In a world obsessed with identity labels, personality quizzes, zodiac signs, and spending 45 minutes choosing between 300 varieties of oat milk, a simple question haunts me: am I autistic, or am I really just a cat?
Stick with me. It’s not as daft as it sounds. (Or perhaps it is, but that’s very on-brand for untypicable.) After all, stranger things have happened. Somewhere right now, there’s probably a man in Croydon who genuinely believes he’s a Victorian lamplighter reincarnated. Compared to that, feline confusion is practically sensible.
Signs Point to Cat
Let’s start with the evidence. I enjoy solitude with a level of commitment that would make a hermit blush. I despise loud noises—fireworks, doorbells, overenthusiastic humans—all equally unacceptable. I routinely stare into the middle distance contemplating the futility of existence, preferably from a perch slightly higher than everyone else.
I will accept social interaction, but only on my terms and preferably when it involves someone scratching my head and telling me I’m clever (words of affirmation are my love language; actual physical affection, less so). Also, if you rearrange my environment without consulting me, I will sulk about it for a minimum of 48 hours, adding passive-aggressive side-eye for emphasis.
Additionally, I have an alarmingly specific routine: wake up, stare into the abyss, coffee, ignore humanity, nap, repeat. If my routine is disrupted, I may react dramatically—perhaps with a metaphorical hiss, or by knocking metaphorical (or actual) mugs off the metaphorical (or literal) table. There may also be tactical retreating under a metaphorical bed.
If that’s not cat behaviour, I don’t know what is. I’m practically one dramatic flounce away from demanding my own heated windowsill.
Signs Point to Autism
On the other paw—I mean, hand—there are a few things that suggest I’m not merely feline. For instance, I didn’t learn to purr (although, after particularly good coffee or the discovery of a new stationery shop, I do make a small, involuntary chirrup). My brain is wired a little differently: I experience sensory information with the intensity of someone who has had every sense turned up to eleven.
I have a collection of “special interests” that could rival a Victorian butterfly collector—intense, specific, and lovingly categorised. I struggle with the subtle art of interpreting sarcasm unless it’s delivered with the grace of a sledgehammer and a neon sign. I rehearse conversations in my head like I’m directing a Shakespearean tragedy, only to forget all my lines when the moment actually arrives.
These are, as any diagnostic manual will tell you, textbook characteristics of autism.
But… have you ever met a cat who does get sarcasm? Or one that doesn’t immediately take offence when you dare suggest they are not, in fact, the supreme overlords of the known universe?
Exactly.
The Venn Diagram is a Circle
At this point, it’s clear that autism and “being a cat” share a worrying amount of overlap. Strict routines? Check. Aversion to bright lights and sudden noises? Check. Strongly preferring one’s own company to the frenetic chaos of society? Double check, and throw in a nap. Bonus points for disliking being stared at for too long.
Perhaps the only real difference is that cats don’t have to fill out an 87-page Access Needs Assessment to be permitted to have their special blanket at university. Nor do they have to smile awkwardly through team-building exercises, desperately longing for a quiet room and a snack.
And honestly, if a cat ever had to navigate the average university seminar—full of tangents, off-topic debates, and the occasional smell of soggy sandwiches—they’d probably opt to fake their own death within minutes.
Important Disclaimer About Dogs
At this point, I must clarify that while I identify strongly with cat behaviour, I do, in fact, like dogs. Quite a lot, actually. Especially mine, who I sometimes suspect has undiagnosed ADHD. (Jokingly. Mostly. Although if you’ve ever seen him chase his own tail for ten consecutive minutes before forgetting why he entered the room, you’d understand my suspicions.)
He’s all enthusiasm, zero executive functioning, and a genuine joy to behold. Perhaps he, too, is asking himself existential questions—”Am I a dog, or am I a slightly malfunctioning tumble dryer?”
Diagnosis: Schrodinger’s Autistic Cat
Maybe I’m both. Maybe I’m neither. Maybe I’m a neurodivergent human who has simply unlocked the ancient, sacred knowledge of cats: that the world is often too loud, too bright, and too demanding, and that sometimes the correct response is to knock things over, vanish into the airing cupboard, and take a nap in a sunbeam.
If you’re reading this and relating a little too hard, you might be wondering the same thing. That’s OK. Whether you’re autistic, a cat, a neurospicy human with excellent taste in personal boundaries, or something beautifully in-between, there’s no wrong way to exist. (Unless you’re a pigeon. Then you’re just wrong. And probably judging me from the windowsill right now.)
So the next time someone questions your quirks, just stare at them unblinkingly, yawn, walk away, and maybe knock over a pencil on the way out for good measure. If nothing else, it’ll leave them suitably unnerved and wondering what ancient power you wield.
untypicable: your trusted source for all the existential dilemmas, imaginary diagnoses, and self-indulgent ramblings you didn’t realise you needed…
AJ Wright is a quiet yet incisive voice navigating the surreal world of sociology, higher education, and modern life through the unique lens of a neurodivergent mind. A tech-savvy PhD student hailing from South Yorkshire but now stationed in the flatlands of Lincolnshire, AJ writes with an irreverence that strips back the layers of academia, social norms, and the absurdities of daily life to reveal the humour lurking beneath.
As an autistic thinker, AJ’s perspective offers readers a rare blend of precision, curiosity, and wit. From dissecting the unspoken rituals of academia—like the silent war over the office thermostat—to exploring the sociology of “neurotypical small talk” and the bizarre hierarchies of campus coffee queues, AJ turns the ordinary into something both profound and hilarious.
AJ’s unassuming nature belies the sharpness of their commentary, which dives deep into the intersections of neurodiversity, tech culture, and the often-overlooked quirks of human behaviour. Whether questioning why university bureaucracy feels designed by Kafka or crafting surreal parodies of academic peer reviews, AJ writes with a balance of quiet intensity and playful absurdity that keeps readers coming back for more.
For those seeking a blog that is equal parts insightful, irreverent, and refreshingly authentic, AJ Wright provides a unique perspective that celebrates neurodiversity while poking fun at the peculiarities of the world we live in. Also a contributor at Thinking Sociologically.
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