Kyle Jarrett's Brain Is Royally Screwed Up" Month. Then again, that just doesn't have the same ring to it.

I was diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome in 2004, during a private meeting with a reputable psychiatrist. It may help to point out that I was not actually a part of this meeting, and that once my mom left the room and I had my own private meeting, the same reputable psychiatrist diagnosed me with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I knew there was something fishy right away: there should be a hyphen between "Obsessive" and "Compulsive," right? In any case, it wasn't until the winter of 2008 that I finally— Obsessive─Compulsive! Ahh... Now where was I?

Asperger's Syndrome is surprisingly easy to describe to the unfamiliar. Imagine yourself at a Christmas party, and clinking around the Christmas tree is a model train. While everyone else laughs, jokes, connects, and enjoys each other's company, your attention is on that train. Observe the awesome mechanisms that move it forward. Listen to the friendly sounds it makes: Whoo whoo! Notice how you never grow tired of watching it circle around and around, because it lets you turn off your brain and avoid the insufferable mundanity of conversing about jobs, weather, and alcohol.

The problem with this scenario is that humans are social animals, and Asperger's is a social disorder. National "Kyle Jarrett's Brain Is Royally Screwed Up" Month, Q.E.D. Apart from the feelings of alienation and despair, the disorder works in both directions and consequently, has pretty much made me into an ass. I get offended by light humor, condescending toward those who don't play by (or understand) my convoluted rules, and reclusive around those who try to disrupt my compulsive routines and regimens with a little social time. How my friends have stuck with me, I'll never know.

What I do know is that I'm tired of Asperger's. In fact, I quit. If Whoopi Goldberg can conquer dyslexia, then why can't I change April to National "Kyle's Brain Is All Right" Month? I've spent so much time putting the "ass" in "Asperger's" that the time has come to work on the other half: the "burger." To do so, I will need to focus on the following seven components: Bun (Spiritual), Meat (Physical), Cheese (Social), Lettuce (Personal), Tomatoes (Professional), Onions (Emotional), Ketchup (Romantical)

This shall be my accountability blog, on which I shall face my failures and mark my successes. I make no claim of professional expertise or any pretense of family-friendly content. My language will be expressive and sometimes crass, which, if you are from Utah, will offend. In that case, I say "grow some."

Now let's flip some burgers.