I am stupid

I mistype things. I trip, I start stories and get lost in the middle because I can't remember the right word, or the ending, and sometimes I read things and it's as though my brain has skipped a groove. I say stupid things because the concept of 'appropriacy' is hard to grasp. I think I am autistic.

I get preoccupied a lot, too. I spend minutes thinking about alternate universes, created when instead of catching my piece of office toast it falls, unhindered, to the floor, leaving a buttery stain which the cleaner can't remove, causing a violent secret hatred which leads him to team up with his unibrowed mate and silently murder me on my way back to Car Park B one frosty night. Or, when I was doing the washing up this evening, I wondered who would take me to hospital if I had managed to slice through the pad of my thumb instead of just ruining the scourer. Dan can't drive and I get confused when there is a lot of blood around which by rights belongs inside me.

But I am always pleased that these universes are only imagined. (Even still, I know I will probably have nightmares about them. Waking up in the middle of the night unable to remember my doctor's name and convinced my floorlamp is the secondary-school dropout with ambitions beyond mops has become a nightly occurrance because I can't teach my brain about reality.)