One time I was at a fabric store, and looking for a specific type of fabric to stim with. It had to have just the right amount of softness and fuzziness.
I looked around for a good 10 minutes before I spotted it. It was pastel blue and reminded me of a blanket I’d had as a child. I knew instantly that I wanted to buy it.
However, I’d noticed, someone else was eyeing it up as well.
I nonchalantly looked her up and down. She was was around 5′7″, not that tall, not too short, and her brunette hair was cut in a “I’d Like to Speak to the Manager” haircut. You know the type.
She noticed me looking at her, and crossed her arms over her chest, shifting her weight to one pajama-jeans clad hip.
“What are you looking at?”
Her tone was superficially polite, but also confrontational. Obviously, my staring was seen as rude by this weird normie person.
“Oh, nothing” was my response.
By now she was also giving me the once-over. I stood there slouching in my too-long jeans and t-shirt with “Dis Allistic Scum” written in black marker over a rainbow mobius strip on the front. I imagine I must have made quite the impression on her.
After a minute of silence, I took it as my cue to speak again. “I just really like that fabric. I’d like to buy it.”
“Well, I’m going to buy it. You’ll have to find another kind” she said, in a voice that was dripping with ‘I think Vaccines Cause Autism’, “ I need it for my daughter Peightonne’s sweater to wear to the next Light It Up Blue Jamboree.”
I bet she told everyone that Peightonne was 132 months old.
Then I noticed she was reaching for it. The fabric that I wanted to stim with, the fabric for her Autism Speaks party thing.
She almost got it, but thanks to an oddly-wonderfully-timed muscle spasm, I was quicker.
I snatched it up, put it under my arm, and smiled at her.
“I need it to stim with. My autistic ass needs some pleasant physical stimuli to chill out and calm down. Which is what you’ll probably need to do in a minute.”
I smiled smugly, turned around and made my way to the checkout.
The cashier high-fived me as I was paying, while Peightonne’s mother sank down to the floor and sobbed as though I had stripped her of all her rights.
“This autist took my fabric!” she cried, “This is Reverse Ableism!”
I cackled as I walked out of the store.
Everyone on the train stood up and cheered.
