A weird thing. When I was young and did not choose my own peer group, I was a fish out of water, a closeted queer visibly neurodivergent kid (tic disorders are hard to hide) in a mostly neurotypical setting and it was basically a running joke that I was “unfuckable”. People would use the idea of a relationship with me as the butt of a joke. The absurdity was, apparently, self-evident.

I believed this. Internalised this. Assumed I would die alone.

And over time, I subconsciously chose my social circle. I guess I gravitated towards people who didn’t require so much masking nor cause so much stress via what is now called the Double Empathy Problem.

These days, my interactions with neurotypical people tend to consist of whether I want milk in that, or how much ketchup I’d like.

And meanwhile, it appears a queue has formed because, as I am told, I am “fucking hot” (even in my 50s and middle aged lesbians are the filthiest fuckers alive. We do, as they say, the weird stuff. It’s great!)

That was … unexpected.