Hair Trigger

I've mentioned before that I'm one of the few people who actively prefers going to the dentist than the barber's.  The reasons are varied, but they basically boil down to: getting my hair cut is a series of multiple micro-aggressions.  There's the constant hair-pulling, the moisture, the electric cord touching, the vibration of the razor, no glasses, no communication, and the cut hair gets everywhere, no matter how much I try to prevent it, even going so far as to clench my shirt up.  And it itches like mad until I shower up, which I'm reluctant to do.

Compared to that, the occasional stabbing pains from inside my teeth is pleasant in comparison.

However, even compensating for that, some people may still view going to the dentist a traumatic experience they'd rather soon forget.  Therefore, I've developed some little tricks to make your dental visit a more pleasant one:

1. Wear sunglasses to protect against the glare on your eyes.
2. Have a heavy book to press against your stomach.
3. Close your mouth when the dentist isn't looking inside your mouth.
4. Wear a shirt with a collar to protect against the cold chain of the protective bib.
5. If possible, have music to drown out the buzzing noise.  (I'm deaf, so this doesn't really affect me)

What brought this up was seeing this image on Tumblr.  It hurts just to look at it.  It's on par with the kid with butterfly wings and the caption, “Parents, don't be your child's first bully.”  It hurts, but for a different reason.

“art by @BottlngSunshine

Is it about butchering Black girls’ hair to keep white people comfortable? Is it about a woman visiting the same violence on her daughter as was done to her by her mother a generation prior? Is this girl just too… “different” to go into the world unaltered? Does she need to be toned down so she can succeed? Does she need to be defenseless before she is deemed safe by powerful people who would do her harm if given half a reason? Is one of those people holding those scissors?”

And the hashtag:

#ART BY OP #POSSIBLY VERY TRIGGERING #IT IS FOR ME #MY MOM USED MY HAIR TO CONTROL ME #EVEN INTO MY LATE TEENS #I RARELY GO TO THE HAIRDRESSER #AND IT'S A TRIAL EVERY TIME #BECAUSE EVEN THOUGH I AM (THEORETICALLY) IN CONTROL NOW #THERE'S STILL SO MANY NEGATIVE FEELINGS #ASSOCIATED WITH HAVING MY HAIR CUT VIA TEEJAY-KAYE

SOURCE ODE-ON-A-GRECIAN-BUTT

I also enjoyed seeing the mirror showing what was going on in my mouth, and missed that visual stimulus when they no longer used it.  The main thing that prevented me from panicking (apart from knowing what was going on) was the annual appointment where I would have to wear a weighed vest for the dental x-rays. 

In grade school, I was ferried about not by Bus, but by taxi.  And during these trips, I would invite anybody to rest their schoolbags on my lap.  Which they willingly did.  It must have been a sight, me being buried underneath these heavy loads, but I couldn't be happier.  And I carried that same sentiment when I could not longer go via Volkswagen and had to take public transportation to high school.

To compensate for the loss, I started carrying my heavy backpack on my lap, both to and from school.  I found it easier to lug these school books around than keep them in my locker, which had an easily bypassable lock, and apart from my school stuff, never kept any valuables inside.

I used to end the school days by racing out the door the instant the bell rang in a mad dash to catch the early bus before it left, which would usually come around the exact same minute, around when the light would be turning red.  Otherwise, I’d be crammed in with dozens of other students all waiting for the same ride.  And being around rowdy teenagers with little impulse control was an assault on my senses, which only further heightened my anxiety.

It was always a challenge to find a seat, since they would be quickly filled up.  It wasn’t unusual for me arriving home to enter the doorway screaming, wanting nothing more than to vent the frustrations of the day.  I saw no reason to stay behind and engage in after-school activities.  I'd already endured the trials of having to get through a whole day.  Why would I want to prolong that experience any longer?

I never really wanted to grow up and face the responsibilities that being an adult entailed.  Getting facial hair was the closest thing to experiencing dysphoria in the same way that some women dislike having breasts.  I could no longer rub my hands over my smooth face.  It was that experience (and preferring the company of women to men) that led me to wonder if I might be Trans.  I wouldn’t mind being androgynous, but I never actively sought ways to permanently remove my facial hair.  I was worried about having to face too much pain.  I was afraid of shaving out of fear of cutting myself, and having a bad experience with shaving cream getting in my mouth as a kid.  I spent my high school and college years trimming my facial hair with scissors, hacking away until it was slightly shorter.  I didn’t even like calling my facial hair a beard, since I’d have to acknowledge that I was growing up, and I didn’t want to.

Even handling an electric razor years later was an uphill struggle, since the vibration made me uneasy.  Constant reassurances that the razor wouldn’t break my skin didn’t assuage my anxiety.

I got easily upset in work environments where the desk layout were radically different from mine, where the keyboards were precariously placed on flimsy plastic sliding woodframes that could fall apart from the slightest applied pressure.  I needed constant stability world where there was none, and the world wasn’t willing to accommodate those needs.

For a long time, I thought that unlike other Autistics, I didn’t have any visible stims such as waving my hands in public.  (I tend to do that when handling hot plates or in the privacy of the bathroom in order to dry my hands faster, which never get sufficiently dry enough even after applying a towel)  It was only recently that it occurred to me that my persistent need of wanting to sit near the table - constantly pressing my stomach against the edge of the table and wanting to lie down on the floor - THAT was my stim.

It’s why I got so upset when my parents got a dog for my sibling.  They got it as a gift and thought I would warm up to it.  But I never did.  I saw it as an usurper of my floor space, constantly giving me unwanted attention when I didn’t need it.  I didn’t like the idea of having to spend time with something that would never increase in intellect, remaining a perpetual child.

By the time my objections were made, it was already too late to give it away.  I spent my formative years in abject terror of having something unpleasant greet me whenever I came home, a constant reminder of a bad experience of dogs biting me while collecting payment for my newspaper route.  And it was a Yorkshire Terrier, a small animal that wouldn’t shed, giving an allergic reaction.  There was just something about those eternally black dilated eyes that unsettled me, much like how comic snobs look down on Manga characters with glinty expressive eyes.

(Of course back then, I was also cautiously nervous of Anime characters, because their eyes conveyed too much emotion.)

My thoughts which were once optimistic increasingly turned to darker areas not before traversed.  I devised several ways in trying to get rid of the animal.  I deliberately left the gate open so it’d run away.  I had it gorge itself on kibble, threatening to burst its stomach.  That got me a lecture, asking me to think about what it’d be like to imagine what it’d be like to induce vomiting / having my stomach forcibly pumped, to which I replied I’d gladly endure such pains if it meant getting rid of the creature.  Once, while my family was going away on vacation and the dog was being taken care of by someone else, on our day of departure, I fed it some rat poison I’d found lying in the school floors.  I assumed that it would die, far away from any assumed blame.  So when I returned and saw it was very much alive, I felt like I was in the presence of a demon.

Back then, I engaged in shoplifting, because I felt I deserved to be punished.  I had the feeling that I was a danger, since my thoughts and feelings were so out of tune compared to everybody else, and needed to be stopped before it was too late.  Upon being caught (I didn’t try to hide my theft very well), the mall cop asked if I liked boys.  This was a confusing question for me to answer, since while I’d looked at plenty of straight and lesbian Hentai, I’d also experimented and branched out on Yaoi, finding the feminine boys to be cute.  But actual human people?  No, I didn’t.  

Looking back, I'm left wondering if that's the kind of thing law enforcement is supposed to ask.

When my mother found out after I’d basically confessed to doing shoplifting, she had me go back to the stores I’d shoplifted from and personally pay for the items I’d filched and issue a public apology to the managers.  While this was a suitable punishment fitting the crime, I still didn’t feel this was punishment enough for me.  After all, I was still free to do whatever damage I was capable of.

It was a mystery as to why I was so sensitive to these minuscule details that didn’t seem to bother anybody else.  I made complaints about not wanting to be touched by fur that would have uncomfortable sensations.  I was given patches of varying fur samples to try to desensitize myself, but I didn’t like having to overthink these things.  I wanted to have these tasks done automatically and not have to focus on breathing, which I always did to excessive extremes, wanting to get the breathing in and out over with.  I wanted instant relaxation, and breathing simply wasn’t doing it.  Everybody put my actions down to hormones and teenage rebellion.

And then, my psychologist found the description for Asperger’s while looking for another client, and thought that the symptoms sounded a lot like me.  A test of 10 questions consisting of theoretical scenarios was devised to determine my reactions, choosing from multiple choices, and my answers were textbook responses.  My symptoms weren't easily noticeable, since I tended to look people in the mouth when they talked, and they never noticed.  I had an oral interpreter intervene on my behalf to clearly explain things for me.  I'd basically fallen through the cracks in the system for a long time before somebody finally noticed.

After that, my parents who’d been frustrated with my behavior finally had an explanation and better understanding of my thought process, and sought ways to accommodate my needs.  They couldn’t get rid of the dog entirely, but ways were devised to make the continued living experience not as unpleasant.  I compensated by having a raised cushion to block the dog’s resting spot away from my peripheral eyes while watching TV.

So when the dog finally passed away from old age, I wasn’t sure how to react.  I’d lived in abject fear and hatred, constantly pounding my foot to the floor to scare it away.  Every time I opened the door, it would greet me, and remind me of its presence.  All I wanted was to be left alone, and it never learned that much.

Ironically enough, if we’d gotten a cat, I probably wouldn’t have been bothered as much.  I didn’t want constant blind affection.  I wanted subjective affection, but only on my own terms.  My personality would be more on par with a cat’s being more introverted than extroverted.  And yet, my sibling would wind up owning several cats, while I wound up with none.

I was perfectly willing to let myself stay miserable rather than ever let myself admit that I could ever find welcome company with a dog.  It’s why I greatly empathize with women who’ve been assaulted and have to face their attackers at work/school/home who’ve gotten off scot-free.

Obituary: Joe Matt, and Self-Pitying Horny Comic Biographies

Just recently, Joe Matt died of a heart attack, found slumped at his drawing board.  Fittingly, this was something that was penned by Chester Brown of the triumvirate of the Toronto Three, Seth and Chester Brown, two Canadian Cartoonists who were close friends, though you’d never know it from how often they were portrayed complaining about his complaining.

The sad part is that due to Joe Matt's cheapness, he would put off his health, refusing to go to a hospital which would cost him money, which likely heightened his possibilities of dying sooner.

Coincidentally, I was thinking about the caricatured portrayal of comic biographies and how they tended to have a negative outlook.  The general image of a comic autobiography is to have a nebbish protagonist constantly narrate inner insecurities about life all while remaining indecisive about girls, exemplified by Robert Crumb who took his fears and fetishes onto the comic page.  A trait inspired and endlessly plagiarized by countless imitator cartoonists who no doubt greatly identified with this self-loathing portrayal.

I had these thoughts during the comic I was reading, Fun by Paolo Bacilieri, about the history of crosswords started out fairly interesting, then it segued to a cartoonist who exhibited the kind of nerdish fascination and narrative sensibilities, seeking reconciliation from an ex-girlfriend abroad.  Even though there are much better and varied comic biographies out there, that’s the general image that tends to stick in people’s consciousness.  The genre is still tainted by the prospect of Woody Allen-like main characters.

As such, Joe Matt’s comics about his issues tend to be rather repetitive, constantly complaining about being alone, seeking impossible feminine ideals that Seth described as ‘being caught on a treadmill’.

The thing was, as much as these comics might have had a certain appeal towards a certain segment of the comics market, I never really had these moments of introspection in narrative detail, being more concerned with getting through the day.  My thoughts would likely only come into being after I put some thought to it.

As casually interesting as these comics were, I never really identified with them, since they indulged in extraneous inner turmoil in excessive verbiage and constant pining for unrequited lusts, something I had no real desire for, since it would mean having to open myself up, an ordeal further exacerbated by my social anxiety in talking to complete strangers who I’d have to inform that I was deaf, needed them to face me, emphasize key words, and making sure they understood English; a process that would have to be repeated ad nauseam with every new person.  Not to mention that I was more comfortable being alone anyways.

For a time, I had a brief online relationship with a female German comic blogger, correcting her translation of a comic, and the two of us enjoyed a rapport.  Eventually, it led to video conversations, with the helpful option of writing notes by the side, clarifying details that I would’ve missed.

She helped me with doing the basic translations for the first 2 volumes of Red Ketchup, and I did the rewriting and scanlation edits myself.  We continued our relationship past simple translations by sharing books, something I was reluctant to do, but she shipped her English versions of Walter Moers’ titles, The 13½ Lives of Captain Bluebear, Rumo and The City of Dreaming Books over with no hesitation.  In return, I recommended the comic series, Finder by Carla Speed McNeil.  It might’ve been a little too ambitious for her taste, since she said she wasn’t too crazy about it.  I wasn’t that crazy about Bluebear, so it was fair.  (She enjoyed my recommendation of the early writings of Gordon Kormon though)

Then one day, she said that she would be moving to my country, just one province over in Kitchener, and offered the option to come over to my house.  I was enthusiastic for the possibility of having a physical friend over, someone I had several things in common.  I even pointed out the possibility that she might’ve had Autism, since she certainly matched some of the symptoms exactly.  She had Prosopagnosia (facial blindness), and mentioned having a kind of synesthesia where she ‘heard’ voices in colour, and she said mine was orange, her favorite colour.

I took her sightseeing, showing her my favorite places to find comics and second-hand books, but then I fell sick, and had to lie low for a day while my Mother took her to an Oral training seminar teaching deaf students on how to lipread.  Before she left, I handed over some Neal Shusterman books (the Dark Fusion trilogy of Fairy Tale retellings, Duckling Ugly being the best among them)

The last time I heard from her, she said she was getting married to someone living in Toronto.  I didn’t fall into a screaming fit of outrage.  I just simply accepted this news the same way one would getting an evening weather report.

Upon reflection, I realized that other than giving advice on grammar and toning up her vocabulary to sound more natural, I basically had nothing to offer her.  I had no basic survival skills, couldn’t manage a full-time job, didn’t even have the courage to travel across province to where she lived.  It's also possible that our tastes weren't compatible.

I was always worried about the possibility that I would be alone.  But ever since I self-diagnosed myself as being Asexual, I now KNOW that I’ll be alone, and am fine with it.  I don’t have to share my bed with somebody and worry about my personal space being invaded.

What really hurt was that after she got married, we were no longer in communication with each other.  I still would’ve liked to remain friends after all we’d done together.  She still has my Neal Shusterman books.

How Embarrassing...?

One of the first writing assignments I was ever given in High School was to write about my most embarrassing moment.  I just wrote down something along the likes of, “Having to write this stupid infantile meaningless (etc.)... essay.”  It was a litany of double-spaced synonyms stretching down the page, and after handing it in, I was told to redo it properly.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to write up something personally embarrassing to me.  It was that I couldn’t remember one.  To me, being unable to think up anything was embarrassing in itself.

I couldn’t remember anything that could be considered embarrassing, so I made something up that could be considered embarrassing to other people. That essay was accepted and praised for being more honest.  But I can’t recall a word I wrote.

I’ve never been accustomed to feeling embarrassed.  Being self-conscious about being seen doing something in public, sure.  Being uncomfortable about reading / watching something that makes me emotionally insecure, sure.  But, not typical things that would normally embarrass other people.  I didn’t mind when my Mom showed up at school to give presentations and help out.  She was looking out and supporting me.

As a kid, I would be late for when the school bus came to pick me up, being more preoccupied with the TV.  At first, Mom had me go to school in my pyjamas, *certain* that the shame would shake me out of my complacency.  It didn’t.

I only changed my habits when I went to school without having lunch prepared, and then wasn’t allowed to have any food.  The teachers had been warned beforehand, and were told not to share their lunches with me, no matter how much I complained, even as they agonized over my reactions, but my Mom said it was necessary.  When I came home that day, I was practically starving, and my Mom said something along the likes of, “If you had been prepared before the bus came, you would’ve had lunch.”

Since then, I’ve always made it a point to be on time for anything.

It might’ve seemed borderline abusive at the time, but she was just applying Logical Consequences, which are different from Natural Consequences, where a child learns things after making silly mistakes and figuring things out, which is pretty much the mainstay of children’s TV episodes.  Once the child realizes that certain actions result in certain consequences, they’ll be better prepared to avoid doing that again.  But other times, there are moments when simply learning the lesson afterwards doesn’t work, or won’t stick without outside intervention. 

My main problem was that I never learned these potentially reputation-saving lessons until long after the fact.

When most other students would have been embarrassed at the concept of sex ed, I just engaged the lessons with the same clinical detachment as any other class, having been familiar with the source material, thanks to books like Where Did I Come From? and What’s Happening to Me?, which explained body functions like the most normal thing in the world with silly drawings.

That in turn led to me being called the 12-letter ‘M’ word.  (No, the other one)

One time in class, the teacher gave a question.  I don’t remember the question, let alone what subject we were talking about.  It could’ve been ‘things that were once thought to be harmful’, but I remember the answer I piped up with, which was, “Like Masturbating?” which elicited tons of laughs from all the students around me.  I had no idea what was so funny, and it had to be explained that even though the text said the act wasn’t something to be ashamed of, what I said wasn’t the kind of thing normally said in public conversation.  For about a year, I was paired up with a lab partner who disparagingly nickednamed me ‘Masturbation’.

Even though the act was on my mind, having it continuously pointed out and reminded really rankled on me.  I couldn’t understand why these High School teens were so utterly infantile about basic sexuality.  (Looking back on my thoughts and actions now, that should’ve been a big honking clue)

To this day, I have reoccurring dreams of being naked at school, but in these scenarios, I’m more concerned about completing my 3-month project due in 2 weeks that I haven’t even started and didn’t even know about.

I also never understood what was supposed to be so funny about men wearing women’s clothes.

If it was okay for women to wear men’s clothes, then shouldn’t the reverse be true?  Just wear whatever’s comfortable!  If the clothes you want to wear are on the other side of the rack, that shouldn’t be a deterrent, just as long as it fits.  

I don’t really care about fashion or style, just function.  My choices are fairly basic.  I prefer to wear soft clothes with seamless seams, little social commentary (allegiance to specific sports teams or cartoons are visually distracting) I’ve often had to have the holes in my clothes pointed out, since I’m so used to feeling comfortable, and don’t really care about how I’m perceived.

When I started getting more invested in comics that weren’t of the Newspaper variety, I was quite enthusiastic about reading digest collections of Richie Rich and Archie.  (Don’t sneer - they were extremely popular and cheap) But the more I read them, the more I noticed that there was an element in these comics that kept cropping up that annoyed me.  It wasn’t the repetitive plots, the page limitations or the corny jokes.  It was that the sentences invariably ended with exclamation points, and there were very few instances where periods were put in place, and that put me off.  (Question marks didn’t count)

When I become overexposed to media, I become hyper-aware of the limitations of the form, and once notice something that keeps showing up, it becomes impossible to ignore, especially when certain themes start to show up.

I don’t know when it started (probably around Twilight & the Hunger Games), but I got annoyed when dystopian stories struggling under suppression started shoehorning in romance plots which only served to distract, particularly love triangles that hardly elevated the story, and would’ve benefited from their absence.  Why did EVERY story need a forced romance subplot?  Being more interested in creating artificial drama than authentic chemistry.

I got so annoyed by this that I even parodied this outlook early on in my WebNovel:

Woe Vs. Rade

Well, the day we've been dreading finally happened.  The U.S. Senate just overturned the Abortion rights of Roe Vs. Wade.  There's been righteous outcry from far more eloquent people with higher stakes to lose who'd have more experience to run from.  All I can do is post an early Carol Lay comic that was the basic building blocks of what would become her Story Minute.  (Later revamped as Lay Lines)

For those wonder what possible stake I could possibly have in this, being an Asexual Male, abolishing Abortion rights is just the first in a long line of long-term planning of abolishing other rights.  The ink on the unconstitutional law isn't even dry yet, and talks of further repression is already taking place.

Chances are that somewhere along the line, denying services towards handicapped minorities will be next.  Already, attacks are being laid towards LGBTQ rights, restricting sex education, books, videos, or anything broaching the subject, doing more to permeate 'Cancel Culture' than actual Cancel (facing consequences) Culture ever does.

For those confused, she's wearing a Taliban Burqa.

One thing that struck me while researching sexual identity was that a large percentage of Autistics are part of the LGBTQ spectrum.  So anything that directly affects people who think similarly to me is perceived as an attack on myself.  Particularly since the so-called Gay Conversion "treatment" and Applied Behavior Analysis were both created by the same man.

When people's perception towards you is a vehement refusal to see you as having any value, save for what possible use you bring, they're likely to treat you as an piece of property.  When parents would rather their own kid get killed than expose them to life-saving vaccines, that's a sign of them denying your existence.  Wanting absolute control over a percentage of the population, neatly dividing gender into two privileged lanes.

That, and being touch-averse, I can understand the need to turn down unwanted advances.  You shouldn't have to be forced into sexual situations against your will.  Especially if you're not prepared.  You shouldn't have to be coerced into taking extra responsibility before you're ready.

(Of course, the Supreme Court in their 'infinite' wisdom, felt that open-carry gun rights were more valuable than women's rights)

Anything that affects the U.S. flows up to Canada.  4 years of Trump was more than enough.  I don't think I could tolerate more intolerance from him or his enablers who'd learn from his mistakes.

Potential Asexuals: Schroeder

One of my drafts for a potential blog entry was exploring how the cast of Peanuts wound up influencing the character designs for other famous comics, even if they weren’t obvious or intentional.

Charlie Brown - Krillin from Dragon Ball.

Sally Brown - Emily Elizabeth from Clifford the Big Red Dog.

Lucy - Cathy’s sales clerk, Mabel

Linus - Izzy from Digimon.

Marcie - Honey from Doonesbury.

Peppermint Patty - arguably Marie Kanker from Ed Edd and Eddy.

And working backwards in terms of influence, Schroeder was likely inspired by Little Lord Fauntleroy.

However, the major difference between Schroeder and those snobby upper-class twits is that Schroeder never lorded his piano talent over his friends, essentially remaining one of the gang, even as his obsession may have weirded them out.

It was argued that Schroeder’s obsession with Beethoven and music was a reflection of Schultz’s dedication to crafting the Peanuts comic strip.  But the wonderfully versatile nature of Peanuts makes them widely open to interpretation.  If the model fits...

Another rationale is that Lucy is simply too unlikable to be with even in the best of times, being too much of a fussbudget (to put it politely), and that these are children, too young to engage in any serious romance.  But the rest of Peanuts is filled with unrequited longing for unattainable lovers.  Of the larger secondary cast of Peanuts, Schroeder is the only minor character who isn’t actively interested in pursuing unrequited romance with anyone.  His devotion to Beethoven is entirely one-sided, secure in the knowledge that the composer died out centuries ago, his masterpieces preserved to be absorbed and appreciated.  (Also, Beethoven is the only adult face to regularly appear in Peanuts.)

Who else would buy busts of Beethoven in bulk?

I looked up online to see if anybody else explored this theory further, and was surprised to only find a single Reddit question.  The closest alternative in exploring his alleged sexuality was in a blog entry showing potential homoeroticism, the only flaw being that Schroeder never displayed any affection towards any of the boys as well.  So with that in mind, let’s break down the fundamentals of why I feel Schroeder is a potential Asexual candidate.

The most obvious example is that Schroeder displays little to no interest to the girls leaning on his piano, finding them more of a distraction and tolerating Lucy at best.

Schroeder isn't totally ignorant about matters of love.  He simply doesn't have any inclinations towards it.

The only time we see him flustered is when he’s complimented for his looks, but that could easily be a result of being unaccustomed to being praised for something outside his skill set.

For the most part, Schroeder's fraught relationship with Lucy consisted mainly of Lucy making up the majority of the conversation, resulting in a monologue while he whaled away on his piano, hunched over in a Glenn Gould manner, punctuated by the occasional unwelcome interruption.

Here's a sampling of some of their most memorable dialogues:

Lucy didn't take these constant rejections of her advances well, to the point that she started taking more extreme measures to get his attention.

Silly girl.  Removing his obsession in front of him isn’t gong to endear him closer to you.  Quite the opposite in fact!

The strip above might come across as being callous, but it could also be read as Schroeder trying to be sympathetic in the only way he knows how.

When it comes to exploring life outside the piano room, Schroeder was most commonly seen on the baseball field, secure in the role of catcher, where Charlie Brown's abysmal pitching averages meant that his delicate hands were in no danger of being injured.  In that setting, there was the mini-arc where Lucy said she'd hit a home run in exchange for favors:

Like many Asexuals, I have no interest in getting married, but would be willing to undergo the ritual for someone else’ sake, such as saving someone from a loveless marriage, preserving their hidden sexual orientation or helping their immigration status.  In that sense, Schroeder’s willingness to undergo some brief discomfort for the greater good appeals to me as well.

And if a surrogate can do the job, that would be even better.

As with any discussion of publication over the course of 50 years, anomalies are bound to crop up, so let's get these examples out of the way.  One of the rare instances where Schroeder showed genuine concern was when Lucy temporarily moved away.

However, when Lucy moved back, Schroeder showed no notice to her presence, so it's difficult to tell if he was affected or not.

The biggest argument that Schroeder might not be considered Asexual (Aromantic at the very least) would be this Sunday comic which could be the exception that proves the rule.

Let's break the scene down.  Lucy gives a cupcake commemorating the birth of his favorite composer when she normally doesn't display rudimentary knowledge about music, after which Schroeder gives a peck on the cheek unprompted.  And when she runs away screaming, makes an effort to correct her misunderstanding.  When Schroeder isn't pressured into displaying signs of affection, he's more likely to reciprocate in kind.

There's also this moment where Schroeder gives the most impassionate speech he ever made that wasn't related to baseball or Beethoven, on Violet giving a pity Valentine.  He clearly has thoughts on the subject.

Of course, Charlie Brown is so starved for affection he'll take whatever breadcrumbs come his way.

In closing, it feels appropriate to borrow a line from Citizen Kane: “A toast, Jedediah, to love on my terms. Those are the only terms anybody ever knows - his own.”