But I’m a Girl Scout. And it shames me that ANYONE would protest acceptance. If a troop doesn’t have a problem with it, then there is no problem. If a troop does have a problem with it, then they’re a bunch of narrow-minded bigots, and the child in question most likely dodged a bullet by not joining that troop.Just sayin’.

I love being a Girl Scout. I love having a group to talk to, go on trips with, laugh with. We’re a loving group. We live by the Girl Scout promise, or we try, at all times. That’s what being a Girl Scout is, not just having a vagina or breasts. Being a Girl Scout isn’t about exclusion, it’s about community, and caring, and trying to better the world.

Taylor, the girl promoting boycott of girl scout cookies, said something to the effect of “I want girl scouts to be an all-girl experience”. For the record, if you admit transgendered children, it still will be. They’re girls just as much as anyone.

What I’m trying to say is, could we please stop the bigotry, exclusion, and idiocy? Could we please just live and let live, include and be included? That’s all I want for this world. So, please.

Oh, and buy GS cookies, by the way.

I’m upstairs, listening to music, mooning over my beautiful new Kindle Fire, and completely in love. Because that’s what Christmas is about, along with Jesus, of course.

My family is amazing. We spent the morning as we always do: stockings, presents, eggs benedict. And there’s nothing better in the world, I think, than Christmas morning soaked in buttery sunlight, nothing better than seeing Denise smile, nothing better than my mother’s eggs benedict. Christmas is soaked in love, fried in joy. It’s perfect. It’s days like Christmas that I remember that, through the good times and the bad, the times when we adore each other and the times we hate each other, we are family. And that’s more precious than anything in the world, even my gorgeous, lovely Kindle, who I am considering naming Charles. I am so happy.

Life is good.

The world is at peace for me.

I’m ready to face the year ahead.

I’m in love, full of love.

This has been the best Christmas yet.

more than the NyQuil my dad had me take

more than the popsicle Lizzy gave me

more than the bitter tea Joe made me that actually worked

more than any of those,

waking up, and seeing snow, made me feel awesome.

Even though it’s cold and wet and unpleasant to walk in, it has the power to make me sit up and shout at the top of my lungs (which is currently much quieter than usual), “Oh my gosh!” The first big snow is magical to me, even though by the third big snow, I’ll be counting days until spring. I figure that it’s Gilmore Girls that has ingrained in me this love of first snow…thanks, Denise.

I guess we in Illinois can top dreaming of a white Christmas…unless it gets really hot, really soon, we’ll have one.

It snowed, inexorably informing me that it would be really, really cold for many months to come.

Yay.

I have been like a lizard, crouching in my warmth, doing little more than what I’ve had to.

Well, besides reading the very excellent Clockwork Prince by Cassandra Clare.

My feet are freezing. I’m playing the “how fast can I run from the shower to my bed” game. I’m wearing my boots. I fell on my butt on a patch of ice. I have found myself addicted to Eggnog Lattes from Starbucks. There are decorations everywhere.

Winter is here, all right. Good luck braving it, y’all.

Oh, and Happy Holidays.

So, maybe I haven’t been good exactly. And maybe I’m not exactly on the nice list. I tried though. I really did. This year, I’ve said some things that I regret, I’ve done some things I’m not entirely proud of. I have. And I’m not sure I’m not going to do and say those things again. I don’t know much anymore.

But I do know what Christmas is about. And it’s not really about Jesus, and it’s certainly not about presents. It’s about my family. Yes, that’s corny, cliche, whatever you like, but it’s true.

I love my family so much. I do. I sometimes think about what I’d do if one of them died, and even just thinking about it makes me fracture around the edges and cry. No, we don’t always get along. And no, I don’t always say nice things about them. But I love my Mommy and Daddyand Denise and Lizzy and Joseph and Chris and Michelle and Jen and Momal and Nana and Sockmouth. Everyone. They are what make Christmas.

Yesterday, I was writing my Christmas list and it was a struggle. As I get older, every year, writing a Christmas list seems more and more frivolous, fading into the warm archives of childhood. Because what I really want, more than a Kindle or embroidery floss or coconut deodorant, is for my family and friends to be happy and healthy. I want that more than anything that can be put on a Kaboodle list.

Santa, my family makes Christmas. I mean, you’re great. But they MAKE Christmas.

I don’t know if I deserve anything I put on my list, really, I don’t. I keep using my letters to you as New Year’s Resolution sort of things, but I’m not sure if I’ve been successful so far. I try, though. I’ll always try my best to not just get on the Nice list, but earn my place there.

Love you.

Merry Christmas, and give my regards to Mrs. Claus and the reindeer.

Best,

RJ

I’m thankful for:

My family

the fact that I love and get along with my siblings

My friends

Life!

The fact that I can choose what sort of life I want to lead

that I can walk

and see

and hear

and think.

That I see beauty

that I have a blog

that people listen

that my friends, family, and pets are healthy

that I am healthy

that I can bake

and read

and write

That I’m safe

and happy

and educated

and that I have a ton of clubs and activities

And FOOD!

But

overall

I’m thankful for

peace, love, and happiness.

For everyone.

Where ever it can be found.

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving, y’all.

You bought me my sparkle picture. And everytime I look at it, I feel strong, really strong, because you are.

I always say, “Hey look! It’s the queenofspain! I love that woman!”

Mommy always asks why.

It took me a really long time to figure out that the reason why was because you were who I wanted to be. It took me a really long time to figure out that the reason I loved and admired you so much was because you’re brave, and strong, and a truly amazing woman.

You tell the world to suck it if it’s wrong.

You are so loved by people because they hear you, they hear your voice.

You fight, and never stop.

You sparkle.

And you’re more beautiful than I can say.

You said in your post that love was kicking Lupus’s sorry butt.

I want you to know that,

along with respect, and admiration, and all around adoration,

you’ll always have my love.

Keep fighting. Keep being you.

It’s called “All is Well” by Ollabelle.

Just an update, y’all.

Her back was curved against the dark, with her spinal column in sharp relief against her back, the contrast made sharper by the play of shadows. She was gaunt, frail, as though the watery moonlight was too heavy for her to bear, as though she was dying in this dark room that was at once too small and too big, too empty. She was too pale, bleached by too long without sunshine, by too long in darkness. She had an air of faded beauty about her, as though the vibrancy sunk into the cold concrete floor, as though the world has bowed her back and left her weak, dying.

That’s all people saw. They didn’t look past her frailty. They didn’t stop to learn her name. They thought they knew her, that she could never be anything more than she was. They didn’t try to hear her because they didn’t know how to listen. They heard her as muffled and discordant, broken. They didn’t want to hear anything else, really. They didn’t want to listen when they could just talk. They thought she didn’t matter.

They were wrong.

Under skin drawn tight from hunger and cold, behind eyes glassy with the reflections of apathy, she had a mind. It moved slowly, almost peacefully, forced into pained serenity, having so long waded through the stickiness of others’ self-centeredness that it had been crippled. But she had a mind.

She was stirring.

She was alive.

She had a name, but she couldn’t speak it.

She had a voice, but no one heard it.

She was alive.

She just needed to be free.

It started small. Warmth pressed against her temples, and fluttered in her fingertips. It spread and grew until it almost hurt, until it bubbled inside of her and pressed her back out of its curve. It filled out her gaunt frame, and burned inside her.

She stood, and no longer looked at the stained concrete, nor did she even see the water-stained ceiling. She threw her shoulders back and spread her palms, and she was no longer a crushed snowdrop in filthy snow. She was no longer ash to be swept away by ice-laced wind. She was not the frozen ground, dead, but waiting.

Not anymore.

She was a rose, with petals weeping with dew, rising from warm, loamy soil, bare, and pink, and sun-kissed. She was a phoenix with the fire of her soul burning a path down her feathers.

She was alive, so very alive, with the air snapping with her energy, with her mind shooting sparks.

She had a voice, such a voice, that it no longer mattered if people paused to listen. She was content, no, ecstatic, because she would sing, and her words would fly and dip in this charged air, and she would be the judge of whether they were worth listening to. She threw her head back and her voice was clear and pure, a sunrise, a morning glory. She could not be crushed because she was no longer crushing herself.

The ceiling crumbled, the mildewed, industrial steel sighing in release as it bowed to the power of her voice. She was illuminated by the sunlight that fell like a robe about her, folding around the lushness of her figure, casting warmth across her cheekbones, illuminating the play of dust fairies about her. In the sunlight, her hair was a fiery red, like the first rays of dawn, like a solitary fire beating back the darkness of a cloaked desert.

She was beautiful.

She had a voice. And no one would ever ignore it again.

She was really,

truly,

alive.

And, as people turned towards her, the same people who rendered her nameless, wordless before, the same people who boxed and packaged her, a smile, the first true smile in forever, the first smile to break the ice of her soul’s tundra, played across her lips.

She would never be trapped, never again.

The phoenix of her voice took flight. And, looking up into the vast, blue sky, clothed in sunshine, she shed her final shackle.

She told the world her name.