Grief is just love asking for more time.

While you are neurotypical and I am autistic, I promise we are more alike than we are different.

People's minds are all so different. All capable of different things.

My Grandpa always said, people like me in the past might not have been the most sociable. Or the chattiest. But while everyone else was around the fireplace gossiping, we were out finding electricity. That's what my autism is. It's a kind of spark. It's like sharks, you see.

People aren't like books. A familiar book is always the same, always comforting and full of the same words and pictures. A familiar person can be new and challenging, no matter how many times you try to read them.

The minute you find out what makes you different, the minute you love it and accept it and say you wouldn't change who you are, that's when you become dangerous.

Walking a lonely path by yourself, one that no one else has walked before, is only scary before you begin. Once you're walking the road, you just have to make sure that you never glance back. Never let people's incredulity, their judgement, their doubt or hate creep in.

Grief is like rain. When you’re standing in the street, drenched and freezing cold, it’s hard to remember what it’s like to feel warm and dry. It’s hard to imagine feeling warm and dry ever again. But some people are umbrellas. And they keep away the worst of the storm.

Someone being autistic is the same as being left-handed or color blind. It means we all experience the world differently.

Whatever goes on inside that box with other people, I don't understand it. I always feel like everyone else has been sent pages and pages of instructions, tips and tricks to life and how to move smoothly. I'm always a few steps behind. I can read a book in a day, memorize anything, feel so strongly. But the doublespeak and the secret looks. I'm not sure I'll ever decipher them.