- Joined
- Jul 30, 2016
Alright.
I went to high school with a kid named Andy. Andy was autistic. Not bullshit meme autism, but actual TRUE and HONEST clinically diagnosed autism. But it was unlike any autism I had ever seen. I don't know if his autism combined with ADHD to create some sort of ultra super mental illness, but he had to have something else going on.
The best way I can describe Andy is someone who was high on a combination of cocaine and MDMA 24/7. The kid was like the goddamn Energizer Bunny, spazzing out, yelling at the top of his lungs, and fidgeting all the damn time. Nothing could stop him. Nobody could shut him up.
Andy was built like a brick shithouse. He was at least 6'2" and tipped the scales at over 200 lbs. of pure muscle. I guess he channeled some of his energy into working out or whatever, and this, combined with pure, natural athleticism, leaves me with no doubt that he would be starting in the NFL or NBA today if he wasn't cursed with the cruel affliction of mental retardation. God is funny. He got himself permanently banned from the Special Olympics because he was simply too good. He dominated every event he entered, and the local committee or whatever refused to let him go on to the state and national level because he would have made everyone else feel bad. True story.
My story with Andy started during my sophomore year. Obviously, Andy couldn't be put in the PE class with the special ed kids, so administration stuck him in regular PE. And, as fate would have it, he ended up in my class.
Having a partner was required in the class, as we did a lot of partner drills and team sports. I'm sure you can see where this is going. It's not like I wasn't some friendless loser, the dice just happened to roll where everyone had a friend in the class except me, and as the odd man out, I got stuck with Andy.
And in the class, Andy was Andy. He used to strip down buck naked and change in the shower stalls instead of in the locker area for some reason. Looking back, it's odd how he couldn't change like a normal person. You know, taking your shirt off, putting your gym shirt on. Then taking off your pants and putting your shorts on. The goal here of course being to have as little of yourself exposed at one time as possible. Actually, as I'm typing this, I'm starting to question why he had to get naked. I can't imagine he was changing his underwear. But I know he got naked because he would sometimes come out of the shower and wave his dick at people. It's fascinating how these people are wired.
Andy's favorite sport was basketball. Everyday he would spin tales to me about he made sixteen half court shots in a row. The story never changed, and was told to me like clockwork at the beginning of class everyday for three years.
It was a grating experience. It's bad enough having to deal with a kid with autism, but when you combine unprecedented levels of hyperactivity with said autism, it becomes nothing short of hell. I felt bad for his teachers and parents who had to deal with him all day, and at times felt guilty that I was so frustrated over having to manage him for only 50 minutes a day.
Manage is a good word for what I did. I kept him in line, made sure that he didn't go completely off the rails like an over-boiling pot on a stovetop. Somehow I was always able to remain patient with him. I often questioned (and still do to this day) why I put up with it. Perhaps I was a white knight in my younger years. Maybe it was some sort of deep, hidden ableist guilt. Or it could have been the fact that I knew I couldn't do anything about it. I mean, what was I supposed to say? How could I have gotten out of it?
And then people started to take advantage of my patience. If I took my eye off the boiling pot, the gym teacher would scold me for his actions. I "needed to be taking better care of him". He was "my responsibility". At the end of sophomore year, I got called into the principal's office. He told me that I was doing so well with Andy that they wanted to put him in my PE class every year. Again, what could I say?
Andy's favorite music was rap. This was during the mid-2000s when rap dominated the top 40 charts and intertwined with popular culture at an unprecedented level. Andy would go on and on about how he was buying a Mustang, and how he was going to race Ludacris in it. The stories were extremely detailed and lucid. I was regaled with them on a daily basis.
Junior year, we were all taking the ACT in the cafeteria. Andy was exempt. I was sitting next to the window looking out into the foyer when someone started pounding on the glass. It was Andy. He ran to the door, threw it open, and yelled at the top of his lungs in the way only he could, "HEY RYAN! PLEASE TELL YOUR LOVERS AND FRIENDS, THAT USHER, JON, AND LUDA HAD TO DO IT AGAIN!", followed by his trademark cackle. Quoting rap lyrics was his favorite hobby. I was blamed for this incident.
And the grating, day-to-day struggle continued until the day I graduated. The only break I received was when Andy was suspended for a week for giving his "girlfriend" a black eye.
He was a lolcow. He was my lolcow. But perhaps not in the traditional sense. I don't recall very many specific stories besides the ones I have already shared. There was no JULAY, no un- clit, no sagas. But it was a constant barrage of luls that blurred together to define my life for three years. On graduation day, I received special recognition for being such a good "friend" to him.
Last year, I walked into Gamestop and there he was. It had been nine years. He was taller than I remembered. As he was yelling a story to the clerk about how he beat LeBron James one-on-one, I tried to keep my head low and avoid drawing his attention. It didn't work.
As I extended my arm in an offer to shake hands, he asked, 'HEY RYAN! REMEMBER WHEN I MADE SIXTEEN HALF COURT SHOTS IN A ROW!?"
I went to high school with a kid named Andy. Andy was autistic. Not bullshit meme autism, but actual TRUE and HONEST clinically diagnosed autism. But it was unlike any autism I had ever seen. I don't know if his autism combined with ADHD to create some sort of ultra super mental illness, but he had to have something else going on.
The best way I can describe Andy is someone who was high on a combination of cocaine and MDMA 24/7. The kid was like the goddamn Energizer Bunny, spazzing out, yelling at the top of his lungs, and fidgeting all the damn time. Nothing could stop him. Nobody could shut him up.
Andy was built like a brick shithouse. He was at least 6'2" and tipped the scales at over 200 lbs. of pure muscle. I guess he channeled some of his energy into working out or whatever, and this, combined with pure, natural athleticism, leaves me with no doubt that he would be starting in the NFL or NBA today if he wasn't cursed with the cruel affliction of mental retardation. God is funny. He got himself permanently banned from the Special Olympics because he was simply too good. He dominated every event he entered, and the local committee or whatever refused to let him go on to the state and national level because he would have made everyone else feel bad. True story.
My story with Andy started during my sophomore year. Obviously, Andy couldn't be put in the PE class with the special ed kids, so administration stuck him in regular PE. And, as fate would have it, he ended up in my class.
Having a partner was required in the class, as we did a lot of partner drills and team sports. I'm sure you can see where this is going. It's not like I wasn't some friendless loser, the dice just happened to roll where everyone had a friend in the class except me, and as the odd man out, I got stuck with Andy.
And in the class, Andy was Andy. He used to strip down buck naked and change in the shower stalls instead of in the locker area for some reason. Looking back, it's odd how he couldn't change like a normal person. You know, taking your shirt off, putting your gym shirt on. Then taking off your pants and putting your shorts on. The goal here of course being to have as little of yourself exposed at one time as possible. Actually, as I'm typing this, I'm starting to question why he had to get naked. I can't imagine he was changing his underwear. But I know he got naked because he would sometimes come out of the shower and wave his dick at people. It's fascinating how these people are wired.
Andy's favorite sport was basketball. Everyday he would spin tales to me about he made sixteen half court shots in a row. The story never changed, and was told to me like clockwork at the beginning of class everyday for three years.
It was a grating experience. It's bad enough having to deal with a kid with autism, but when you combine unprecedented levels of hyperactivity with said autism, it becomes nothing short of hell. I felt bad for his teachers and parents who had to deal with him all day, and at times felt guilty that I was so frustrated over having to manage him for only 50 minutes a day.
Manage is a good word for what I did. I kept him in line, made sure that he didn't go completely off the rails like an over-boiling pot on a stovetop. Somehow I was always able to remain patient with him. I often questioned (and still do to this day) why I put up with it. Perhaps I was a white knight in my younger years. Maybe it was some sort of deep, hidden ableist guilt. Or it could have been the fact that I knew I couldn't do anything about it. I mean, what was I supposed to say? How could I have gotten out of it?
And then people started to take advantage of my patience. If I took my eye off the boiling pot, the gym teacher would scold me for his actions. I "needed to be taking better care of him". He was "my responsibility". At the end of sophomore year, I got called into the principal's office. He told me that I was doing so well with Andy that they wanted to put him in my PE class every year. Again, what could I say?
Andy's favorite music was rap. This was during the mid-2000s when rap dominated the top 40 charts and intertwined with popular culture at an unprecedented level. Andy would go on and on about how he was buying a Mustang, and how he was going to race Ludacris in it. The stories were extremely detailed and lucid. I was regaled with them on a daily basis.
Junior year, we were all taking the ACT in the cafeteria. Andy was exempt. I was sitting next to the window looking out into the foyer when someone started pounding on the glass. It was Andy. He ran to the door, threw it open, and yelled at the top of his lungs in the way only he could, "HEY RYAN! PLEASE TELL YOUR LOVERS AND FRIENDS, THAT USHER, JON, AND LUDA HAD TO DO IT AGAIN!", followed by his trademark cackle. Quoting rap lyrics was his favorite hobby. I was blamed for this incident.
And the grating, day-to-day struggle continued until the day I graduated. The only break I received was when Andy was suspended for a week for giving his "girlfriend" a black eye.
He was a lolcow. He was my lolcow. But perhaps not in the traditional sense. I don't recall very many specific stories besides the ones I have already shared. There was no JULAY, no un- clit, no sagas. But it was a constant barrage of luls that blurred together to define my life for three years. On graduation day, I received special recognition for being such a good "friend" to him.
Last year, I walked into Gamestop and there he was. It had been nine years. He was taller than I remembered. As he was yelling a story to the clerk about how he beat LeBron James one-on-one, I tried to keep my head low and avoid drawing his attention. It didn't work.
As I extended my arm in an offer to shake hands, he asked, 'HEY RYAN! REMEMBER WHEN I MADE SIXTEEN HALF COURT SHOTS IN A ROW!?"
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like this, which they've heard a thousand times already, they know exactly what's up and you're going to get fucked.
