Should I Ask?
"There is no such thing as a dumb question."
That's what teachers, supervisors, and lecturers told me.
When no one in my work group posed a question, my boss added, "Don't be shy. There's no judgment. No one to stop you from asking anything."
A few giggles surfaced, reminding me of the ridicule and judgment that I risked.
So I kept my question to myself:
"Is there such a thing as a dumb answer?"
selective empathy
if I told you that I had the flu
you'd tell me to go home.
but why is it
when I tell you I am flaring
with my illnesses
you neither see nor understand
you see fit
to decide
whether my suffering
is worthy enough
to be acknowledged
by way of judgement,
and doubt,
and choruses of
"you dont look sick" ?
why do you have empathy
when injury and illness
are acute
and not
when they are permanent?
just because
we handle it daily
that
does not mean
it
hurts
any
less.
What is wrong with me? Why do I feel like writing words for challenges has more likelihood of success than applying to actual jobs? Why is selling writing so much easier than filling out resume after resume? Why is writing cover letter so much more boring than writing responses to prompts? Why is asking questions more fun than answering them? Will I really try to write a novel in November? Why am I exhausted? Will I ever actually succeed at finding a way to make money despite the statistics being against me, the system of interviews and networks not meant for autistic minds to navigate through?
The Search For the Answers to Life’s Biggest Questions
Isn't most of life a matter of perspective? For example, for some a good, firm spanking is a reasonable punishment for bad behavior. For others a good, firm spanking is a reasonable reward and the perfect way to end a Saturday night.
Do grizzly bears see camping tents the way we see the plastic wrapper on a microwavable burrito? Oh sure they can be a bit of a pain to open, but the warm, high calorie yumminess on the inside is worth the trouble. Although there is one small drawback. No one ever includes a packet of Tapatio sauce inside the package to add a little spiciness to the overall eating experience.
Has anyone actually seen someone buy one of the 5 pound fruitcake bricks sold at Costco during the holidays? I've always imagined that after the holidays they get shipped by the ton to small developing countries to be used as hurricane proof building materials.
Why don't funeral homes offer funny t shirts as a clothing option for the deceased? For example:
-Wanna See My Stiffy?
-Yesterday Was The Last Day Of The Rest Of My Life
-AHHHHH WHO DECOMPOSED? Somebody Light A Fucking Match!
I've Been To The Mortuary, Was Embalmed, And All I Got Was This Lousy Fucking T Shirt
-I Left My Entire Fortune To My Favorite High Priced Prostitute
-My Last Wish Is That During Cremation, Blue Oyster Cult's, "I'm Burning For You" Gets Played In The Background For Mood Music.
Travel Tip: The only music stations you get on the highway to hell play nonstop country music and at the end of every off ramp is a Walmart, Taco Bell, and your in-law's house.
Why do they call it Social Media when it makes me want to fake my own death, move to a small hut in the forest, and disappear from society in favor of making friends with woodland creatures?
Those who claim to be Christians...Have they READ their instruction manual? Because from what I've seen they collectively missed all those chapters on loving their neighbors, not judging, and giving to those in need.
Should I keep what I'd do for a Klondike Bar to myself because I think it could result in criminal prosecution?
Is it just me or are the most incapable, stupid, completely devoid of common sense, and most given to fucking things up for everyone people the most fertile?
Ask a Question
In the charming town of Maplewood, nestled among green hills, stood a quaint bookstore called "Whispers of the Past." Its owner, Mr. Finch, was a warm-hearted man with a talent for storytelling that captivated children every Saturday afternoon.
One bright Saturday, Lily, a shy girl with curly brown hair and oversized glasses, ventured into the store for the first time. She settled on a colorful rug, her heart racing with excitement and nerves. Mr. Finch welcomed the children with a smile, announcing, “Today, we’ll explore the power of questions.”
Lily listened as her classmates raised their hands, asking questions like “What’s the biggest animal in the world?” and “Why is the sky blue?” Each inquiry led to a magical tale, drawing laughter and gasps from the group.
But Lily held back, fearing her questions might sound silly. She wondered why stories could evoke such deep emotions, why they could make people laugh, cry, or feel comforted. As Mr. Finch concluded his stories, he looked around, encouraging the children. “Every question is important. Don’t be afraid to ask.”
Gathering her courage, Lily raised her hand. “Mr. Finch, why do stories make us feel so much?” Her voice trembled, but the room fell silent, eyes turned toward her.
Mr. Finch’s eyes sparkled with delight. “That’s a wonderful question, Lily! Stories touch our hearts because they mirror our experiences and emotions. They connect us to one another, teaching us empathy and understanding. When we engage with a story, we embark on a journey alongside the characters.”
Lily felt warmth spread through her as her classmates nodded, a sense of belonging washing over her. Encouraged by Mr. Finch’s response, she decided to embrace her curiosity.
From that day forward, Lily became more confident in asking questions, eager to explore the world around her. Each Saturday, she returned to the bookstore, knowing that every question would lead her to new adventures and discoveries.
As the sun set over Maplewood, casting a golden glow on the town, Lily walked home, her heart brimming with the magic of stories and the endless possibilities that come from simply asking a question.
Why can't I do it? I have so many thoughts swarming in my head. Stories waiting to be written. Perspectives waiting to be told. I want to write them all down so I'll never forget. But when I go to type, I freeze. I feel as if I can't write what I want to say. I can't put the formed thoughts on paper. And in the end, the stories never get told, they simply grow old. So my question is "Why?" Why am I so nervous to write? To put down my thoughts? Why can I never get them out of my head, but I can also never share them. What is stopping me?