Confessions of A Smart Asshole

My name is Maxine Trouble. Yes, that's my real last name. No, I didn't marry into it, and no it's not ironic. It's more like destiny. My parents actually looked at a screaming, red-faced newborn and thought, "Yes, let's curse her with foreshadowing."

Turns out, they were right. Trouble has followed me around like a loyal emotional support animal ever since.

Here's the other thing about me: I'm autistic. High-functioning, they say, though "high-functioning" feels like the polite way of saying, "You can hold down a job but you'll definitely say something that gets you uninvited from Christmas."

On paper, I look good. I've got an IQ of 124, which sounds technically I'm "gifted" enough to be impressive until you ask my mother she'd tell you it means I'm gifted at saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. That's part of being on the Autism Spectrum Disorders, and it also means my brain runs on a different operating system than most people's--and unfortunately, my mouth tends to hit "send" before I've proofread the message.

And then there's the way I look. Physically, I'm a contradiction wrapped in camouflage. Imagine someone took "feminine" and "masculine," put them in a blender, and forgot the lid. That's me too. I've got hazel-green eyes that can look soul-foul one minute and like they're plotting arson the next. My hair is dark brown and refuses to behave--it lives in a constant state of "humid day in Florida," no matter what the weather is. I've got cheekbones that could cut glass, a jawline that could start bar fights, and a wardrobe that makes people squint. I intend to dress in a way that matches my mood: Some days I'm in eyeliner and hoop earrings so sharp they could be registered as weapons and scream femme fatale, other times oversized camo cargo pants that make my mother side-eyed me in Forever 21 and whisper, cargo pants are criminally underrated.

Which led me to the infamous Forever 21 incident. Picture this: I'm holding up camo pants like they're the Holy Grail, and my mother--God bless her patience--sighs so loud the mannequins start trembling.

Mom: "Maxine...have you ever...been male?"

Me: "Excuse me?"

Mom: "It's just...most girls your age don't think camouflage is...attractive."

Me: "Correction: camouflage is the Swiss Army Knife of fashion. It says, "I'm hot, but I can also disappear into the woods if this date goes bad."

My mother's silence was louder than the mall fountain.

I've done it again, being that half-girl, half-enigma, full-time smart asshole. It mostly means I can recite obscure facts no one asked for and then forget my car keys in the fridge. I'm the girl who can break down the psychology of your bad boyfriend in five minutes but can't break down a social cue to save your life.

And then there are the habits no one brags about. For starters, I've got allergies like it's my part-time job. Dust, pollen, cats--I walk through spring sneezing like I'm trying to set a world record. My purse is basically an EpiPen, tissues, and enough antihistamines to get me flagged by the DEA.

Which leads to the disgusting part: I'm a nose-picker. Yep. There, I said it. Not delicate either. We're talking archaeological excavation. You'd think a woman with my brainpower could invent a better method, but nope--fingers are efficient. I know it's gross. I know people see me. And yet somehow, it's become my comfort tic. Other people smoke; I excavate.

People say I'm "too smart for my own good." Translation: I roast people like I'm being paid in audience applause. I call it efficiency: why wait three months to ruin a relationship when I can do it in one sarcastic remark? People meet me and within five minutes they're either laughing, crying, or checking their watch and wondering how fast they can legally exit the building.

So yes this is me, and the beginning of my life where I got started to being known as the Smart Asshole in my entire family going by the name--Maxine Trouble. Equal parts brain, chaos, and inappropriate timing. I'll always be a smart asshole, with those good cheek bones, messy hair, camouflage pants, seasonal allergies, and habits that make people double-take in traffic. And this is my diary of disasters: Confessions of a Smart Asshole. The times my mouth ran faster than any sense. The moments that tanked relationships, jobs, holidays, and in one case, an entire Christmas dinner.

If you're here for wisdom, you're in the wrong place. But if you're here for entertainment, buckle up. Because Maxine Trouble has a lot too confess, and when you're me, it's not a matter of if you'll say something wrong--it's a matter of how many witnesses there would be, because when you're with me, life isn't about polishing perfection--it's about laughing at the dumpster fire while it's still burning.