In many ways, I don't have my finger on the cultural pulse.
I've never seen an episode of the Kardashians. I have no idea why Facebook is convulsing in a furtive, unsatisfactory orgasm over a Matthew Perry/Keanu Reeves bitch-scuffle. I am more concerned about my obstinate nasal hair than some tedious Kanye-flavoured antisemitism.
We're aggressively directed by social media to pay attention to crap better suited to an overflow sewer drain.
Shit really ought to stay where it belongs.
If I believed in conspiracy theories, I'd wonder what fuckery the powers-that-be are distracting us from. I really don't want to spend my precious time on this earth sleep-walking through other people's lives.
Luckily for me I have the perfect antidote, wrapped in 6ft 3ins of irresistible autism.
Finian grounds me with unfailing consistency. I meet him in a world populated by Enchantimals and flying ponies; there is no room in our universe for entitled starlets or manipulative media moguls.
We just don't care about them.
It's that simple. The liberation from this is nothing short of wonderful.
Finian's autism, in some ways, is my saving grace.
I'm not blind to how hard autism is. But I gladly accept the hard stuff when it comes with the gift of discernment.
We see, and love, the good stuff. The goofy cartoons in Bulgarian, cuddles on a Sunday morning, a circle of precious people in my life I wouldn't have known without him, evenings at home with the fire lit, stormy walks in the forest.
If my face drifts towards the anaesthesia of social media, he quickly redirects me to earth.
What a gift.
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