I was intrigued by an essay positing that people with autism experience identity differently from neurotypicals. The writer had surveyed thousands of people in online groups, asking the simple question, Who are you?

I didn’t really care about or agree with the writer’s theory but I was prompted to ask myself the question.

Who am I? My mind went blank. It briefly sampled a few images of myself and then rejected all of them, probably in less than five seconds, before I landed on an answer.

I’m a weirdo.

This response surprised and upset me, but there it is, that’s what I came up with. I’m a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here? etc.

Just a few days earlier, I’d expressed my sadness at losing various identities that had once provided a sense of cohesive existence. I no longer identity as a mother. I no longer think of myself as a writer. I used to think of myself as a Badass; “You don’t know who you’re fucking with” used to be my attitude toward the world. That self is long gone. I’m just too broken to fight off aggressors or most of the time, even idiots. And finally, old age has ruined my identity as someone who is attractive and fuckable.

Losing these different identities is like losing layers of my very being, leaving me with nothing. So I was grateful to find this comment in response to the Who Are You essay:

Having had my most fundamental sense of ‘self’ identity dismantled, or demolished, several times throughout my life, I feel as if the older I get, the more ‘nothing’ I become. I often feel I am just a thing that happens, a consciousness floating untethered in space. Notions of personal history or identification with any description feel irrelevant. There is nothing transcendent or liberating about it, and it can be very discombobulating. What interests me more than identity is what remains in its absence….

YES. I could never have expressed this as lucidly! But the nothing I’ve become still struggles for answers to everything, in particular answers about itself.

My whole life has been overshadowed by the mystery of What’s Wrong With Me. I’ve read that this is the result of childhood trauma, but who knows. It makes sense that if your parents or caretakers reject you, your lovability will always be in doubt (and therefore, What’s Wrong With Me?) It’s such a poignant situation, isn’t it? Well, it’s poignant when it’s about someone else. For me, it has been a fucked up, desperate preoccupation that’s led to countless suppositions. Genetic depression, Pathological Demand Avoidance, ASD, Avolition, PTSD, and of course Girly Brain. All these conditions probably apply, which still leaves me nowhere but gives me an excuse when I need one. Now, when I do something stupid or can’t figure out how to open something, I just shrug and smugly announce, “Autistic!”

Reducing myself to a weirdo is certainly destabilizing, a word that now crops up everywhere but still serves a useful purpose, unlike “intention” and “intentionality”. Maybe since words still affect me so intensely, I can say I’m a weirdo with a thing about words. That works, don’t you think?

Meanwhile, when I’m not wondering What’s wrong with me, I’m wondering what’s wrong with everybody else. My hair person was complaining about her sister, who I’ve never met but analyzed as harboring a primal jealousy toward her younger sibling. I recently explained to my dermatologist, who was going on about her anxiety, that she had “boundary issues”! Try saying that with a straight face! Last night I explained to my husband that his inability to control an outcome was the source of his distress. I am an endless font of this shit. I will tell you what’s wrong with you EVEN IF YOU DON’T ASK!

I would really love everyone to ask themselves Who are you? and then tell me your spontaneous answer. Any other weirdos out there? *And don’t try getting away with cognito ergo sum unless you’re Descartes.

The real story is Adele vs Beyonce but first let’s get the other stuff out of the way for those who missed the show.

Chance the Rapper won Best New Artist and he seems well-loved by everyone. I don’t get him, but he loves the Lord, like A LOT.

Ed Sheeran is a mess. He’s got to go away and rethink his career. His song that goes something about “your body, your body” is more upsetting even than Your Body Is A Wonderland. Leave the body alone, you guys.

Alicia Keys sported a glorious huge fluffy Afro but did a duet with some lame pseudo-Country girl who wore a cape over a leotard like circus ring leader.

Keith Urban provided a bathroom break for me and my peers.

Michael Jackson’s daughter was so pretty and nervous. Props to her for being able to function at all.  She tried to get political, as did Katy Perry, who is now blonde. Katy’s tits were outstanding and looked as good as new!

The Weekend sang a dumb ballad about making someone come. Look, The Weekend and Ed Sheeran, I hate to break it to you but we ladies expect to come or you’re gonna die trying, okay? Don’t act like you deserve an award for being into it.

Lady Gaga joined Metallica, morphing into a head-banger and annoying both James Hetfield and the drummer.

Then there was a Bee Gees tribute that was truly appalling even by Grammy standards. Demi Lovato left rehab for this travesty, joining Tory Kelly to screech along with some old white guy while the only living Bee Gee mouthed the words from the audience.

Morris Day and The Time tore it up with their Prince tribute. Bruno Mars gave his all to Let’s Go Crazy but he reaffirmed the sad fact that the likes of Prince will never be equaled in this world or any other. Bruno, you’re a hottie and we love you for trying.

Now, Beyonce.

What can one say that won’t get one killed? She appeared briefly in near nakedness, then reappeared in a gossamer gown that accentuated her pregnancy. She portrayed Mother Earth, a Fertility Goddess, the Universal Daughter and the Patron Saint of little girls, while performing a poetry-slam and sitting on a throne as though ready to push those twins out before our dazzled eyes.

I haven’t seen a human being so in love with their own self since the advent of Madonna. The camera lingered on her husband and child, to complete the holy trinity. It was a jaw-dropping exercise in self-importance, but if it works for you, good.

Adele sang a heartfelt tribute to George Michael, with customary grace and conviction.  The standing ovation made her eyes tear up. Even Riri was moved. But when Adele won her first award of the night, Beyonce must’ve been rattled.

When Adele beat out Beyonce for Album of the Year, it was a shocker. How dare she steal this from Bey, who’s been lauded all year for Lemonade, and for being a game changer as a black role model. It was supposed to be Bey’s night! She came to be worshiped, not to lose.

But then! Adele said that the award belonged to Beyonce, calling her ‘the artist of my life,’ and an inspiration for 17 years. She spoke directly to Bey in the front row, and in the end, Beyonce was free to cry, whether from disappointment or gratitude we’ll never know. Beyonce mouthed “I love you, I love you!” to Adele, who later broke the award in half.

What a moment. But Adele made the mistake of saying how much Bey’s album had empowered her “black friends,” so now Black Twitter is offended. Why is it racist for Adele to win and to know she’s not black?

Never mind, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. Let us just be thankful that we were spared the horror of Taylor Swift, and that’s something we call all feel good about.

I thought of him as my own Prince, the voice I danced to in my living room when nobody I knew liked Dirty Mind except for me.

On New Year’s Eve at the close of 1998, we went to an awful party at a neighbor’s house but when they put on 1999, I felt that surge of euphoria only Prince can ignite.

I think I even fell in love with my husband while we watched Prince on TV, dancing around in buttless chaps, on a set decorated with flaming torches.

There is so much more but don’t you hate the way people want to make Prince’s death be all about them?? I did see Prince live but maybe you did too. It’s not about what concert we went to or wish we’d gone to.

It’s just about what music means to us throughout our lives. You cannot overstate its significance, but you don’t really know it until you lose that artist who was always there for you, to lift your spirit or console you through the worst heartbreak.

I love Prince so much! He was my little Prince. I was so jealous of Wendy and Lisa and even whatshername, that one in Purple Rain.

I don’t get how someone so magnificent and full of life can just be gone from the world, poof.

I haven’t processed this loss but added to the others it feels more and more like life on this planet is drained of joy and hope and purpose.

I want Prince to come back and Max too. I don’t know how 2 celebrate this thing called life without them.

If you’d like to share something about Prince, even your favorite song, lay it on me.

But not at my house! I woke up to a wonderful gift from my Webmaster…a 2-CD recording of Prince’s performance at Coachella last week. Not only a high quality recording but a track list and everything.

You know how fussy Prince is about copyright infringement, and I don’t blame him, as long as I can still get what I want. I have loved the Little Prince since the first time I heard “Dirty Mind,” many light-years ago. Once, a Prince video from that era was playing on my sister’s TV, and her teenage son ran from the room, shrieking “That’s gay, that’s gay!” His terror only confirmed the rebellious, uninhibited brilliance that is Prince.

Prince, don’t be mad! Remember how we paid a thousand bucks to see you in Vegas? And you didn’t come over to sit in my lap? Now we’re even!

Anyway, I’m listening to the concert as I write this. His version of “Creep” is beyond amazing. Try to get your own Webmaster to burn you a copy.