I regret writing the word autism. A hand grenade. I regret writing period. Being attacked is draining. I burned my books. I hate them. 37 meds a day cost 7K a month. Where are the writers who live with mental illness, too. In Electric Lit, I do talk about hearing voices. You are allowed one disease. I am what they call high functioning crazy. Editors don’t hate my writing. They hate me. As a person. Publishing is personal. “We will never publish you here because I want to see you suffer.” Why would an editor say that to me. I will use it. I just did. Publishing is crooked as a barrel of fishhooks. It’s Vegas. Sex work is give them what they want. Publishing plays the slots. Chump change. I rode shot gun on a dirt bike with a kid I work with. HIV on a motorcycle. Black helmet shields as masks. This kid is a slow depth charge. Every riot that summer in America was riding fire. I have the photographs. We joined Antifa. We spit in Authority’s face. I am not allowed to write about it because I have been warned not to. By authority. Which means I will. Nothing is more autistic than that. Death threats are ordinary. You want me to hurt. I put my rage with publishing into the writing. Editors use their authority to exact vengeance. Anyone who can’t follow the rules is a criminal. When editors realize I’m writing about the riots against their warnings, they start biting their forearms. Gatekeepers are Overlords. Each riot was different. How many editors have joined Antifa.