You say to me:
"I support you.
I'm going to get hundreds of signs all over town saying, 'Autism Awareness.'"
"I want everyone seeing you as the lion in my circus,
how you're a lonely old ladies favorite past time that her dog chewed up a lot of,
and I get a high out of letting us marvel about how you're the sick little kitten,
while we're the human adults."
"I'm here for you.
I'm going to wear or light it up blue,
like the CN Tower, the White House, the Hotel Dubai, and the Sydney Opera House."
"I believe in supporting autistic people based off the first thing I hear off the streets,
and the people you listen to on how to support you
are the same ones who've segregated you, discriminated against you, and shoved you into cages, and you can't make these decisions about your life,
despite being on the Dean's List and twice promoted at work."
batting your eyes at me from across the gym:
"I'm gonna stay by you.
I'm going to wear my shirt publicizing a celebrity or locally-known individual lending their name to the autism cause."
"I expect you to support my clique's,
which probably doesn't over represent autistics in their numbers,
line about people like you at any cost,
which we'll peer pressure people like you into doing,
take the recognition of your struggling autism project's work for ourselves,
and try to get liked by appealing to the lowest common denominator,
which is the only real thing we've done for autism,
while for our fifty-fifty relationship,
I don't have to hear your opinions on yourself,
while you're expected to listen to me ramble on about student parking."
"I'm on your side.
I've liked Autism Speaks on Facebook,
just so I can know what they’re doing,
and plus, they are the most well-known name in autism,"
when I have repeatedly pointed out ways they're financially irresponsible,
use ignorant people's emotions to tell them what's best for us,
and treat us like children who can never know as well as they do how society should accommodate
people with similar needs to our's.
"By my logic, Rain Man's Dustin Hoffman and Playboy's Jenny McCarthy know autism best
not like Temple Grandin or John Elder Robison,
so I'm supporting you by clicking a button to let the world know I approve of their didactic, self-absorbed rambling,
and that I expect a financially murky organization like them to tell me the truth of their activities."
"You're twisting my words,"
make some subtle plea for me to absolve you of these things.
I hear nothing.
I'm this close to unfriending you.