Neurodiversity Archives - untypicable.

Are You A Minecraft Person Or A LEGO Person?

AJ Wright — Fri, 14 Nov 2025 10:00:00 +0000

There are many fake divides in life.

Cat vs dog. Tea vs coffee. People who say “we’ll pick that up in the next meeting” vs people who silently die inside when they hear it.

But if you are even mildly nerd-adjacent, the real question is this:

Are you a Minecraft person, or a LEGO person?

Both involve small rectangular things. Both involve building. Both have caused at least one meltdown when a masterpiece was accidentally destroyed by a sibling, Creeper, or your own clumsiness.

Underneath the bricks and blocks, though, there is a deep psychological split.
And if your brain is wired a bit differently (hello, fellow pattern-obsessed human), that split comes with its own particular flavour of weird.

The LEGO Person

The LEGO person is powered by three things: imagination, instructions, and the ability to endure intense foot-based pain.

You might be a LEGO person if:

You have a system for sorting bricks that makes sense only to you, but you will defend it in court.
You have very firm views on “knock-off bricks” and will deliver them without being asked.
You can step on a 1×1 brick, swear under your breath, and still finish what you were doing first.

LEGO lives in the physical world of:

Booklets thicker than GCSE revision guides.
Tiny plastic bags labelled “1”, “2”, “3” that must NEVER be opened together.
That magical moment when a random pile becomes a spaceship, castle, or shamefully accurate replica of your house.

LEGO people tend to like:

Instructions.
Not because they cannot improvise, but because there is calm in a numbered sequence where someone has already decided the correct order.
Tactile building.
The click of bricks. The little bit of resistance. The sense that physics has signed off your plan.
Displaying things.
LEGO builds are not “toys”. They are Exhibits. They live on shelves. They gather dust. They may be “not for playing with”.

Neurodiversity Corner: LEGO Edition

The neurodivergent LEGO person has some very specific quirks:

Sorting the bricks is, in itself, an activity. You may not actually build anything. The joy is in the system.
You remember exactly which tiny piece went missing in 1997 and it still bothers you.
You feel physically uncomfortable if someone mixes “this set” into “the general pile” without a clear plan.
Hyperfocus means you sit down to “do a few bags” and suddenly it is 1am and you are architect of a small plastic city.

LEGO is perfect if your brain loves:

Patterns.
Rules that are optional but still reassuring.
The sensory comfort of click, stack, line up, repeat.

The Minecraft Person

The Minecraft person wants one thing: a flat bit of land, basic tools, and absolutely no limits.

You might be a Minecraft person if:

You sit down to play “for half an hour” and resurface three hours later with a half-finished mega base and no food in real life.
You have strong feelings about Redstone that other people do not understand.
You can explain the difference between Creative and Survival to someone who did not ask.

Minecraft lives in a digital world of:

Punching trees because that is… how you get wood now.
Accidentally digging straight down. Again.
Building a house, wandering off “just to explore”, and never finding that house ever again.

Minecraft people tend to like:

Endless space.
There is always another biome, cave, village, or bad idea.
Consequence-lite demolition.
Hate a wall? Hit it. Redo it. No one knows.
Projects that are never quite finished.
Everything is “in progress”. Forever.

Neurodiversity Corner: Minecraft Edition

The neurodivergent Minecraft person lives on a knife edge between joy and chaos:

Hyperfocus session: you log in “just to check the farm” and look up when your legs have gone numb and the sun has set twice.
Paralysis at world selection: you have eight worlds, three backups, and a “new idea” that needs its own map.
You get stuck in a loop: mine, smelt, build storage, realise you need more storage, mine again.
Lava deaths live rent-free in your head for weeks.

Minecraft is perfect if your brain loves:

Open-ended creativity with no real limits.
Systems you can optimise forever.
The ability to undo absolutely everything with a pickaxe and a deep sigh.

The Unholy Third Thing: LEGO Minecraft Sets

Just when the divide looks neat, reality throws in a cursed hybrid:

LEGO Minecraft sets.
LEGO… of Minecraft… which is already basically digital LEGO.

This is where the universe folds in on itself.

On paper they are ideal:

Real bricks? Yes.
Blocky Minecraft aesthetic? Yes.
Villagers, Creepers, and farm animals that look like they were built out of shoeboxes? Yes.

But they do not sit cleanly on either side.

Why LEGO Minecraft Sets Confuse LEGO People

To the traditional LEGO person, these sets feel… off.

You get:

Big clunky trees where your soul wants nice slopes and curves.
Square animals that ignore decades of clever shaping techniques.
So much brown.

LEGO brains quietly scream:

“We spent years making smoother shapes and clever angles and you want deliberate chunky?”
“Why is this pig a cube?”
“Why does this landscape look like it is made of low-res wardrobes?”

They will still build them. They might even enjoy them. But they may also start “fixing” bits later, adding tiles and slopes because “it looks better that way”.

Why LEGO Minecraft Sets Confuse Minecraft People

For the Minecraft person, LEGO Minecraft sets are like someone screen-shotted your world, printed it in 3D, and then made it gather dust.

You go from:

Infinite blocks, eventually.
Instant demolition.
Flight, if you are in Creative or you have bullied some poor Elytra into service.

To:

A fixed number of bricks in one box.
Instructions that object when you skip steps.
The harsh truth that if you misplace one piece on page 9, you will not notice until page 63.

Minecraft brains quietly think:

“Why can’t I just zoom out and expand this whole thing?”
“Why can’t I fly while I place these?”
“Why can’t I press undo on the last twelve moves?”

Neurodivergent Brain vs LEGO Minecraft Sets

For the neurodivergent builder, LEGO Minecraft sets are a sensory and cognitive paradox:

Your need for structure loves the numbered steps.
Your need for freedom is slightly offended that this world is only 32 studs long.
Your pattern-brain enjoys matching the physical build to the digital logic.
Your executive function is now tracking both the build and how you could improve it in-game.

Also:

You will almost certainly consider rebuilding the set in Minecraft.
You might also then tweak the LEGO build to match the new digital version.
At some point you will lose track of which is “the original”.

At this stage you are not “playing”. You are running a cross-platform, block-based identity project.

Who Are LEGO Minecraft Sets Really For?

Honestly?

Kids who want screen time and brick time in one package.
Adults who say “it’s for the children” while carefully applying tiny TNT tiles.
Neurodivergent people who cannot pick between digital and physical, so they say “yes” to both.

In the “LEGO vs Minecraft” divide, LEGO Minecraft sets are the awkward third answer:

“I reject your binary and choose this weird little cube of both.”

So What Does It All Mean?

Here is the fake but emotionally accurate psychology bit:

LEGO people like structure, limited pieces, and clear progress.
Minecraft people like endless possibility, soft consequences, and being able to bulldoze their mistakes.

For neurodivergent folks, it often plays out like this:

LEGO is a safe, finite universe. You can see all the pieces. There is a right-ish way to do it. You can line things up and feel your brain un-knot itself.
Minecraft is a sprawling space where your brain can roam. You can follow hyperfocus down a cave system and build something absurdly over-engineered just because.

LEGO says:
“This is what I made. It lives here, on this shelf, and it is finished.*”

(*Until you re-pose one section at 11:37pm.)

Minecraft says:
“This is what I am currently making, plus the five things I abandoned along the way, plus three more ideas I am not ready to admit to yet.”

LEGO Minecraft sets stand in the middle and say:
“This is a save file someone printed.”

A Completely Unscientific Self-Test

Answer these quickly. No overthinking. (So, obviously, you will overthink them.)

You are missing one crucial element.
- LEGO brain: You search the entire house, then rebuild the timeline of who touched the box.
- Minecraft brain: You open a menu, grab another stack, and move on.
- LEGO Minecraft brain: You check the bag three times, then wonder if you should just redesign the set and the in-game version.
You finally built something you love.
- LEGO brain: It is now a museum piece. No one touches it. Ever.
- Minecraft brain: You immediately start tearing down one wall because it “could be better”.
- Neurodivergent brain: You take fifteen screenshots, three photos, and then spiral because you have had a new idea.
Someone suggests “just winging it”.
- LEGO person: Mild panic, then “maybe after we finish the instructions”.
- Minecraft person: That was already the plan.
- LEGO Minecraft person: You wing it in-game, then try to reverse-engineer it with actual bricks and regret everything.

If you mostly recognised yourself in LEGO? You are probably a LEGO person.
Mostly Minecraft? Minecraft person.
If you saw yourself in all of them and felt slightly attacked?

Welcome. You are the neurodivergent hybrid chaos engine. We have snacks and several half-finished worlds.

Final Block Placement

So, are you a Minecraft person or a LEGO person?

Truthfully, it does not matter. Both are tools for the same thing: making stuff, breaking stuff, and learning what your brain likes when no one is watching.

LEGO gives you weight, click, and the satisfaction of something you can dust.
Minecraft gives you endless sky, respawns, and the option to bulldoze your mistakes without sweeping the floor.

LEGO Minecraft sets sit between them like a glitch in the Matrix, which is exactly where a lot of neurodivergent people live anyway: halfway between order and chaos, structure and freedom, carefully labelled boxes and “I started a new world because this one felt wrong”.

The real question is not “Which one are you?”
It is:

“Which one does your brain need today?”

A quiet evening of bricks and instructions?
A feral sprint across a digital landscape with a pickaxe and no plan?
Or a small, blocky set that lives in both worlds at once?

Whatever you pick, there is always room for one more block.
And, if you are anything like me, one more project you definitely did not have time to start.

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AJ Wright

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.

untypicable.co.uk

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Masking 101: The Hidden Curriculum of Being Socially Acceptable

AJ Wright — Mon, 22 Sep 2025 10:00:00 +0000

They say all the world’s a stage, but for some of us, the performance starts before we’ve even left the house.

Take last Tuesday, for example. I’d barely made it out of bed when I realised I was already rehearsing. Not for anything in particular—just for being perceived. The spotlight doesn’t wait for an invitation; it flicks on somewhere between brushing your teeth and wondering if cereal counts as a proper breakfast.

The morning started with the usual mental checklist: Shirt? On backwards, but passable. Smile? Set to “pleasant but non-threatening.” Tone? Calibrated through 17 pre-rehearsed scripts. Eye contact? Just enough to say “I’m listening,” but not so much that Sandra from HR accuses me of trying to read her soul.

By 9 a.m., I’d already given the performance of a lifetime—and I hadn’t even clocked in. It’s a miracle I don’t have an agent.

Learning the Lines

This, dear reader, is masking. It’s the subtle, exhausting, often absurd art of pretending to be the version of yourself that makes everyone else comfortable. It’s neurodivergent stagecraft at its finest: no script, no director, and definitely no union benefits. There’s no interval. No exit stage left. Just the relentless curtain call of yet another social scenario.

No one teaches you how to mask. There’s no school module titled “How to Not Make People Uncomfortable with Your Face.” You just… pick it up. Slowly. Painfully. Usually after a few dozen encounters where people look at you like you’ve just licked a light switch. One awkward silence too many, one “Why are you being weird?” and you realise: ah. There are rules. I just never got the manual.

So you start observing. Mimicking. Testing lines in your head like a stand-up comic workshopping material. You learn to smile when you’re supposed to. Nod thoughtfully. Laugh at jokes that make no sense. Stifle the urge to talk about your latest hyperfixation—even though Victorian sewage systems are genuinely fascinating, and frankly, people are missing out.

It’s the hidden curriculum of being socially acceptable, and neurodivergent people are expected to pass it without ever being shown the syllabus. Everyone else seems to coast through the group project that is human interaction while you’re clinging to your metaphorical PowerPoint slides, praying you remembered to include a conclusion.

Scripted Encounters

There’s a script for every occasion. At work: “How was your weekend?”
Default response: “Quiet one, you?” (Never say “I reorganised my LEGO by emotional colour wheel.”)

At meetings: Rotate through weather, traffic, coffee. Don’t mention how your brain staged a full mutiny at 3 a.m. over an email you sent in 2019. And when someone says, “Let’s touch base offline,” you nod sagely while your inner monologue asks, “Touch what, now?”

Even casual chats are rehearsed. You watch people for clues and cues, mirroring their expressions like you’re doing some low-budget improv exercise. All the while, your brain is running diagnostics: Am I smiling too much? Was that laugh too loud? Is this what interested eyebrows look like?

It’s not interaction. It’s performance. Except the costume is your personality, and the script keeps changing. One wrong move, one misread cue, and the illusion cracks.

The Comedy of Errors

Despite the effort, things go wrong. Often hilariously wrong. You say “you too” when someone wishes you Happy Birthday. You try to leave a conversation and accidentally become its host. You laugh at a statement that wasn’t a joke and then try to cough to cover it up, which only makes things worse.

You nod at a rhetorical question. You wave at someone who wasn’t waving at you. You misjudge the appropriate reaction and end up looking either disinterested or manically enthused—no in-between. Social nuance is less of a grey area and more of a black hole.

Idioms become landmines. Someone says, “Let’s circle back on this,” and you’re halfway through imagining two colleagues rotating in a car park before you realise it’s just office jargon. You spend an entire networking event pretending your drink is interesting so you don’t have to talk, then end up giving a five-minute TED talk on cutlery design to a passing intern who just wanted a sausage roll.

When the Mask Comes Off

The moment you get home, the mask slips off like a too-tight pair of shoes. Relief floods in, followed almost immediately by exhaustion. Masking fatigue isn’t just tiredness. It’s the kind of brain-deep weariness that makes you stare at a wall for twenty minutes wondering if you remembered how to blink. It’s crawling under a blanket, lights off, ears ringing from silence. You’ve performed all day. And now, the curtain has fallen. You just hope there’s no encore tomorrow.

And if someone texts you to go for drinks, you pretend you didn’t see it. Not because you don’t care. But because you’ve used up every single shred of your social capacity on nodding at the right moment and not saying something you’ll lie awake cringing about later.

Choosing When to Perform

We mask to fit in. To avoid awkwardness, confrontation, or becoming That Person in the office who gets quietly excluded from group chats. It’s about survival. And yes, sometimes it helps. Sometimes it keeps us safe. But it also chips away at us—little by little. Because masking means hiding the parts that make us, well, us.

We’re told to “just be yourself” by people who’ve never been punished for doing exactly that. They mean well. But they don’t get it. To be authentic in a world that demands conformity is a rebellious act. And some days, it’s a risk we’re just too tired to take.

Slowly, gently, we learn where we can unmask. In certain friendships. In quiet spaces. With people who don’t flinch when we stim, or ramble, or go quiet without warning. People who don’t need you to translate your joy into something digestible—who let you be weird, or blunt, or enthusiastic about moths.

Unmasking isn’t about rejecting people. It’s about reclaiming our own pace, our own patterns. Our quirks aren’t flaws—they’re fingerprints. It’s a slow process, like thawing. But it starts when someone sees you, really sees you, and doesn’t ask you to tidy up first.

So if you see someone who seems a bit “off-script,” give them a moment. Maybe they’re just taking off the mask. And maybe that mask was never hiding something broken—just something brilliant, waiting for air.

Cue the standing ovation.

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untypicable.co.uk

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The Neurotypical Vanishing Act: Or, How to Become Socially Radioactive in One Diagnosis

AJ Wright — Mon, 04 Aug 2025 10:00:00 +0000

There are many ways to clear a room. Shouting “fire,” for example. Or announcing you’ve brought quiche to a barbecue. But perhaps the most effective—yet tragically underrated—method is this: tell people you’re autistic.

It’s magical, really. You can watch in real time as a person rearranges their entire facial expression into something they hope says “totally fine and supportive” but accidentally screams “how do I escape without looking like a monster?”

They’ll smile too hard, nod like they’ve just remembered how human heads work, and then, without quite making it obvious, begin to back away from your life like Homer into the hedge.

The Art of the Casual Sidestep

To the untrained eye, these people appear to be going about their day. To the autistic person who dared to share their diagnosis, it’s like watching an oddly choreographed escape plan unfold. I’ve catalogued a few classic moves:

The “Let’s Definitely Catch Up Soon!” Vanish
No time frame given. No intention of following up. Just a promise floating in the social ether like a balloon slowly deflating.
The Email-Only Pivot
They used to chat in the corridor. Now everything’s formal, bullet-pointed, and emotionally neutered. You’re a LinkedIn connection now.
The Strategic Ghost
They reply in Teams chats… eventually. Seen-zoning as an Olympic sport.
The Surprise Calendar Clash
“Oh, I meant to invite you, but I wasn’t sure if you’d feel comfortable around noise/people/oxygen.”

What you’re witnessing is benevolent exclusion: the art of pretending to be inclusive while meticulously leaving you out. It’s not about malice. It’s about fear, awkwardness, and the neurotypical urge to handle difference like an unexploded bomb.

Things I Apparently Do That Scare Neurotypicals

Let’s be real: it’s not that I’ve changed. I’ve simply labelled what was already there. And that, it seems, is what people find uncomfortable.

1. I ask questions that go “too deep” for small talk

Small talk: “Busy week?”
Me: “Do you ever worry that productivity culture is just late-capitalist self-harm?”
Them: [sips drink nervously]

2. I pause before answering

Processing isn’t stalling. It’s thinking. But in a world obsessed with rapid-fire chatter, silence apparently triggers alarms. I’m not buffering—I’m just not wasting your time with knee-jerk nonsense.

3. I don’t pretend not to be autistic

The horror! I stim. I correct things that are factually wrong. I communicate directly. I don’t do the neurotypical charade of pretending everything’s “fine” when it’s clearly on fire. This makes some people… uneasy. That’s not on me.

4. I hold eye contact like it’s radioactive

Let’s be honest—eye contact is a bizarre social ritual. Too little and I’m “shifty.” Too much and I’m “intense.” It’s a no-win game. So I’ve opted out. If that makes you nervous, perhaps you should reflect on why you need constant ocular affirmation.

5. I notice things I’m “not meant to”

Apparently pointing out when someone changes tone mid-sentence or suddenly gets passive-aggressive is “reading too much into it.” No, I’m just not ignoring the weird energy shift like everyone else agreed to do at birth.

And no, before you ask — being autistic doesn’t mean I’m rude, abrupt, or incapable of self-awareness. That’s just Gregg Wallace, and he’s got his own PR team for that.

Field Guide to Avoiders: Social Taxonomy of the Well-Meaningly Useless

Since I’ve had time (and now, lots of space), I’ve developed a helpful taxonomy of those who suddenly vanish after you disclose you’re autistic. These are not enemies. Just highly flappable mammals.

The Comfort-Manager:
Panics at the idea of saying the wrong thing. So says nothing. Forever.
The Oversharer:
Immediately confesses to knowing someone else autistic. Usually a cousin. Who liked trains. Somehow this is supposed to count as bonding.
The Amateur Diagnostician:
“Oh yeah, I’m probably a bit autistic too. I’m like so bad with eye contact.” (Congratulations. That’s not how it works.)
The Hyper-Friendly Fader:
Goes out of their way to greet you in passing but never invites you to anything again. Ever. But you will get a birthday LinkedIn notification.
The Disability Mystic:
“I just think neurodivergent people are so special and wise, like they can see things the rest of us can’t…”
Ma’am, I’m not a wizard. I just hate small talk and overanalyse bus timetables.

The Great Projection: It’s Not Me, It’s You

Here’s the kicker: I haven’t become colder, ruder, or more difficult. You’ve just found out I’m autistic, and now you’re projecting your discomfort onto my existence. You’re trying so hard not to offend me that you’ve ended up excluding me entirely.

You think you’re being kind. In reality, you’ve turned me into a social inconvenience to be managed.

Let’s be clear: your unease is not my responsibility. Your lack of understanding is not my burden to fix. I don’t need rescuing, tiptoeing, or covert distancing. I need you to sit in your own discomfort for long enough to realise it’s yours to deal with.

Silver Linings and Selective Extinction

There is, I admit, an upside. The sudden absence of vague acquaintances frees up time for more interesting pursuits—like reading about train signalling systems, or mentally ranking the fonts used in supermarket signage.

I now have fewer surprise interruptions, fewer guilt-laden group invites, and far fewer awkward chats about someone’s dog’s Instagram account.

The people who stick around tend to be the ones who already saw me—really saw me—before I put a label on it. Those people? Gold. Keepers. The rest? Enjoy your unnecessarily loud pub socials and insincere WhatsApp chats.

I’m Not the Awkward One…

If you act weird around me after I tell you I’m autistic, you’re not protecting my feelings—you’re dodging your own. I didn’t become less of a person. You just became less able to handle me being a whole one.

I don’t need tiptoeing. I need space. Not exclusion, but inclusion without conditions.

So next time someone tells you they’re autistic, don’t back away like they sneezed on your soul. Maybe ask a question. Maybe don’t. But at the very least, stay where you were—because I promise, I didn’t move.

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untypicable.co.uk

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The Tyranny of Eye Contact: A Neurodivergent Field Guide

AJ Wright — Mon, 28 Jul 2025 10:00:00 +0000

There’s a very specific kind of eye contact that says: “I read somewhere this is what humans do.” It’s intense. It’s slightly off. It’s me, in most work meetings, accidentally fixing my gaze on someone’s left eyebrow for so long they start to visibly sweat.

I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to look “normal.” The irony, of course, is that in trying to pass as socially competent, I’ve somehow ended up looking like a cross between a malfunctioning android and a suspicious owl.

Welcome to the eye contact paradox: expected, enforced, and deeply uncomfortable—especially if you’re neurodivergent and your brain didn’t come with the same firmware for face-based conversation.

Look at Me When I’m Speaking to You (And Other Childhood Threats)

From an early age, we’re taught that eye contact = good. It signals attentiveness, honesty, confidence. It also, apparently, prevents us from turning into delinquents, sociopaths, or mid-tier management.

Teachers wield it like a moral barometer. “He doesn’t make eye contact” appears on report cards as if it were a gateway behaviour to arson. I distinctly remember trying to maintain eye contact with a headteacher during a detention explanation and accidentally staring so hard I forgot how to blink.

I was twelve. I think I traumatised us both.

The Gaze Economy of Adulthood

As adults, the pressure doesn’t lift—it intensifies. Now we’re in interviews, performance reviews, networking events, and weekly meetings with biscuits that make your mouth feel like a dusty cupboard. And through all of it, the same expectation hums beneath the surface: make eye contact or risk being perceived as weird, rude, or dangerously incompetent.

Managers notice if you look at the table too much. Colleagues misinterpret a glance to the side as disinterest. Even on Zoom, people monitor where your gaze lands, as if your soul should be GPS-tracked via webcam.

It doesn’t matter what you say. It matters where your eyes go while you’re saying it.

The Accidental Boob Glance: Masking Gone Rogue

To survive this gaze-obsessed landscape, many neurodivergent people develop tricks. Masking, essentially. We simulate eye contact by looking at noses, eyebrows, the space between the eyes, or, in extreme cases, just above someone’s left ear.

Sometimes, it goes wrong. Spectacularly wrong.

Take the classic teen-to-young-adult miscalculation: in a panicked effort to avoid direct eye contact, your gaze drifts downward. Too far downward. And suddenly, you’re staring squarely at someone’s chest.

Not with intent. Not with malice. Simply because in trying to avoid one form of discomfort, you’ve stumbled headlong into another.

And here’s the worst part: you often don’t realise it—not until the other person shifts awkwardly, covers themselves slightly, or looks at you like you’ve just been uninvited from feminism.

Once, during a tutorial, I thought I was holding safe, polite, side-of-face level gaze. Turns out I’d been gently but unwaveringly fixated on a particularly low neckline for the better part of a group discussion. I was simply trying to avoid a panic spiral. I left with a profound sense of shame and a new hyper-awareness of collars.

This is the neurodivergent tightrope: appear normal, but not too intense. Avoid staring, but also avoid looking like you’re undressing someone with your eyes while internally disassociating over whether you remembered to lock the front door.

The Guilt of Looking Away

Then there’s the aftermath. You look away to collect your thoughts, or because your eyes need a break, and suddenly you’re avoiding them. Disengaged. Aloof. Maybe even dishonest.

People will ask if you’re upset. Or distracted. Or bored. Sometimes they won’t say anything at all—they’ll just file it away, silently judging you as not quite “present” enough.

Meanwhile, you were simply trying not to disassociate.

Alternatives to Eye Contact (Yes, We Have Those)

Here’s the thing: eye contact is not the only measure of engagement. Neurodivergent folks might:

Look at mouths, to better understand speech
Focus on shoulder movement, to track intent
Listen more deeply because they’re not distracted by visual overwhelm
Or simply focus their gaze on a neutral object—a coffee cup, a corner of the desk, a slightly judgemental spider in the corner of the ceiling

The Myth of Sincerity Through Staring

We’ve built entire cultures around the idea that looking someone in the eye means telling the truth. But the reality is more nuanced. Some of the kindest, most present people I know avoid eye contact because it’s overwhelming. And some of the most manipulative people I’ve ever met stare like they’re trying to hypnotise you into a direct debit.

It’s time to stop equating stillness with disinterest, and eye contact with authenticity.

Final Thoughts (And Where I’m Looking Now)

I’m still learning. Still unlearning, really. That pressure to perform eye contact never really disappears, but I’m starting to let myself off the hook.

Sometimes I look at noses. Sometimes at the floor. Sometimes, bravely, for a few seconds at someone’s eyes. But only if it feels okay.

The real connection, it turns out, doesn’t live in the staring. It lives in the listening.

So if you ever catch me glancing at your elbow mid-conversation, just know I’m doing my best—and it probably means I like you.

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untypicable.co.uk

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Why Autism Isn’t a Trend – And Why I Hate the Term ‘Neurospicy’

AJ Wright — Thu, 05 Jun 2025 10:00:00 +0000

It begins, as so many terrible trends do, on the internet.

Somewhere between the rise of pastel-coloured mental health infographics and the collapse of basic attention spans, someone coined the word neurospicy. It was, ostensibly, meant to be charming. A playful euphemism. A glittery way of saying “neurodivergent” without actually committing to anything so serious as a diagnosis or, heaven forbid, lived experience.

You’ll have seen it in Instagram bios: “chaotic neutral neurospicy babe”. Or as the caption to a TikTok video in which a twenty-something dances to a Dua Lipa remix while holding a sign that says, “me trying to focus on my boss talking while a pigeon outside reminds me of death.”

We are meant to find this endearing.

And yet, for many of us who are actually neurodivergent—who live with autism not as a curated online identity but as a lifelong negotiation with the world—it feels, frankly, like a slap in the sensory cortex.

I’m not neurospicy. I’m autistic. Not in a “fun and flustered” sort of way, but in the classic, exhausting, chronically-masking, please-do-not-approach-me-at-networking-events sense. I’m autistic in the way that means fluorescent lighting gives me a migraine, casual conversations feel like performance art, and I’ve spent the last thirty years mentally rehearsing how to say goodbye without sounding abrupt.

That’s not spice. That’s survival.

But “neurospicy” is only the surface gloss on a deeper problem—the creeping, cheerful rebranding of neurodivergence as something fashionable. Something whimsical. Something that pairs nicely with oat milk and mild social anxiety. Once a clinical term, autism is now being filtered through the same lens that brought us “hot girl walks” and digital detox yoga. It’s a vibe. An aesthetic. A way to say “I’m not like other girls” with the added flair of a DSM-5 reference.

And the consequences are more than semantic.

Because as soon as something becomes trendy, it becomes diluted. Neurodivergence is being stripped of its medical and social complexity and repackaged as quirkiness—a lightly worn identity one can try on like a vintage cardigan. And as the meaning becomes more flexible, the people who actually live within its boundaries find themselves increasingly misrepresented, or worse, ignored.

Which brings us—inevitably—to parents.

Specifically, the modern breed of performative parent who diagnoses their child with ADHD based on one sugar-fuelled outburst in the car park of a National Trust café.

We’ve all encountered them. Their child is busy turning a lemon drizzle into a projectile weapon, and when confronted with this alarming display of sociopathy, the parent responds with a sigh and says:

“He’s just got a touch of ADHD.”

A touch. As though ADHD were a seasonal condition, like hayfever, or something one contracts from licking too many iPads.

It would be amusing if it weren’t so staggeringly unhelpful. Because what’s really being diagnosed here isn’t ADHD—it’s the parent’s unwillingness to say “no.” A fundamental failure to establish boundaries has now been rebranded as neurodivergence. Forget tantrums, forget poor diet, forget the fact your child has never been spoken to like a person—just slap a label on it and head back to your flat white.

I want to be clear: there are absolutely children with ADHD. Children who need support, structure, and understanding. I am not denying the condition exists—I am saying that not every act of defiance, disobedience or dramatic biscuit-throwing is a cry for medical recognition. Sometimes, it’s just a child being a bit of a knob.

What makes this trend all the more infuriating is that for decades, autism and ADHD went undiagnosed—particularly in girls, working-class children, and people of colour. The system failed countless people. And now that these diagnoses have gained visibility, they’re being treated like personality accessories. Something to mention on a podcast, or scrawl in bubble writing on a tote bag.

And then there’s the phrase that inevitably follows any conversation about autism:

“Well, we’re all on the spectrum somewhere, aren’t we?”

No. We’re not. And that’s precisely the problem.

Autism is not a quirky personality trait. It is not a mood. It is not shorthand for being awkward at dinner parties or enjoying spreadsheets. It is a neurological condition that affects perception, communication, and sensory processing. It is a lived reality that affects every moment of every day. To suggest that everyone is “a little bit autistic” is not just wrong—it’s insulting. It’s like saying everyone’s a bit pregnant. It shows a fundamental misunderstanding of what autism actually is, and what it isn’t.

When I say I’m autistic, I’m not inviting you to relate. I’m asking you to understand. I’m not telling you I’m quirky—I’m telling you that your office lights are giving me chest pain and your small talk is emotionally exhausting. I’m not saying I’m a special snowflake—I’m saying that your child’s diagnosis shouldn’t be based on how inconvenient he is at a Pizza Express birthday party.

So no, I’m not neurospicy. I’m neurodivergent. And I don’t need my reality repackaged as digestible content for people who think diagnosis is a trend.

And your child?
Might just need an earlier bedtime.
And fewer fruit shoots.

Let’s stop pretending that everything awkward is autism, and everything excitable is ADHD. Let’s allow neurodivergent people to define ourselves without having our terms co-opted, aestheticised, and drained of meaning.

We are not flavours. We are not content.
We are people. And frankly, we’re tired.

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untypicable.co.uk

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Console Wars: A Sociological Saga of Plastic, Pixels, and Petty Tribalism

AJ Wright — Tue, 03 Jun 2025 10:58:51 +0000

Some people go to war over oil. Others over land. But console warriors? They go to war over frame rates, backwards compatibility, and whether the X button should live on the bottom or the side.

Welcome to the Console Wars—the longest, strangest, and least necessary cultural conflict since the Great Jaffa Cake vs Biscuit Debate. What follows is a sociological (and only mildly ridiculous) deep dive into the rituals, identities, and completely pointless rage of gaming’s weirdest turf wars.

Prologue: When the Pixels Were Crusty and the Fandoms Raw

Long before Sonic and Mario locked eyes across the battlefield, there was a quieter but equally vicious skirmish brewing in bedrooms and school halls across 1980s Britain. A war with fewer graphics and more load errors. The unsung prequel to the modern Console Wars: Spectrum vs. Commodore 64, followed swiftly by Atari ST vs. Amiga.

The ZX Spectrum, with its rubber keys and screaming cassette loader, was a marvel of affordability and optimism. Meanwhile, the C64 was beefier, American, and had a sound chip so advanced it could practically compose synthpop albums. The arguments? Oh, they were loud:

“The Speccy has way more games!”
“Yeah, but the C64 has actual music, not just dying robot beeps.”
“At least my games don’t take ten minutes to load and then crash!”

These debates were less about tech specs and more about socioeconomic identity. The Spectrum, often cheaper, was beloved by working-class families, while the C64 signalled a whiff of tech-snobbery and pocket money privilege. It was Thatcher-era capitalism in 8-bit form.

Then came the 16-bit battle royale: Atari ST vs. Amiga. The Atari ST was beloved by musicians and people who wanted to pretend they were musicians. The Amiga 500, however, was a multimedia demigod. Gorgeous graphics. Superior sound. A name that meant “female friend”, even though 98% of its users were 13-year-old boys called Gary.

The sociological takeaway? These weren’t just gadgets. They were tribal affiliations wrapped in CRT radiation. Before the internet, you didn’t need a forum to start a flame war—just a lunch break and a strongly worded opinion on whether Shadow of the Beast ran better on Amiga.

Level 1: Tribes, Totems, and 16-Bit Identity

Fast forward to the 1990s. SEGA vs Nintendo becomes the main event. Sonic the Hedgehog, a caffeine-fuelled blur of ’90s attitude, races against Mario, a moustachioed Italian plumber who inexplicably speaks like he’s always just stubbed his toe.

From a sociological standpoint, this was classic tribalism. Durkheim would’ve been fascinated. The console wasn’t just hardware; it was a totem. A sacred object embodying the tribe’s spirit. SEGA kids wore their allegiance like a badge of honour. Nintendo kids smugly pointed to their ever-reliable game catalogue and moral superiority.

You weren’t just choosing a console. You were choosing a side. It was a digital blood oath. And if your mate owned the other one? You bonded over sneering at each other’s loading screens.

Level 2: The Rise of Brand-Based Social Capital

Enter the 2000s, where Bourdieu’s theory of cultural capital gets pixelated. It’s no longer about being the best; it’s about being seen to have the right taste. The PlayStation 2? Suave. Massive library. The Xbox? Chunky, loud, American. Powerful.

The GameCube? Small, purple, and perfect for people who thought quirky was a personality.

Consoles became more than entertainment; they became cultural signifiers. Your choice in platform announced your personality. PS2 owners were film buffs and aspiring aesthetes. Xbox users were into shooters and performance specs. Nintendo players? Childlike, nostalgic, or hipsters before hipsterdom was a thing.

Sociologically speaking, owning the “right” console became a way of performing identity. It was no longer just about the game. It was about what the game said about you.

Level 3: The Digital Battlefield

With the internet came a new theatre of war: forums, Reddit, YouTube comments. This is where Goffman’s dramaturgical theory takes centre stage. Online, console warriors perform their identities on the “front stage”, armed with meme swords and a kill/death ratio.

The anonymity of digital life supercharged these performances. Console war threads became gladiatorial arenas. PlayStation vs Xbox. Halo vs Uncharted. Nintendo vs Having Any Friends.

And for what? Internet points. Tribal validation. The smug joy of watching a Digital Foundry video that proves your console runs at a slightly higher resolution.

Level 4: Commodifying Nostalgia and Platform Polyamory

Now we enter the era of platform polyamory. Cross-play is common. Subscription models reign. No one under 25 even knows what a memory card is.

And yet the console wars persist—not as fierce battles, but as aesthetic rivalries. The fight is no longer over tech specs, but over vibes. Xbox: practical, value-packed, like a reliable Ford Focus. PlayStation: cinematic, stylish, like a Peugeot that wants to direct indie films. Nintendo: the IKEA of consoles—compact, colourful, occasionally baffling, and not afraid to re-release Skyrim forever.

We’re in late capitalism now. Nostalgia is monetised. Every game is a remake. Every console comes with collector’s editions of your childhood. You no longer just buy a game. You buy memory theatre.

Baudrillard would weep. Or shrug. Hard to say.

Neurodivergence, Fandoms, and Belonging in Weird Places

For many neurodivergent folk (hi, yes, hello), console fandoms weren’t just hobbies. They were scripts. They were systems. Consoles offered predictability. Games offered structure. Forums offered rules.

Whether it was memorising obscure game trivia or becoming emotionally invested in the fate of the Dreamcast, these obsessions weren’t just pastimes. They were lifelines.

And that matters. Because when everything else feels overwhelming, arguing about whether the N64 controller was innovative or an ergonomic abomination is a strangely comforting hill to die on.

Game Over (Or Is It?)

The console wars may have mellowed, but the sociological resonance still hums beneath the surface. Whether you’re a nostalgic Nintendo nerd, a PlayStation purist, or an Xbox evangelist, the choices you make aren’t just about what you play.

They’re about who you are.

Because, in the end, these battles aren’t about plastic boxes. They’re about identity, community, expression—and the gloriously absurd ways we find meaning in machines.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to update my Switch. There’s a new Mario Kart skin and I will absolutely perish on this Rainbow Road.

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The Sociology of Small Talk – Or, Why We All Hate Asking About the Weather

AJ Wright — Tue, 13 May 2025 10:00:00 +0000

Ah, small talk. That peculiar social ritual where we pretend to care about things we definitely don’t care about. Whether it’s weather updates from someone standing right next to you or the obligatory “How was your weekend?” in the office kitchen, small talk feels like society’s default mode – a kind of conversational screensaver that kicks in when real topics crash.

Why Do We Do It?

Sociologists have puzzled over small talk for decades. Some say it’s about social cohesion – a way to signal that we’re non-threatening, approachable, and unlikely to throw a stapler in a meeting. Others argue it’s an instinctive form of social grooming, like chimps picking nits off each other but with fewer bugs and more forced smiles. Robin Dunbar, for instance, proposed that small talk is the modern equivalent of the friendly grooming our primate ancestors used to bond and maintain social alliances – a verbal stand-in for scratching each other’s backs.

But fundamentally, small talk serves as a social buffer. It’s a way to ease into more meaningful interactions without the social equivalent of walking in and shouting, “Let’s discuss our deepest existential fears!” It’s a conversational handshake, a low-stakes ritual that reassures everyone that we’re vaguely pleasant and not likely to shout about politics.

Why the Weather?

Of all the things we could chat about, why does the weather always come up first? One theory is that it’s neutral territory – something that affects everyone but doesn’t stir controversy. Talking about your chaotic love life with Brenda from HR might feel a bit too intimate, but grumbling about drizzle? Perfectly safe.

The weather is also reliably dull, which means it’s unlikely to derail into a heated debate. There’s no risk of someone launching into a passionate defence of drizzle or forming a pro-fog advocacy group. It’s just there – as innocuous as background music in a lift. Emile Durkheim might argue that this shared, predictable topic serves as a form of collective ritual – a small, everyday way of affirming our place in the social group without risking anything too personal.

The Neurodivergent Perspective

Of course, not everyone finds small talk quite so harmless. For some neurodivergent folks, it can feel more like a poorly scripted play where the lines don’t make sense and the plot is painfully predictable. Social cues that come naturally to others can feel forced or even pointless. “Why are we talking about the rain again? We can see the rain. It’s right there.”

But even for the neurotypical, small talk can feel like a chore – a bland, conversational starter pack you’re forced to carry around like emotional pocket lint. We do it because it’s expected, not because it’s especially rewarding.

That said, small talk can also be a blessing for those who are openly neurodivergent. Once people know you’re not wired for polite, empty chat, they often cut straight to the point – skipping the verbal fluff and getting right to the meat of the conversation. It’s a rare upside in a world built on weather updates and the dreaded “How’s it going?”

How to Survive It – For Everyone

Since avoiding small talk entirely is about as feasible as training pigeons to respect personal space, here are a few tricks to make it more tolerable:

Pre-prepared Lines: Have a mental stash of generic replies. “Yeah, typical British weather!” works every time, even if the weather is currently doing something truly weird.
Deflect with Questions: If someone says, “Nice day, isn’t it?” just ask, “Do you think it’ll last?” You’ve successfully shifted the burden of meaningless commentary back onto them.
Embrace Absurdity: Next time someone brings up the rain, try responding with, “Yes, but have you considered how ducks must feel about it?” If they laugh, great. If not, they’ll probably think twice about bringing up precipitation next time.
Acknowledge the Weirdness: Sometimes honesty works. “I never know what to say about the weather. Do you think we’re all just pretending to care?” You might just spark a genuinely interesting chat.

When Small Talk Goes Rogue

Sometimes, though, small talk gets weirdly intense. You might mention it’s windy, and suddenly Dave from accounts is giving you a passionate lecture on climate change. Or you casually note the sun’s out, and before you know it, Pam from reception is explaining her vitamin D deficiency in alarming detail.

The truth is, small talk often functions like a social Rorschach test – revealing far more about the person you’re speaking to than you ever wanted to know. Erving Goffman might describe these moments as “interaction breaches” – those awkward breaks in the social script that reveal the odd quirks lurking beneath our polished social masks.

So, Why Keep Doing It?

Because for all its awkwardness, small talk is like a public service. It keeps us engaged without demanding vulnerability. It’s a reminder that we’re all trying to navigate this bizarre social maze without knocking over too many metaphorical mannequins.

And who knows? Maybe one day, when you’re caught in a drizzle-related chat you can’t escape, someone might just turn around and say, “You know what? I hate small talk too.” And in that fleeting moment of honesty, you’ll realise that even the most pointless conversations can sometimes lead to something genuinely human.

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Sociology Gone Wild: Theories So Bizarre They Might Actually Explain Everything

AJ Wright — Tue, 29 Apr 2025 11:00:00 +0000

1. Phrenology: Measuring Morals One Bump at a Time

Phrenology, once the life coach of 19th-century pseudoscience, was the belief that the shape of your skull could reveal everything about you—from your aptitude for needlework to your likelihood of becoming a highwayman.

Franz Joseph Gall believed the brain was composed of “organs” controlling specific traits like benevolence, destructiveness, and… love of children (weirdly specific). If one of these was particularly well-developed, it would create a bump in your skull. Hence: your skull = a topographic map of your soul.

How it spiralled: By the mid-1800s, phrenology had become the BuzzFeed quiz of the Victorian age. People got “readings” done to determine the best career paths and potential romantic matches. Think Tinder meets skull fondling.

Sociological absurdity rating: 10/10. It made eugenics seem like a wellness trend.

2. Symbolic Interactionism: Schrödinger’s Zebra

Coined by George Herbert Mead and brought to the mainstream by Herbert Blumer, symbolic interactionism argues that people act based on the meanings things have for them—and those meanings come from social interaction.

So far, so sensible. But at its extreme, it means nothing exists until we all agree it does. Like zebras. Or gender. Or the fact that trousers are supposed to go on your legs and not your head.

Take the zebra example: Philosopher Ian Hacking once used symbolic interactionism to point out that, by this logic, a zebra isn’t a zebra unless it’s socially recognised as one. So if society collectively forgot what a zebra is, zebras would become… stripy donkeys? Mythical beasts? Expensive designer dogs?

Implications: A tiger can identify as a zebra if it really commits to the stripes and joins the right WhatsApp group.

Sociological absurdity rating: 9/10. Useful at dinner parties, questionable when crossing a savannah.

3. Social Darwinism: The Theory That Launched a Thousand Colonial Guilt Trips

You know a theory is bonkers when it starts with Darwin and ends with: “Therefore, rich white men are the pinnacle of human evolution.”

Social Darwinism, most closely associated with Herbert Spencer, took natural selection and applied it to social structures—except poorly. It argued that those at the top of the social hierarchy were there because they were the “fittest,” and the poor were just losing the evolutionary game.

Used to justify: Colonialism, capitalism, racism, imperial tea sets, and your great-great-uncle Gerald’s belief that wealth equals moral superiority.

Unintended comedy: The rich were said to be “naturally superior,” even if they were inbred aristocrats who thought spoons were for stabbing cheese.

Sociological absurdity rating: 11/10. Basically weaponised Darwin to explain why Jeffrey owns a yacht and Susan works three jobs.

4. The Sociology of Smell: Olfactory Class Warfare

Enter olfactory sociology, where smell is no longer a sensory experience but a social minefield. Scholars like Constance Classen argue that odour is culturally constructed and historically loaded.

In medieval Europe, good Christians were thought to smell like flowers, while non-believers were accused of stinking like sulphur (helpful if you needed a theological excuse to avoid bathing).

Modern extensions: Your office microwave fish is no longer just antisocial—it’s a statement of cultural defiance.

Cultural twist: In Japan, body odour is taboo and deodorant is a social duty. In France, natural scent is part of joie de vivre. In British secondary schools, it’s a mix of Lynx Africa and despair.

Sociological absurdity rating: 8/10. Makes every bus ride a sociological case study.

5. Merton’s Strain Theory: The Anarchy in Your Shopping Trolley

Robert Merton’s Strain Theory says that deviance happens when there’s a disconnect between society’s goals (money, success, shiny things) and the means available to achieve them (education, legal employment, not starting an Etsy shop for crystal healing spoons).

In other words: when the rules don’t work for you, you make your own.

Modes of adaptation:

Conformist: Works hard, follows the rules. Eats lentils out of Tupperware.
Innovator: Wants the dream but skips the rules. Probably selling crypto.
Ritualist: Follows the rules but forgot why. Likely works in HR.
Retreatist: Gives up entirely. Living in a yurt.
Rebel: Starts a commune and a zine.

Modern spin: Shoplifting from Tesco = symbolic rejection of capitalist oppression. TikTok dances = rebellion against wage labour (…maybe).

Sociological absurdity rating: 7/10. Sounds deep until you realise it explains everything and nothing simultaneously.

6. Postmodernism: Academic Nihilism with Better Typography

Postmodernism isn’t really a theory—it’s a refusal to have one. It tells us that reality is fragmented, truth is relative, and nothing means anything except what we pretend it does. Basically, it’s the sociology version of that one mate who questions everything until you can’t remember how breathing works.

Key features:

Disdain for grand narratives
Everything is a social construct
Irony as a survival tactic

Used to explain: Why 90s adverts were weird. Why memes are postmodern poetry. Why your dissertation got a 2:1 even though it had 87 footnotes and made your supervisor cry.

Sociological absurdity rating: 10/10. Like arguing with a mirror that keeps changing shape.

7. The Looking-Glass Selfie

Charles Horton Cooley came up with the Looking-Glass Self, which says our self-concept develops from how we think others perceive us. We imagine how we appear to others, imagine their judgement, and then modify ourselves accordingly.

Translation in the age of Instagram: You’re not really you until someone validates it with a heart emoji and a fire reaction.

Modern crisis: Did I enjoy brunch, or did I only enjoy the idea of looking like I enjoyed brunch? Is that me, or just my face in Valencia filter?

Sociological absurdity rating: 8/10. Existential dread wrapped in a selfie.

Sociology, You Strange and Beautiful Beast

Bizarre sociological theories remind us that humans will intellectualise anything—skulls, smells, zebras, and TikTok. And that’s exactly why we love this field. It’s ridiculous. It’s clever. And sometimes, it’s accidentally brilliant.

So next time you smell someone weird on the tube, or question if your reflection is really you, remember: somewhere, a sociologist is writing a paper about it.

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untypicable.co.uk

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