Friday, August 3, 2012

A dusty soap box

I have taken my soap box out of storage, blown off the dust, and I'm climbing on top.

First off, to the lady in dollar tree who was handing her children quarters: I don't particularly care that you preschool age child loves shoving quarters into a gumball machine to get a prize. In fact, I ate lunch at Cici's yesterday with T and B and B couldn't shove quarters into the machines to gather his reaping from the candy gods. It is completely possible that he was conning other kids into giving him quarters. Because he never n out. However, I do care that when he dropped bubble gum, as much children do, you declared "He drops things all the time, because he is autistic."


I have a godson/nephew/awesome boy in my life and he's autistic. And I'm pretty sure that I drop stuff more than he does.

Please don't go out into public and shout out your son's special qualities. I don't go around advertising that I have endometriosis or that I'm a special brand of awesome. Because I am.

I don't like labels, and I don't like when you put them on kids. Allow them a fighting chance in this world. It's hard enough as an adult.

Secondly, I have panic attacks, and while I know other people don't have them or recognize them I do. And please do not follow me around Mardels. I said no thank you to your offer of your email club. I wondered away from the education supplies and from the people I came in with. Clearly there is something wrong with me. Don't follow me around, slightly stalking me. I will leave your store and sit in the car surrounded by the 105 degree heat. And I'll try not to cry.

And don't get me started on Chick fil a and freedom of religion and speech. I can't get into that.

My battery can't handle it.

--Jessica G.

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