I’m pretty damn cute. Tweety Bird cute, that is. I can’t help it. My cuteness can cause kittens to melt into a patch of fluff. It’s part of disabled life to be cooed at every so often. Being deemed cuter and sweeter than the average kid had its quirks when I was 5. Teachers only told me off if I’d murdered someone. I could murder my brother and he’d still get the blame.
Being (apparently) cute when you’re 24, though? It’s a pain in the ass. I’ve had strangers my own age pat my head. I’ve had strangers my own age tell me I remind them of their 4-year-old bloody daughter. Feel your libido shrink to a shrivel as, on a night out, various drunk people ask you where your parents are tonight, whether they know you’re out, and how you’re probably such a good lovely inspirational sweetheart of a son. Let me call my boyfriend over so we can patronise you together, as a couple.
’Look at you chatting up my girlfriend,’ laughs her boyfriend who looks younger than me, ’I’m so jealous.’
Maybe some people need children so badly they’d mother a brick back to full health. Hell, sometimes I stop what I’m doing in a public place and think, ’Shit, what I just did was probably cute by some onlooker’s standard.’ As I write this I’m on holiday. I went swimming earlier today, and I need armbands to help me float. Add that to the fact that I backstroke like a wonky penguin and you know that one or two pensioners looking on needed therapy to accept I wasn’t their grandson. Not that I care. Armbands are easy to pull off if you imagine they’re there to conceal a pair of Rambo knives, or that you’re The Rock wearing elbow pads or something.
People should pay attention to those blockbuster films. Disabled people are evil, not cute. All those evil disfigured villains, watch how they live their lives. Maybe then, instead of seeing puppies in my sweet anime eyes, strangers will see people tied to chairs with dynamite sticks stuck up their asses, screaming helplessly as I light a match. Not so cute now, am I?


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