Autism & Revenge

It appears I created a monster.

A short while ago I wrote about teaching Finian to help with housework.  He's enthusiastically making his bed, learning to use the washing machine, and emptying the dishwasher.  I should be delighted.  

But it's come at a steep price.

I'm undecided if it's his autism, or if he's turned revenge into an art form, but Finian has assumed responsibility for tumble drying clothes with relentless zeal.

He puts everything into the tumble drier.

Everything.

Clean clothes.  Dirty clothes.  Wet clothes.  Dry clothes.  Clothes he just stripped from himself in the kitchen.  (Naked tumble drying is now a thing.  You're welcome).  Clothes that should be air dried and emerge just about big enough to fit the cat.  Shoes.  The entire contents of the washing machine in one load.  The hair-infested dog blanket.  My favourite fucking cardigan.

I've developed a Pavlovian startle response to the sound of the tumble drier.  It invades my dreams.  I've created a niche anxiety disorder about what I'm going to find in the drum next.

Be careful what you wish for, as the surprisingly wise Pussycat Dolls warned us.

It occurred to me that the mafia famously said that revenge is a dish best served cold.  They didn't count on a tumble drier.

where my dreams go to die