I read almost all of this diary, starting from 2003 (2001 in fact, I have privated two years of preposterous entries). It’s glaring throughout how unapologetically, innocently, unknowingly, annoyingly*, wildly autistic I was. Since the formal diagnosis ten years ago I hide it, I try to, I hide, I have disowned myself, lost myself, a lobotomy, a Frances, a pitty.. I prefer him, to me, though he wouldn’t survive today and in fact, didn’t. The past 8 years film producers have been fighting my film and raping my soul. The patience I have daily forced myself to muster all these years will either literally kill me or unexpectedly restore some of my obliterated self-respect. Whatever the outcome, my staggering, overwhelming contempt for humans is a shrilling billowing burning sun.

I had cut this out from somewhere around the time I left home at 17.

* for those around me.