Mental
Everyone is scrambling to find a place on the spectrum. They plant their flag with stupid smiles and parade their mundane neuroses around as autism. Look at my quirky mental illness. The whimsy of misfiring synapses. The romance of chemical imbalances.
Shut the fuck up. You don’t need a semicolon tattoo or an awareness lanyard so people on the bus can force the smile usually reserved for three-legged dogs and deformed babies. Being bothered by loud noises is not a personality.
Desperate for an identity, you force yourself into a minority. Find a hobby and embrace the fact that you’re fundamentally unimpressive, a boring wage slave who will perish in obscurity like the rest of us.
Too bad that isn’t enough for you, but no one cares. Your life is the "–" carved on granite between your birth year and a rapidly approaching date with death.