haha made me laugh a little…..almost that time=)


Billy here, Elf on the Shelf.

I hijacked the hot mess’s computer because I just can’t take it anymore. So put your glue guns down, shut down your frantic Pinterest searching and gather round.

I’m just going to come right out with it…

What exactly are you all doing? Have you forgotten what we are? Have you lost your damn minds?

We are ELVES on SHELVES! Not Elves having tea parties with Barbie, Elves fishing in toilets for goldfish, Elves toilet papering the whole house or Elves running a zoo in the living room. We do not craft all night and day! Let me remind you… we are Elves on Shelves!

It’s getting pretty chaotic and insane now that so many of you are one-upping each other with your craftiness and creativity. I mean, come on! Why are you making this so challenging?

This is a good gig we have…

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This woman is hilarious.

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Athlete or writer?

The Green Study

I’ve finally recovered from an injury called “turf toe”, a common injury for athletes who quickly change directions, jump and push off of rigid surfaces, like football players and martial artists.  I did it while sparring in taekwondo with a large and formidable opponent, an unmoving wall of Axe deodorant and teenage defiance.

Thinking of myself as an athlete feels only slightly less pretentious than calling myself a writer. If who we are is what we do, then perhaps both appellations apply, but sketchily. I’ve only begun to get a little more comfortable with writer, since it is so often interrupted by other titles: chauffeur, accountant, nurse, volunteer and the “what’s for lunch?” lady.

It is human nature to label and compartmentalize – especially one’s self.  Enlightened and self-actualized people may live as an integrated whole and never question themselves by label. I am not far enough along…

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Letters to who?

Dear whoever,

This is my letter to someone, everyone and no one.

Ever since I was 14 years old and my pen hit the paper, my life seemed to take an interesting, yet enthralling twist. Most girls at my age were insecure and didn’t know how to handle adolescence. Of course, I’m not going to sit here and pretend there weren’t times I didn’t feel small but luckily I found a release. During warm afternoons, I would sit on my pink carpet and write, sometimes for hours. It was some of the most peaceful and beautiful times that I can remember. While my friends were out shopping and exploring the gifts and glitter of young adulthood, I was in my room writing. I would write anything! Letters, diary pages, journal entries, notes, poems, song lyrics. It didn’t matter, as long as my pen didn’t run out of ink. Over time I realized that writing was just more than just a hobby, but a part of who I was. It was my way of expressing every feeling in every fiber of my body. It was like a drug. The more pages I filled, the more satisfaction I obtained. As I started to grow up and face some harsh realities, my writing became more constant than ever. It became confusing for me to talk and use my words verbally and the only way I was able to get my thoughts out was if I wrote them down on paper. But I also realized that not everyone else expresses there feelings and thoughts in the same way I do. Most people don’t look at a poem or a letter the way I do. Every single word, every single mark has such delicate and detailed beauty. When I write a letter to someone, every part of me goes into it. i take hours to make sure it sounds just right and when I’m done doing that, I make sure I’ve included every single point I wanted to make. Finally I cross my T’s and dot my i’s and hope the reader is kind enough to realize how wonderful this letter is. But I realize that most of the time, my letters are thrown into any ordinary drawer along with yesterday’s mail and old birthday cards. It’s not an easy thing for me to swallow, especially when the letters that you so preciously worked on were “forgotten” or “misplaced” by someone you really care about. It’s like a slap in the face or a cheap shot to the gut. It stings to know that your heart can be easily thrown out or stuck to the bottom of a Verizon bill. So instead I’ve decided to do something else. I’ve decided to write a letter to anyone, everyone and no one. Out of the millions of people that live in this world I am bound to find one person who has the same appreciation for writing as I do. They can understand that a letter isn’t just a plain, old piece of paper. They can understand that the ink I use is filled with peace, love and understanding. They can understand exactly where I’m coming from. So here it is. My letter to someone, everyone and no one.

Sincerely, Rebecca

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It still brings tears to my eyes. This song was so beautifully written and whether I’m singing it or hear somebody else singing it, all I feel is compassion and beauty. My heart simply radiates every time this song is played.

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Hey, just let your freak flag show!

Musings of an Aspie

In honor of the annual airing of Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer this coming Tuesday.


When I was in elementary school, I was fascinated by the Island of Misfit Toys.

If you have no idea what I’m talking about, here’s an outtake from Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer. Rudolph and his friends have just found themselves on the Island of Misfit Toys and the toys are describing their problems:

The Island of Misfit Toys is like aspie heaven–a place where no one measures up to conventional expectations and you’re not even allowed to stay if you might be the least bit “normal.” A place where it’s okay to be a bird that swims or a cowboy who rides an ostrich.

Because that’s the real issue with living in a neurotypical world, isn’t it? Conventional expectations. If 99% of people had aspie brains instead of neurotypical brains, then aspies would be…

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