butters-journal

[butters-journal]

The Greatest Gift

An unexpected gift from a secret Santa arrived. Ethan found it in front of his front door—a rectangular box standing 10 inches tall. The wrapping glittered in the winter sunlight. A bright metallic green tied neatly with a deep red satin ribbon. Ethan picked it up as he turned the key in the lock. It was much heavier than anticipated so he left his toolbox on the porch near the doorway. He entered the house and tossed his keys into the little bowl on the table in the entryway. He never missed; muscle memory was a fascinating thing. He took the gift into the kitchen and set it on the counter while he got himself a soda from the fridge. It had been a long day of working on other people’s stuff and now he could relax and work on himself. Firstly, was to find out what this gift was about. He hadn’t been expecting anything and couldn’t imagine who would’ve left it on the porch. Most of his friends and family would prefer a hand delivery so they could enjoy the excitement of opening it with him. The few who would send gifts would come by UPS and would be wrapped quite differently in brown packing with postal stickers. This was a gift someone had hand-delivered, but why would they just leave it? This wasn’t the best neighborhood, and anyone could have just walked up and took it. though they would have been easily caught. Ethan had grown up in this neighborhood and knew everyone personally within at least 5 blocks. The house had originally belonged to his grandparents, but with the passing of his grandmother, it had become his.

As Ethan sipped his soda, he examined the wrapping on the package. Now that he could look at it, he noticed little Christmas trees were bespotting the green paper. The ribbon was soft and smooth as he pulled it loose from the top of the box. Ripping the paper off he discovered a plain white box underneath. Opening the lid, he found it was stuffed with Styrofoam. Whatever nestled inside was very fragile and quite heavy. He laid the box on its side gently and slid the Styrofoam out. Pulling the tape from one side he lifted the top layer of foam and found beneath a wondrous sight.

The snow globe was tall. Not one of those knick-knacks you find at truck stops. It had to be old, but it looked brand new. Ethan held it up and examined it closely. Nestled within the glass dome was a scene that felt more like a memory come to life—a cozy snow-covered cabin tucked deep in the heart of winter, its windows hinting at the warm glow of a crackling fire within. Towering evergreens, heavy with fresh snow, standing like silent sentinels around the house, their branches bowing under the weight of the season. A tiny snowman placed proudly near the cabin’s entrance, his red scarf and black hat a cheerful defiance against the cold.

The base of the snow globe, adorned with raised snowflakes, recalled the patterns of an old, knitted sweater—the kind Ethan’s grandmother might have made just for him on those cold snow days home from school when they would sit around the kitchen drinking hot cocoa and sharing stories from her past and his present. When Ethan shook the globe, the snow swirled gently, like the season's first snowfall, filling his heart with a bittersweet longing for winter's past. It was more than a decoration—it was a time capsule of simpler, more magical days.

As the snow fell inside the globe, Ethan was reminded of the winters he spent in the North Carolina cabins with his family. His grandmother especially. Wake up on Christmas morning to the frosted window of the cabin, the mountains stretching out in breathtaking winter tableau. The rolling peaks were blanketed in soft white snow; their jagged edges softened by the powdery covering. Sunlight filtered through the pale sky, casting a silvery glow on the landscape and creating a glittering effect where the snow caught the light.

Tall, bare trees stood as quiet witnesses to the season; their branches etched against the horizon like delicate black lace. Here and there, a few sturdy evergreens punctuated the scene, their deep green boughs dusted with snow. A small creek wound its way through the valley below, the water’s surface half-frozen but still whispering as it flowed, adding a touch of life to the stillness.

Occasionally, the faint tracks of a deer or a fox broke the pristine surface of the snow, a reminder that this seemingly silent world was alive with hidden stories. The air beyond the window looked crisp and sharp, and a soft plume of smoke from the cabin’s chimney drifted lazily upward, mingling with the faint scent of pine and woodfire. It was a scene that invited both awe and reflection—a perfect, tranquil moment in nature’s winter embrace.

Ethan is mesmerized by the globe as he walks back to the den. He shakes it one more time and places it on the mantle above the fireplace. As he sits down on the couch, still watching the little snowflakes fall, his nose is suddenly filled with the scent of pine and the aroma of tea. Peppermint tea, his grandmother’s favorite. The little radio at the end of the mantle begins to play Carol of the Bells. Had he left it on before going to work this morning? Ethan couldn’t remember.

The tree was set in the big front window of the den. A strand of twinkling lights wrapped around it, casting a warm glow as darkness overtook the outside world. Ethan finally tore his eyes away from the snow globe and began to search through the box of ornaments next to the couch. He’s found exactly what he’s looking for. He takes the delicate porcelain angel from the box—his grandmother’s favorite ornament—the air grows colder, and a soft voice calls out gently,

“Careful with that one, sweetheart.”

Ethan was frozen in place, his heart racing.

“Who’s there?”

His grandmother stepped into the light, her form shimmering like snow in the moonlight.

“It’s me, love”

Her voice was soft and gentle. Ethan’s mind was overtaken by every memory he had of her; baking cookies together, singing songs from her girlhood, and dancing around the house on rainy days. He turned slowly, his voice a whisper.

“Grandma? Is this… real?”

His Grandmother smiled warmly.

“As real as the first snow on Christmas morning.”

Ethan could feel the tears brimming. He was ready for this. He was in shock.

“How? Why now?”

“Because Christmas has always been our time, hasn’t it? I couldn’t let you sit here with that heavy heart, not tonight.”

Even through the tears, Ethan found himself lightly laughing.

“You always did have a knack for showing up when I needed you.”

His grandmother tilted her head, but her eyes never left his.

“And for hiding extra gifts under the tree.”

Her eyes moved to the snow globe upon the mantle. Ethan’s eyes followed. It stood in the very place Ethan left it, but the snow inside was a blizzard as though someone had shaken it with all the force of the four winds.

Ethan smiled faintly, “Like the year you gave me that old train set. I was so sure Santa had forgotten me.”

“You lit up brighter than the Christmas star when you opened it.”

Ethan settles down next to the tree still clutching the angel ornament.

“I miss you so much, Grandma. Christmas doesn’t feel the same without you. No one makes peppermint fudge like you did or sings carols off-key just to make me laugh.”

His grandmother joins him on the sofa. Her glow was soft and steady.

“And you don’t burn the cider like I always did.”

Ethan couldn’t help the bark of laughter. He’d forgotten what it felt like to smile like this. He was a little kid again, with a wondering grin, stretching ear to ear across his innocent face.

“That was tradition.”

“Traditions are more than recipes, Ethan. They’re love wrapped in memories. Every time you hang that angel or play those carols, or shake that sweet snow globe, I’ll be there.”

Ethan couldn’t take his eyes away from now, his voice broken in his throat.

“But it’s not the same. I didn’t get to say goodbye. I thought we’d have one more Christmas together.”

His grandmother placed her shimmering hand over his, “Oh, my boy, you said goodbye in every hug, every visit, every “I love you.” I felt it all.”

Ethan wiped his tears away.

“Do you remember the year the power went out? We sat by the fire, telling stories by candlelight.”

“And we roasted marshmallows over the flames because the ham wouldn’t cook.”

Ethan smiled at the memory.

“Best Christmas dinner ever.”

“You, see? The moments we shared live within you, Ethan. They’re yours to carry forward.”

“I just… I wish I could have one more. One more Christmas with you.”

Ethan’s grandmother cupped his face gently, her touch like a cool breeze.

“You’ll have many more, Ethan, and I’ll be there—in every laugh, every tradition, every twinkling light.”

Ethan’s tears were streaming now. He had lost all control of his emotions. His heart had become a drum in his chest, being beaten with love and grief.

“I love you, Grandma.”

She smiled, her glow beginning to fade.

“And I love you, my darling boy. Always. Keep Christmas close to your heart, and you’ll never lose me.”

As her form vanished, the warmth of her presence lingered. Ethan placed the angel at the top of the tree and sat by the fire, humming her favorite carol, his heart lighter than it had been in years.

[butters-journal]

Mine.

I wish I had a pic of us together. Hercules came to see me tonight.

[butters-journal]

Cuacasion people are basically White Americans. African Americans are Black Americans. We are called White, so why can't they be called Black?

Overheard someone arguing about why you can't call African Americans Black tonight at Tadpoles.

[butters-journal]

I am so bothered today by the lack of attention I'm receiving. This is pathetic. I hate feeling like this. It is so selfish. I'm in a mood because I am trying so hard to get Archie's attention and failing in a blaze of, well, not glory. I should continue backing off. If I keep working Saturday nights, he will have to see me and realize I'm still not speaking to him unless I must. It was interesting to see someone actively try to get my attention. I did enjoy that.

I hate being this selfish and desperate. It feels like a weakness. It feels like ugliness in my heart, but it's true. It is how I feel: ignored, unwanted, and unseen. This is the worst part.

I have been on good meds for once in almost 10 years. They are working. When one of those shiny BPD behaviors pops up, I still can't get by them. Well, not all of them. The impulse-control issue is improving drastically. I can think through things I want to do before just reacting. I also tell Zoso when I'm struggling to ensure I have help. The attention thing, though, is one I still cannot manage.

Some days, I hate my brain. I'd like to install a light switch, flick it to OFF, and put duct tape over it for a week. A mental vacation. A coma.

[butters-journal]

Archie

Ghosted

When someone you talk to often suddenly stops speaking to you and ignores all your messages. They become a "ghost" since it's like they are no longer there.

Ghosted

When someone who you’ve been seeing/in contact with suddenly stops responding and disappears as if they never existed like a ghost. Sometimes, it involves you getting unfriended/blocked on social media by that person.

Ghosted When someone you love disappears without explanation. Then your friends and family act like your crazy.

Ghosted

A term used among women to describe when a man (or woman) they have been seeing for a while stops taking their calls and answering their texts. These actions are usually preceded by many a broken promise to "hang out" "have a drink or two" or "catch up" on the part of the Ghoster. The Ghostee is left wondering whether the person that was just inside of them two weeks ago is now alive or dead. Neither can be definitively proven.

[butters-journal]

I thought of him tonight. Again. I imagine spending the day with him. Window shopping, lunch, and hanging out at his place.  I imagine where he lives is cozy because he seems like the type to wrap himself in a weighted blanket like a little depressed burrito.  I bet it’s warm there.

We spent the day talking about the big three. Politics, religion, and sex.  The discussion of politics is a short one. He tells me his basic belief structure and I ask questions because my knowledge is limited. I question his morals and ethical opinions about things. There’s talk of biases, both our own and the media. He’s smart, I feel like I’ve found someone like me.  It’s a nice feeling. Warm.

We move on to religion and he has questions. I am a Wiccan. I worship the Goddess and the Horned God. I see them as sunlight and shadow. It’s the meadow versus the field. It’s a beautiful image. I also pray to Aphrodite. She is my patron. Is that the right word? He says it is. I’ve read the Bible and he’s verifying information, asking for my opinion, and for my personal understanding. He asks why Wicca.

I don’t know how to be who I am

Steady grounds never been my best friend

I don’t know how to watch myself win

We’ve moved on to sex and it’s a little awkward. How far can we go? We both know the answer to that. There’s no avoiding the desire to kiss me. He wants to know what it’s like to kiss me. I want to ask what he’s waiting for. We discuss kinks and perversions. I must explain what it is about clowns I found so oddly appealing. He asks about the ginger comment. I once told everyone I only wanted to fuck him because he’s a ginger. That was a lie. I wanted him to fuck me because who he is, that’s not the person I see at the bar. He carries a mask, and I can see it. it feels like a superpower now.   I can see people wearing masks, I can pick up on the behavior, and I can see things someone is trying very hard to hide. I feel like I can see him. I’d like to see him. We have so much in common thinking-wise. I want to talk to him about everything. He’s smart and I go to school now, so I’ve gotten so much smarter. It would be nice to just talk like that, freely.

He asks how I prefer to initiate things and I tell him I just ask.  Wanna make out? It’s concise and it gets straight to the point. He does. He kisses me and his lips are soft, warm, and I melt into them. His mouth is sweet, and I can feel his hand on my thigh. His grip tightens and I sigh into his lips.

I consent.

[butters-journal]

Hercules told me last night that I am enough.

I mentioned that I might have been intoxicated and informed my bar friends about him. I think I said, "he's hung like a Clydesdale and fucks like a champ." I told him that he has a few options now. He stated that he does not want or require options. He's got me. I am enough. He's apparently turned down a couple girls recently. I knew he had done so, but I didn't believe it had anything to do with me.

I was wrong.

[butters-journal]

Witchcraft

runs rampant

through his veins.

Pulsing rhythmically

beneath warm, wet skin.

Supple lips dipped

in the sweat of his brow.

A single kiss

I beg of him.

He withdraws

in subtle contemplation.

I must wonder

have we gone too far?

[butters-journal]

I have never seen my personality grab someone's attention so quickly. I'm autistic and I struggle with social cues. As he and I talked tonight I realized he was into me. He was surprised at how smart I was. He was surprised by the things coming out of my mouth. It was a strange moment. Only later did I realize how into me he was. Zoso told me he could tell he wanted to kiss me. He was trying to make out with me and I didn't even realize it. Granted I was 4 shots, a dab, and a bowl deep at one point so I'm not shocked I missed it. I'd like to see how this goes. I may have actually made a friend tonight.