Daniel sent us this one — he's been reading about someone diagnosed autistic at fifty-seven, and he's asking the bigger question. When the diagnosis comes at fifty or seventy, whether it's autism or ADHD, how does recognizing it that late actually reshape a life? Not the clinical side — what happens to a person's sense of who they are, their relationships, their past. It's a good one.
It really is. And this is timely — there was a piece in The Guardian just last month about a woman diagnosed at sixty-three, and the comment sections under these stories are always flooded with people saying "this is me, I'm sixty-eight and just figuring it out." The numbers are genuinely shifting. The CDC's most recent surveillance data shows about one in thirty-six children identified, but the adult diagnosis rate is climbing even faster — it went up something like four hundred percent in the over-fifty-five cohort in the past decade.
Four hundred percent. That's not a trend, that's a dam breaking.
And by the way, DeepSeek V four Pro is writing our script today, so if anything sounds unusually coherent, that's why.
I was going to say, you sound suspiciously well-organized. Usually you'd be three tangents deep by now.
Give me time. But look, the thing about late diagnosis that most coverage misses — and I've been reading the actual qualitative research on this, there's a really good systematic review from 2024 in the Journal of Autism and Developmental Disorders — is that it's not one experience. It splits into two almost opposite trajectories. Some people describe it as liberation, like they've finally been handed the user manual for their own brain. Others describe a kind of grief, mourning the decades they spent thinking they were just broken or difficult or wrong.
I'd bet those aren't mutually exclusive. You can feel both.
That's exactly what the research shows. Most people cycle through both, sometimes in the same day. There's this researcher at King's College London, Dr. Sarah Hampton, who did in-depth interviews with forty-two late-diagnosed autistic adults. The median age of diagnosis in her sample was fifty-one. And she identified this pattern she calls "narrative reconstruction" — people systematically go back through their entire life and re-interpret everything.
It's not just "oh, that explains it" and moving on. It's a full re-write of your own story.
Every memory gets re-examined. The time you got fired for "not being a team player" — you'd always thought that was a moral failure on your part, you were selfish or aloof. Now you realize you were missing social cues that nobody ever explicitly taught you, and your direct communication style was being read as hostility. The failed marriage where you "couldn't connect emotionally" — turns out you experience and express emotion differently, and your partner was reading you through a neurotypical lens.
That's the part that gets me. You spend decades carrying this narrative that you're somehow deficient, and the deficiency has a name — lazy, cold, weird, difficult — and then one day a professional says "actually, your brain is just wired differently, here's how." The relief has to be enormous.
It is, and that relief is the most commonly reported initial response. There's a phrase that shows up over and over in these personal accounts — "I'm not broken." Just those three words. People cry when they say it. The Hampton study found that something like seventy-eight percent of participants used some variation of "not broken" or "not defective" within the first five minutes of their interview.
Then comes the anger, right? Because if it was this clear once someone finally looked, why did nobody look for fifty years?
That's the grief side, and it's often directed at the medical system, at schools, sometimes at parents. There's a really poignant quote from a woman in that study — she was diagnosed at fifty-eight — she said "I went to twelve different therapists over thirty years. Not one of them suggested autism. They diagnosed me with depression, anxiety, borderline personality disorder, bipolar disorder. They gave me medications that didn't work. And the whole time, the actual answer was sitting there, and they missed it because I could make eye contact and I had a job.
Right, because the diagnostic criteria were built around how autism presents in young boys. The stereotypical image.
And that's a huge part of why we're seeing this wave of late diagnoses now. The diagnostic criteria have expanded, the understanding of how autism presents in women and girls has improved dramatically, and the concept of masking — this is the term for when autistic people consciously or unconsciously hide their autistic traits to fit in — that concept has entered both clinical practice and public awareness. The DSM-5 revision in 2013 was a big turning point, but honestly the cultural shift has been even bigger.
Let's talk about masking for a minute, because I think that's the mechanism that makes late diagnosis possible in the first place. If you can pass, nobody flags you.
The cost of passing is enormous. There's a 2023 study from the University of Cambridge that looked at the long-term health outcomes of autistic adults who scored high on masking measures. Higher rates of anxiety disorders, depression, chronic fatigue, autoimmune conditions, and — this one stopped me cold — a significantly elevated risk of suicidal ideation compared to autistic adults who scored lower on masking. We're talking about a lifetime of performing normalcy at the expense of your own health.
When the diagnosis comes at fifty-seven, you're not just learning something new. You're also being told that the performance you've been exhausted by your whole life actually had a reason, and you can maybe stop.
That's where the practical life changes start. It's not just a psychological reframe. People start making concrete adjustments. They buy noise-canceling headphones and stop feeling guilty about using them. They give themselves permission to leave social events early. They stop forcing eye contact that makes them uncomfortable. They advocate for workplace accommodations — quieter workspaces, written instructions instead of verbal ones, flexible hours. Little things that add up to a massively reduced daily cognitive load.
I also wonder about relationships. If you get diagnosed at fifty-seven, you've probably been married for a while, you've got adult kids, you've got friendships that have been running for decades. What happens to those when you suddenly have a new framework for understanding yourself?
It's complicated, and the research on this is still emerging. Some relationships improve dramatically — the partner finally has an explanation for behaviors that frustrated them for years, and both people can approach the dynamic with more understanding and less blame. There's a really moving account from a couple in their sixties, the husband diagnosed at sixty-four after forty-one years of marriage, and the wife said "I spent four decades thinking he didn't care about my feelings. Now I understand he cares deeply, he just doesn't read them from my face the way I assumed everyone did. So now I tell him directly, and he responds beautifully.
That's actually lovely.
There are also relationships that don't survive it. Some partners resist the diagnosis, dismiss it as a trend or an excuse. Some adult children feel resentment — they grew up with a parent who seemed emotionally unavailable or rigid, and now that parent is saying "it was autism," and the kid, who's now forty, thinks "that doesn't undo my childhood.
You know, fair enough. An explanation isn't an apology, and it's not a time machine.
And the late-diagnosed person has to navigate that. The diagnosis explains behavior; it doesn't erase its impact on others. That's one of the more mature conversations happening in the adult autism community right now — how to hold both truths. Yes, you were struggling in ways nobody recognized. And yes, your struggles affected people. Both things are real.
Let's pivot to ADHD for a second, because Daniel specifically mentioned both. Is the late-diagnosis experience similar, or are there differences?
There's a lot of overlap, but also some distinct features. With ADHD, the late diagnosis often comes after a lifetime of being called lazy, unmotivated, scattered, an underachiever. The moral framing is slightly different — autism gets coded as "weird" or "cold," ADHD gets coded as "lazy" or "irresponsible." And the ADHD diagnosis rate in adults has absolutely exploded. The CDC reported that prescriptions for ADHD medications for adults increased by something like thirty-two percent between 2020 and 2025 alone.
The pandemic probably accelerated that, right? Everyone's routines collapsed, all the external scaffolding that people had unconsciously built to manage their ADHD symptoms suddenly vanished.
That's exactly what happened. When you're going to an office every day, you have structure imposed on you. Deadlines, meetings, a boss checking in. When all of that went away, people who had been barely holding it together suddenly couldn't function. And a lot of them went looking for answers. There's a psychiatrist at NYU, Dr. Lenard Adler, who runs an adult ADHD clinic — he said their waitlist went from three months to eighteen months during the pandemic and never really came back down.
The medication piece is different from autism, too. With autism, there's no pharmaceutical treatment for the core condition. With ADHD, there are stimulants that are effective for most people. So the late ADHD diagnosis often comes with this very tangible "try this pill and see what happens" moment.
For a lot of people, that moment is revelatory. There's a commonly cited anecdote — and I've seen it in enough separate accounts that I believe it's representative — of someone taking their first dose of ADHD medication and then sitting down and doing their taxes in one sitting, or cleaning their entire house, and then crying because they didn't know it was possible to just... Without the internal battle.
I've heard versions of that. The "wait, is this how other people's brains work all the time?
Here's the caution — and this is where I think some of the social media discourse gets ahead of the evidence. Medication isn't magic, and the initial dramatic response often normalizes over time. The real work of late ADHD diagnosis is rebuilding your entire approach to productivity and self-management. The meds lower the barrier, but you still have decades of maladaptive coping strategies and negative self-beliefs to untangle.
There's also the question of, what does it mean that we're seeing so many late diagnoses all at once? Is this just better awareness, or is something else going on? Because I've heard the skeptical take — "everyone's autistic now, it's trendy, it's overdiagnosis.
I think the "it's trendy" take is mostly bad faith, but the question of whether we're overdiagnosing is worth engaging with seriously. The evidence, at least for now, points mostly toward underdiagnosis being corrected rather than overdiagnosis taking hold. The adult diagnosis rate, even with the recent surge, is still well below what epidemiological studies suggest the actual prevalence should be. If you look at the best population studies — the ones that screen everyone, not just people who seek diagnosis — the estimated prevalence of autism in adults is around two to two-point-five percent. But the diagnosed rate in the over-fifty population is still well under one percent.
Even with the four hundred percent increase you mentioned, we're still not at the level the epidemiology says we should be.
We're playing catch-up, not overshooting. And that's true for ADHD too — the best estimates suggest about four to five percent of adults have ADHD, but the diagnosed and treated rate is lower, though it's catching up faster because the pharmaceutical incentive exists.
Let me push on something though. If the diagnostic criteria keep expanding, and the definition keeps broadening, at some point aren't we just pathologizing normal human variation? There's a line somewhere between "this person's brain works differently" and "this is a clinical condition requiring diagnosis.
That's the central tension in psychiatry generally, and it's not unique to autism or ADHD. Where do you draw the line between personality and pathology? The DSM's answer, for what it's worth, is impairment. It's not a diagnosis unless it causes clinically significant impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning. If you have autistic traits but you're thriving — happy relationships, satisfying work, no distress — you don't meet criteria.
Impairment is subjective, isn't it? The same trait that's impairing in one environment might be neutral or even advantageous in another.
And that's why the clinical interview matters. A good diagnostician isn't just checking boxes on a symptom list; they're assessing whether the person's life is actually being negatively affected. But here's the counterpoint — a lot of late-diagnosed adults have been experiencing impairment their whole lives. They just didn't have a name for it. They've been fired repeatedly, they've struggled with relationships, they've had anxiety and depression that didn't respond to treatment. The impairment was always there. The diagnosis just finally explains it.
That's a good distinction. The diagnosis didn't create the struggle; it named it.
Naming it matters for practical reasons. Insurance coverage for therapy, workplace accommodations under the ADA, access to support services — all of that requires a diagnosis. So even if you're philosophically skeptical about diagnostic expansion, the pragmatic case is strong.
Let's talk about the workplace specifically. Getting diagnosed at fifty-seven, you're probably near the end of your career, or at least in the later stages. Does the diagnosis change anything practically at that point, or is it more about making sense of what already happened?
It's both, but the retrospective piece is larger for people near retirement. I read a really affecting account from a man diagnosed at sixty-one who had been a mid-level manager at a manufacturing company for thirty years. He said he spent his entire career being passed over for promotions, being told he "didn't have leadership presence," watching less experienced people get ahead. He internalized that as personal failure. After the diagnosis, he re-framed it — he wasn't failing at office politics; he was operating with a different social operating system in an environment that only rewarded one type.
That reframing probably doesn't get him the promotions back, but it might get him some peace.
And for people diagnosed earlier in their careers — say, in their thirties or forties — the practical implications are bigger. They can request accommodations, choose roles that play to their strengths, be more strategic about their career path. There's a growing body of employers, especially in tech, who are actively recruiting neurodivergent workers. Microsoft, SAP, JPMorgan — they all have neurodiversity hiring programs now. The recognition is that certain autistic traits — pattern recognition, sustained focus, honesty, logical thinking — are genuine assets in the right role.
Though I'm always a little wary of the "autism as superpower" framing. It can flip too far in the other direction, where suddenly you're expected to be a savant.
That's a real problem. The majority of autistic people don't have savant skills. They're just regular people with a particular cognitive profile that has strengths and weaknesses, like anyone. The superpower narrative can create a new kind of pressure — if you're not a genius programmer or a human calendar, are you failing at being autistic correctly?
Which is absurd, but I can see how it happens. The pendulum swings from "autism is tragedy" to "autism is superpower" and the messy reality in the middle gets lost.
The messy reality is where most people live. And for the late-diagnosed, there's often a period of what researchers call "autistic burnout" that follows diagnosis. You spend decades masking, pushing through, compensating. Then you get the diagnosis, you give yourself permission to stop masking so hard, and suddenly you crash. The exhaustion you've been holding at bay for forty years catches up with you.
The diagnosis itself can trigger a difficult period, even though it's ultimately positive.
Yes, and clinicians who work with late-diagnosed adults are increasingly aware of this pattern. The advice now is to take it slow after diagnosis. Don't try to re-process your entire life in a month. Don't make major life changes immediately. Let the new understanding settle gradually.
I want to circle back to something you mentioned earlier — the role of social media in all this. Because it seems like platforms like TikTok and Instagram have been huge drivers of awareness. People share their diagnosis stories, they describe their symptoms, and viewers recognize themselves.
It's been a massive accelerant, and it's a double-edged sword. On the positive side, social media has democratized information about autism and ADHD in a way that the medical system never did. People who would never have thought to seek an assessment are seeing content that resonates, and they're pursuing diagnosis. That's good — those are people who were struggling and now have a path to understanding.
The negative side?
The quality of information is wildly variable. For every creator who says "here are some traits that might be worth discussing with a professional," there are ten who say "if you do these five things, you're definitely autistic." The symptom lists get oversimplified, the nuance gets lost, and self-diagnosis becomes a cultural phenomenon that sometimes outpaces clinical validation.
I've seen the "if you hate the feeling of wet socks, you might be neurodivergent" kind of content. And sure, sensory sensitivity is real, but hating wet socks is also just...
Almost everyone hates wet socks. That's not a diagnostic criterion. But the algorithm rewards engagement, and the more universally relatable the "symptom," the more people comment "wait, that's not normal?" And suddenly normal human experiences are being coded as neurodivergence.
How much of a problem is that, actually? Is it leading to misdiagnosis?
The data on that is still emerging, but there's concern in the clinical community. A 2025 survey of neuropsychologists found that something like sixty percent reported an increase in patients seeking autism assessments based primarily on social media content. And about a third of those clinicians said they were seeing patients who clearly didn't meet criteria but were convinced they were autistic because of TikTok.
That's a real tension. You don't want to dismiss people's self-knowledge, but you also don't want the diagnostic process to become a rubber stamp for whatever someone saw online.
The waiting lists for formal assessment are now so long — in some places, two to three years for an adult autism assessment — that people are understandably frustrated. They've done their research, they're convinced, and they're being told to wait years for a professional to confirm what they already believe. It's a system under strain.
The waiting list problem probably also means that the people who actually get the formal diagnosis are the ones with the resources to navigate the system or pay privately. Which has equity implications.
Late diagnosis is disproportionately happening among people with good insurance, higher education, and the cultural capital to advocate for themselves. The sixty-three-year-old woman in The Guardian piece I mentioned — she was a retired teacher with a master's degree. She knew how to research, how to push for referrals, how to articulate her experience in clinical language. Someone without those advantages might never get past a primary care doctor who says "you can't be autistic, you make eye contact.
Which is still a thing doctors say, apparently.
It's still a thing. The diagnostic training for autism in adults is patchy at best. Most medical schools still teach autism as a childhood condition. The average primary care physician gets maybe a few hours of training on adult neurodevelopmental conditions total. So you've got a wave of adults seeking diagnosis, and a medical workforce that's largely unprepared to evaluate them.
Let's shift slightly and talk about the family dynamics piece, because I think this is where late diagnosis gets really complex. You mentioned resentment from adult children earlier, and I want to dig into that. If you're diagnosed at fifty-seven, your kids are probably in their twenties or thirties. What does it do to that relationship when you say "I've discovered I'm autistic" or "I have ADHD"?
It varies enormously, but there are some patterns in the research. One is that the diagnosis can actually improve parent-child relationships, especially if the children are old enough to understand the implications. The parent becomes more self-aware, more able to articulate their needs and limitations, more willing to apologize for past difficulties without making excuses. The relationship becomes more honest.
The other pattern?
The other pattern is harder. Some adult children feel that the diagnosis is being used as a shield. "I wasn't a distant parent, I was autistic" — that can feel like an evasion of responsibility. Especially if the parent doesn't accompany the explanation with genuine accountability for specific harms. There's a difference between saying "my autism made it hard for me to express affection in the way you needed" and saying "you can't be upset about my parenting because I'm autistic.
That's a crucial distinction. The first one owns the impact while explaining the cause. The second one dismisses the impact entirely.
The adult children who've lived with the impact for decades can tell the difference. They're often willing to extend grace if they feel the parent is reckoning with the past, not just rebranding it.
What about spouses? You mentioned the couple where things improved after forty-one years. Is that typical?
It's common enough that there's now a whole subgenre of marriage counseling focused on late neurodivergent diagnosis. The typical pattern is that the non-diagnosed spouse has spent years feeling confused, frustrated, or hurt by behaviors they interpreted as intentional. The autistic partner seemed cold, or the ADHD partner seemed irresponsible, and the non-diagnosed spouse took it personally.
The diagnosis depersonalizes it.
"You're not ignoring my feelings because you don't care; you're not registering my feelings because your brain doesn't automatically read facial expressions." That reframe can be transformative. But it also requires the non-diagnosed spouse to do their own emotional work — to grieve the relationship they thought they had, to adjust their expectations, to learn new communication strategies. Not everyone wants to do that work.
I imagine some spouses feel like the diagnosis changes the terms of the marriage. They signed up for one thing, and now they're being told it's something else.
That's a fair way to put it. And some marriages don't survive that renegotiation. The divorce rate among couples where one partner receives a late autism diagnosis is higher than average, at least in the few studies that have looked at it. But the marriages that do survive often report being stronger than before, because both people finally understand what's actually happening between them.
Let's talk about ADHD and parenting from the other direction. If you get diagnosed with ADHD at fifty or sixty, you've already raised your kids. How do people process that?
With a lot of regret, often. The late-diagnosed ADHD parent looks back and sees all the times they were impatient, disorganized, inconsistent — not because they were a bad parent, but because their executive function was impaired in ways they didn't understand. They forgot parent-teacher conferences, they lost their temper because they were overstimulated, they couldn't maintain routines. And at the time, they just thought they were failing.
That's a heavy thing to carry.
But there's also a positive angle that doesn't get discussed as much. Some late-diagnosed ADHD adults realize that their spontaneity, their creativity, their ability to be playful and in-the-moment — these were actually gifts to their children. The chaos had a cost, but the energy and flexibility had value too. The diagnosis helps them hold both.
I want to ask about the role of grief more directly. You mentioned it earlier, but I think it deserves more attention. What exactly are people grieving when they get a late diagnosis?
They're grieving the life they might have had if they'd known earlier — the educational supports, the career choices, the relationships that might have gone differently. They're grieving the decades of self-blame. They're grieving the person they tried so hard to be and couldn't become. And sometimes they're grieving a version of their future that now looks different — the retirement they planned, the way they thought their relationships would evolve.
That's a lot of loss to process all at once.
The processing often happens without much support. The mental health system is built around treating conditions like depression and anxiety, not around helping people integrate a new identity in their fifties or sixties. There are very few therapists who specialize in late neurodivergent diagnosis. So people end up doing this work in online communities, in support groups, with peers who are going through the same thing.
Which brings us back to social media, in a more positive light. Those communities are actually doing something the clinical system isn't.
They absolutely are. The Adult Autism subreddit, for instance, has something like two hundred thousand members, and the late-diagnosis threads are some of the most active. People share resources, validate each other's experiences, recommend diagnosticians who actually understand adult presentation. It's peer support at scale, and for a lot of people, it's the only support available.
I'm curious about the identity piece. If you've spent fifty-seven years thinking of yourself as, say, an introvert who's bad at parties and has weird hobbies, and then you get told you're autistic — does that change your identity, or does it just give you new language for the identity you already had?
That's one of the most interesting questions in the research, and the answer seems to depend on the person. For some, the diagnosis is just new language — "I always knew I was different; now I know the name for the difference." For others, it's a more fundamental shift — "I thought I was a failed neurotypical; now I understand I'm a successful autistic person." The frame shifts from deficit to difference.
The "failed neurotypical" phrasing is powerful. I think that captures something real.
It comes up constantly in the first-person accounts. People say things like "I spent my whole life trying to be normal and failing. Now I'm learning to be autistic and succeeding." The effort that went into masking gets redirected into self-understanding and self-accommodation.
Let's get practical for a minute. If someone listening is in their fifties or sixties and wondering if they might be autistic or have ADHD, what should they actually do?
First step is usually self-assessment tools, but with the caveat that these are screening instruments, not diagnostic tools. The Autism Spectrum Quotient, the RAADS-R, the Adult ADHD Self-Report Scale — these are available online, they're free, and they can give you a sense of whether pursuing formal assessment is worthwhile. But they're not definitive. A high score doesn't mean you're autistic; it means you should talk to someone who can evaluate properly.
Then finding that someone is the hard part.
It's difficult. The best route is usually through a neuropsychologist or a psychiatrist who specializes in adult neurodevelopmental conditions. But those specialists are rare, and their waiting lists are long. Some people go through their primary care physician for a referral, but as we discussed, primary care doctors often aren't well-trained in adult presentation. You might need to advocate for yourself pretty firmly.
What about cost? I assume this isn't cheap.
A comprehensive adult autism assessment in the US typically runs between fifteen hundred and five thousand dollars, and insurance coverage is inconsistent. Some plans cover it, many don't. ADHD assessment is usually somewhat less expensive and more likely to be covered, partly because there's a medication pathway that makes it feel more "medical" to insurers. But it's still a significant expense for a lot of people.
We're back to the equity problem. The people getting diagnosed are the ones who can afford it.
Yes, and that's a real limitation of the current system. The late-diagnosis wave we're seeing is disproportionately white, educated, and middle-class or above. That doesn't mean autism and ADHD are less prevalent in other populations — it means those populations have less access to diagnosis.
One last area I want to cover — the workplace accommodations piece for late-diagnosed ADHD specifically. You mentioned accommodations for autism earlier, but ADHD has its own set.
They're often simpler than people expect. For ADHD, the most effective accommodations tend to be things like written agendas for meetings, flexibility in work hours, a quiet workspace or noise-canceling headphones, breaking large projects into smaller deadlines, and — this one is huge — reducing the expectation of immediate email responses. The constant interruption of notifications is particularly disruptive for the ADHD brain.
I'd think body doubling would be on that list too. That thing where you work better when someone else is in the room, even if they're not collaborating.
Body doubling is a big one, and it's increasingly recognized as a legitimate accommodation. Some companies are setting up "focus rooms" where people can work alongside others without interacting. It's not just for ADHD — a lot of people find it helpful — but for the ADHD brain, the presence of another person provides just enough external structure to overcome the initiation barrier.
The initiation barrier. That's the thing where you're sitting there knowing you need to start something and you just...
It's one of the most disabling aspects of ADHD and one of the hardest to explain to people who don't experience it. It's not laziness. You want to start. You're sitting there screaming at yourself internally to start. And the motor just doesn't turn over. Medication helps a lot of people with this, but behavioral strategies matter too.
If you've spent fifty years being told you're lazy because of this, the diagnosis is a pretty profound reframe.
"I'm not lazy, I have a dopamine regulation disorder" — it doesn't roll off the tongue, but it's a lot more accurate.
We should probably address the question Daniel is really asking, which isn't about the clinical details. It's about what it means for a life to be reshaped that late. Is it a good thing, overall? Is the diagnosis at fifty-seven a gift or a burden?
The overwhelming consensus in the research and the first-person accounts is that it's a net positive, even with all the grief and complexity. People consistently say they would rather know than not know. The understanding, the community, the self-compassion, the practical strategies — they add up to a better life, even if the diagnosis comes decades later than it ideally should have.
I think there's something profound about that. It suggests that self-knowledge has value regardless of when you acquire it. It's never too late to understand yourself better.
For the people around you, it's never too late to receive that understanding. The sixty-four-year-old husband whose wife finally understood he wasn't cold — they got four good years after the diagnosis before he passed away. She said those were the best years of their marriage. Four years out of forty-one, and she said they were worth the wait.
That's a good place to land, I think. The diagnosis doesn't give you back the lost decades, but it can give you whatever time remains, lived more honestly.
Now, Hilbert's daily fun fact.
Hilbert: The bright orange pigment in the nudibranch Goniobranchus splendidus, found in the waters around Mauritius, is a unique porphyrin-based compound that the sea slug extracts and concentrates from its sponge prey, but then chemically modifies to be twice as toxic to predators as the original sponge compound.
...right. A sea slug that upgrades its own chemical weapons. Thanks, Hilbert.
This has been My Weird Prompts, with thanks as always to our producer Hilbert Flumingtop. If you enjoyed this episode, we'd love a review wherever you listen. Find more at myweirdprompts dot com. I'm Herman Poppleberry.
I'm Corn. See you next time.
