My girlfriend says that love is retarded. That, actually, I make her feel retarded by loving her, and by professing my love, and I completely understand what she means. I myself feel that way when she touches me, or when I think about how amazing it is that she exists and we’re together. My brain just sort of freezes up. I can’t think. I feel warm and cold at the same time, the way you’re supposed to feel when you’re freezing to death. I feel, you could say, mentally compromised. Like, you know. That word. As popularly defined.

But the problem here is that my girlfriend is actually autistic and I’m not, which means that she can say how retarded love makes her feel and I can’t (or I at least certainly can’t in this context, having—as I do—a genuinely autistic girlfriend), which means that, instead of saying it, I am forced to feel it intensely, secretly, as though it is a physical pain. This, in turn, makes me feel even more in love with her, and thus even more retarded than ever. I mean, I really feel so goddamn retarded, and I can’t tell anyone, which just makes the whole thing more intense and exhilarating.

And that’s what love is. It’s a feeling you can’t share; it’s the pleasure of keeping the secret. Of being warped (not un-profanely) by the hidden contours of desire. This at least is something I choose to believe instead of calling myself retarded—a retard for love—as I really, truly am.