I never knew I had autism. I thought I was just a normal student with a normal life. You know, one who liked trains, the French Revolution, echoing the same ten sounds for five years, rocking back and forth in the corner at the frats, and really really relating to Luna Lovegood for no real reason. I was just a normal student. Or so I thought. Due to a pretty public crashout over a Star Wars Lego set, the court ordered me to see a therapist. They never did find Jenny Thomas’ jawbone.

As I spoke with the therapist, she grew more and more concerned, “Hmm”-ing to herself louder and louder every time I said something. I thought it was just because I told her about the time that I wished I could fall asleep and not wake up for a while. But I was wrong, apparently. Cause when I finally stated, “Yeah I look at bricks and imagine the texture on my fingers and it makes me want to freak out so I start rubbing the beads I wear on my wrist,” she hmmm-ed louder than she had ever hmmm-ed before and cleared her throat, as though she was about to announce the death of a political figure. Instead, she announced the death of my dubious quirkiness with a single sentence, “[REDACTED] I have reason to believe you have autism.” Egads! Me? Autistic? It-it- it actually made perfect sense. But where could I have possibly contracted the ‘Tism? I needed to know.

I locked myself away in my room nay, my laboratory, searching for the cause of my aut-ffliction. Until I finally found it in an old family photo. “Enhance,” I demanded of Siri. “Enhance.” I repeated. “GYATT DAMNIT YOU VIRTUAL VIXEN, ENHANCE I SAY!” and Siri finally zoomed into the very thing that I know caused my autism. A single bottle of Tylenol. My mother, her belly swollen with what was probably my freeloading fetus, was holding a bottle of tylenol. Dear God.