Post 237: Your Words

Sometimes the hardest thing about blogging is the readers’ comments.

When I read comments, in fact when I read any words, each word resonates energetically with me.

For the most part, some 99.5 percent of the comments I read on this site are supportive and kind. But there is always that half percent, that few that seem to rise above the rest, like serpents from the murky waters, and shatter what joy was carried with their jagged teeth and rugged scales of anger.

I can feel the anger in certain words. I can feel judgment, dismay, demise. I can feel jealousy, confusion, and mental clutter. I can feel some need to challenge, fight, or crush.

I have to remind myself that others’ words are not a reflection of me. I have to shake myself much like a dog, and flick away all the leech-like fear seeded in some comments.

I have to remember whomever writes words that are not beneficial to my spirit is in desperate need of hope and love. I have to remind myself that their pain is my pain. And the best I can do is to pray for the individual. To visualize the person finding support, clarity, and a release from whatever holds him or her prisoner.

Your Words





Love, love, love


Words from air

Words from mind

Words that soar out

To feed upon

To enrich

All these words


Dancing on the pages of my endless sky

Like clouds at sundown

Fading after their last performance

Some bleed upon the horizon

Seep into the waters

Some drift away


What words

Must I scribe

To show the power

Of word essence

How spirit

How position

Oozes out of letters

And finds substance



With hands that harvest or hold


Anything imagined

Inside this heart of mine

Day 217: And the Award Goes to….

Search Engine Terms Awards

Yes, even search engine terms long to be noticed and adorned.

Below I’ve listed some of the less common search engine terms that led people to my blog. In my infinite desire to process and analyze and sort data, (and to chuckle), I have spent hours scanning through thousands of words to create a list of my favorites. (Yes, this is what I do for amusement.)

“Search engine term awards?” You query, with a wry grin.

“Well, yes! Why the heck not?” I quibble, with a devious wink.

The Picturing in my Mind Award

mermaid butt

naked man with a butterfly on his buttock

vampires naked

The Sweetness Award

memory of a little girl who once danced like a butterfly

innocent women pics

The Spit-with-Laughter on my Keyboard Award

invasion of the body snatchers kill and replace



organizing a messy aspergerian

Collective term for sloths

The Shades of Aspie Award

addicted to aspergers man

Sexy Asperger girl

Everyday naked people

Sexy Aspergers

Your sexy grandmother

wooing aspergers girls

do dominant guys like asperger girls

hot guys with asperger’s

aspies in bikinis

best female voluptuous sensual nude body

how i surprised my hubby for his birthday- naked

The Must Answer Award

can women with aspergers be sexy (Oh, Yes!)

asperger’s brain vs normal brain (Asperger’s wins)

do all aspergers girls lack empathy (nope, but you might)

how to tell if an aspergers guy likes you (ask him)

What are qualities women with aspergers want in a man (authenticity, humor, honesty, nice butt and eyes)

Can aspie girls be popular (yes)

What’s normal (good question)

why do aspies hardly text back (I think there might be another reason)

how to tell someone you have aspergers (I have Aspergers)

is it true girls lose their ass (no, last time I checked there were no assless women)

How do you make an Asperger man to love you (You learn proper grammar)

why are asperger people handsome (Because they radiate truth)

how to tell if someone with aspergers likes you  (If they talk  to you and compliment you all the time, send you little gifts, and smoother you in love)

do people with asburgers understand humor? (I’m laughing at your spelling!)

The Heart Smile Award

i am in love with an aspergers girl

caution i may hug you

embrace the beauty

aspergers visions god

what is aspergers indigo world change

incarnated angels asperger’s syndrome

for my song is a lullaby to soothe your soul…

i’m female, intelligent, emotional, imaginative – Asperger

need a list of care to take care of myself to look feminine everyday and pretty, beautiful for my husband to be?

my son has aspergers what is your superpower

The What the Frick? Award

not using the aspergers anymore

aspergers love to fish

husband hears wife ask rapist to please come again

Watch Out! Award

why am i attracted to other men than my husband all the time

Been There, Done That Award

aspergers crying music

asperger i cant help my blank stare

aspergers fixations love dependency

aspergers too much caffeine

aspergers need to escape reality

seven truths we must accept about  our ego

aspergers in children wont sleep and wont mind

aspergers need to write lists

aspergers mixing up words

choking on saliva while awake

I’m falling inlove

Why I can’t keep my friends, am I too intense

What to do when you are losing your mind


doll hiding closet scary

So Me Award

lady with messy hair & no makeup

california burger veggie patties real good food from this good earth

My Cupid Award

how to get to an asperger girls heart ( you just did)


Great unplugged concert. Love the second song…..sigh…..


Day 162: Fictional Writing: Veronica Cosh

I’ve been working on a fictional story for a couple years. I have about 65 pages scribed. The manuscript is still in the infant stages, but I thought it would be fun to introduce the characters to you. They are morphing, as I morph, so I look forward to seeing what becomes of them….I am thinking gorgeous, hot, dark, tall, hunk of unavailable burning love for the main character, though…just saying.

Veronica Cosh and the House of Mirrors

By Samantha Craft

Freda screamed on cue. “Put your lips together and blow, Baby! Blow, blow, blow.” Freda repeated the words again, kicking her stocking-covered legs up and down like a toddler splashing in a shallow pool of water.  Jane tried her best to balance the wobbling ottoman, while shaking her head at Freda and letting loose a flitter of giggles.

Veronica shared a wide smile with Irene.  “I wonder what ever happened to Mr. Blue Eyes,” she queried.

“Oh, scrumptious Mr. Blue eyes,” Freda quickly interjected with a Southern drawl.  She fanned her chubby face. “What eye-candy!”

Veronica raised a narrow-necked glass filled with deep red wine. “To divine Mr. Blue Eyes!”

Irene, meanwhile, kneeled down in front of Freda and pulled out a small wrapped gift she’d hidden under the ottoman, and holding the present high in the air she cheered, “To finger-licking-good, Mr. Blue Eyes.”

“That’s a definite winner, or should I say wiener?” Freda laughed. All the ladies lifted their drinking glasses and toasted, “To finger-licking-good, Mr. Blue Eyes!”

Veronica set her glass down on the table in front of the couch, the light of the crystal lamp igniting a flame in the speckled-green of her eyes.  “You guys shouldn’t have,” she murmured as she gestured to a pile of opened presents near Jane’s feet.  Irene handed the gift to Veronica, while Freda ran her fingers through her bun of silver-gray, gave Veronica a sidelong glance, and referring to the present said, “Maybe this year, you can learn to play Love, Love Me Do.”  Looking pleased with herself, Freda then exhaled an easy-sigh, smoothed her dress and crossed her ample legs, acting as if she was the sort of person that belonged in an English teahouse. After she spoke, Freda pinched off a sizable piece of brownie from the plate she’d held hostage on the arm of the chair. Veronica, in her excitement, tore through the wrapping like a kid in search of a golden-ticket.  “You shouldn’t have,” Veronica exclaimed, holding up a small, unopened blue box, “but I’m so glad you did!”

Irene placed her hands on her hips. “What’s this make now, Harmie, fourteen or fifteen?   Or am I aging you?”

The name Harmie had come into existence quite by accident after a heavy night of drinking.  It was fifteen years ago, near the outskirts of Cannery Row when the same four friends had gathered to celebrate Veronica’s thirtieth birthday.  Veronica, donned in a knee-length tight black skirt, had bent over that night to retrieve something—maybe it was her keys—no one can remember for certain.  Nevertheless, Veronica had leaned down and on her way up the lead singer of the band on stage had pointed straight at Veronica’s rear end and shouted in his Irish-accent, straight into his microphone, “Put your lips together and blow, Baby!”   Unknown to Veronica, in having bent down, the slit of her skirt had pulled slightly apart causing her pink panties to give a peek-performance.  This one event, this one evening, had been wrong in Veronica’s eyes in so many ways. First off, Veronica didn’t wear skirts, but on this one rare occasion had been persuaded by Irene to evade her well-worn, easy-fit jeans. Secondly, Veronica didn’t like to drink alcoholic beverages, except once or twice a year, and when she did, as in all the previous nights of her birthday, she limited herself to one special drink, like a well-aged red wine. And lastly, and perhaps most importantly, Veronica didn’t frequent bars, and quite frankly hadn’t step foot in one since the 1980’s when her and her younger cousin used their fake IDs to sneak into a surfer bar in downtown La Jolla. All in all, Veronica avoided crowds, and how she’d wound up in a tight skirt, drunk in a crowded bar, was beyond her.

After Veronica’s panties had made their evening debut, Veronica had shot up and braced herself against the high circular bar table, her blushing cheeks mirroring the violet-hues of her trussed up hair.  At that point, she almost jetted across the crowded pub but was instantly distracted by wide-eyed Freda spouting pink bubbles from her nostrils. It was then, as Veronica glanced over at the stage, that beneath the glints of lights, she spotted the lead singer still smiling.  He gestured toward a stout bald man holding a harmonica, and said to the silenced crowd, “Put your lips together and blow, Joe!”  He lifted up his frothing beer and toasted the house, explaining in his brusque accent, “Our band is named after the harmonica company in the town of Trossingen Germany, near the Swiss boarder, the original birthplace of the beautiful harmonica.”  He then set his beer down on a barrel and pulled out his silver harmonica from his leather waist-holster.  “Please, continue to enjoy this lovely evening, while I give you a wee sampling of what this lovely instrument can do.”  For the next few minutes, he pressed his lips together and blew out Love, Love Me Do, as the tipsy ladies at Veronica’s table all sat mesmerized in their high stools.

Irene had clapped, secretly harboring a hope that the Irishman would hold an impromptu pop-quiz on the subject of harmonicas, offering his chiseled body out as the providential main prize.  Her thoughts had travelled to the string theory she’d heard about at a recent quantum physics lecture.  The professor, a rather distinguished-looking man, had compared the universe to a slice of bread:  “Our world and the planets above are all a part of one big loaf of bread, one thin slice, and the other universes, or alternate realities, are right next to us, other slices of bread, completely oblivious to us, as much as we are to them.” Irene happened to know lots of miscellaneous facts.  She’d inherited her father’s satiable appetite for learning, and unable in her early years to settle her mind on what exact career path to follow, Irene could tell you practically anything about the subjects related to music appreciation, C.S. Lewis, tarot cards, beginning watercolor, human sexuality, and cultivating irises.  Irene would have been the first to admit back then that she was cursed with the decisiveness of a ricocheting pinball.  She’d realized early on she wouldn’t be able to choose a college major, even if the life of her cat depended on it.  And sighing to herself in the bar that night, she had pictured the morbidity of her circumstances, in only a way Irene could—she saw her plump cat spread out and nailed like a skinned-squirrel skin to a wooden fence.  And in this drunken vision, heard an ominous voice call out from beyond: “Pick a college major or I’ll kill little Kit-Kat.”  But Irene, at that time in her life, could not have made up her mind.  Not even to save her precious Kit-Kat’s life.

Shaking her head from side-to-side, Irene had refocused on the singer on stage, and made a mental note not to drink too much again.  The song ended.  The crowd cheered.  And standing at Veronica’s side, back on the same slice of bread with everyone else in the bar, Irene squeezed her eyes together, trying to make out if the lead singer was winking at her, and thought for a fleeting moment, maybe she’d study to be an optometrist.

When the band Hohner Harmonicas was on break, the brawny singer made his way past the crowded bar to the ladies.  For a short moment Irene thought maybe, just maybe, it would be her lucky night.  Shy Jane, who was now nursing a bottle of mineral water, was the second to notice the broad shouldered Irishman approaching.  She had nervously tapped Veronica and then peered over the top of her gold-rimmed glasses, flashing her silver braces.  Reaching the table, the singer offered a polite, “Hello Ladies.”  Then, quite unexpectedly, he dipped into his holster, pulled out his silver Golden Melody harmonica, and wrapping his lips around the piece, and playing to no one in particular, blew out the tune to Happy Birthday.  All the girls clapped, including Jane who kept her hands hidden under the table.  The singer, upon finishing, slipped his wet harmonica into Veronica’s empty glass.  “For you, Lovely, for being such a good sport,” he said.  The word Lovely dipped down, up, and then down again, riding the waves of his Irish dialect. Dreamy sighs had circled the table. Mature Freda, busted up laughing. “Thank you, Mr. Blue Eyes,” she giggled. The Irish musician then dabbed Freda on her button nose, winked, and smoothly turned around. Sauntering back deep into the bar, he faded away gradually beneath the blinking lights strung across the high wooden rafters.

That’s how it all started, because that is the precise moment Irene, still panting from the mere brushing of the brawny man’s hairy bare arm against her skin, had held up the silver harmonica to Veronica, and proclaimed loudly, “Veronica Harmonica, press your lips together and blow, Baby!”

Through the years the name had been dutifully shortened from Harmonica to the more suitable and endearing, yet still annoying, Harmie.


© Everyday Aspergers, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Day 104: Fire Ball and My BIG BRAIN

This is to give you a glimpse of what goes on in my mind. Not all the time, but enough of the time. I start thinking, and thinking, and thinking. All these thoughts below ran through my mind in the first twenty-minutes of our plane ride. I have to laugh at myself. Thanks for letting me ooze this out of my brain onto these pages. And I DO NOT expect you to read this all. Like I said, this is a sampling of MY BIG BRAIN.

Maui update: Wonderful, wonderful day. The sand feels so good on my feet. Watched the boys play in the waves. We got upgraded to a 2,000 square foot, ocean view penthouse for the first night. They had a raffle in the courtyard. About 125 people, 125 raffle tickets, and they drew five tickets. Out of the first four, three were each of my son’s tickets. What are the odds??? The force is with us.

Okay, here is my brain in high gear….don’t ask me to explain this.

The Fire Ball/Fire Mass

In the circumstance of two coming together in company, feelings arise. These feeling are both beneficial and non-beneficial. Because we choose our feelings based on illusion and limited perception, in turn, the element of choosing is either beneficial or non-beneficial.

There is no in between middle point or meeting point in considering variants of choosing. Choosing is not on a line. Choosing is neither good nor bad. Choosing is like the air. One does not look into the air and wonder what is between the air, or where air meets. Choosing is expansive, beyond human reasoning. This choosing is one of the gifts of humans. This choosing is powerful. As we choose as a collective, we generate energy into perceived reality. When the masses are choosing the same then the masses receive the same.

If choosing is not on a flat timeline and not based on evaluation or degree, and one cannot finger-point choosing, then where does choosing exist? Choosing cannot be applied a degree or numerical value, because choosing firstly carries no value, and secondly, choosing is a vast collective that cannot be pinned down at any moment. With the illusion of time, choosing does not exist. Remove the illusion of time, and choosing exists. Choosing is always, with no ending and no beginning. The masses choose continually. This choosing in time terms occurs every second, every half of a second, every hundredth of a second, and so on, into infinity. Thusly, choosing cannot be placed within the concept of time, only within the concept of infinite.

It is the collectives choosing that creates choosing. This collective choosing can be visualized as a fire ball. This fire ball moves continuously with heat and gases. The choosing moves within this ball, continually altering form and position. Our thoughts are our choosing. Thoughts move in the ball of circular continuous motion. There is no end, no beginning, no start, no completion. This fire ball fuels the reality that the collective sees. Ultimately, everything perceived through the recognized senses at this moment are fueled by the fire mass, and in turn everything perceived fuels the mass.

This fire mass is neither good nor bad, for no such named vibrations exists. The fire mass moves with what could be called beneficial and non-beneficial vibration. Non-beneficial does not imply bad, nor does beneficial imply good. Beneficial and non-beneficial are part of the fire mass; and as these two are within the mass, they are also within our choosing. Ultimately, beneficial and non-beneficial do not exist. If we were to apply bad to non-beneficial and good to beneficial then there is an instant separation, with one above the other, or one on the side of the other. These directions, of up or down, or negative or positive in degree, imply separation. Where there is separation of any form—be it word or thought—then there is an absence of unity. Unity has no opposite. Singular does not exist. Thus degrees of beneficial cannot exist.

What is beneficial and what is non-beneficial. Beneficial is vibration that expands and creates vibration that inspires growth. Thusly all things, all actions, all thought, all being is beneficial. For everything within this planet of existence inspires growth. Therefor non-beneficial grows within beneficial, just as beneficial stagnates (or ceases to create) inside non-beneficial. There is no separation of the two beneficials. Non-beneficial vibration implodes and creates vibration that inspires stagnation. Stagnation can be beneficial. Thusly, non-beneficial can be equated to beneficial. There is no opposite. They are as one, like all unity. They are part of the fire mass. We choose the words of beneficial or non-beneficial to communicate a variation in vibration, not a distinction in right or wrong.

One vibrating non-beneficial energy, which implodes and will be received as stagnant, with the inability to expand and grow, is beneficial to the one, to another one, and to the collective (fire mass). This is how: A person who is exhibiting non-beneficial energy will directly affect the fire mass. A person who is exhibiting non-beneficial energy will directly affect another person within the energy frequency. The person(s) affected will then have a choosing. The person will choose to vibrate with the non-beneficial stagnant energy or to vibrate with beneficial growth energy. There is no right or wrong. Whatever the choosing, the person(s) are learning and growing through the acceptance or transformation of non-beneficial energy. Persons who vibrate with non-beneficial energy are teachers, the same as persons who vibrate with beneficial energy. Each is a variant of the unity of love. Each is part of the fire mass.

There are lessons in every reflection viewed through the recognized senses. These lessons are a reflection within a reflection. It is vital to remember there is no bad or good. There is not good or bad energy. No good or bad reflection. Everything is a one and breathes as one. A non-beneficial reflection is a teacher, as is a beneficial reflection. Think of the one looking upon the one in the mirror. This one may choose to vibrate with beneficial energy upon viewing the reflection, or the one may choose to vibrate with non-beneficial energy upon viewing the reflection. This is the same for one looking upon another one. This one is reflection of the other one. What one sees is what the one chooses to see.

All at once we are either expanding in light or imploding away from light. This occurs outside our concept of time. Every glance into the reflection of illusion is fed back to the fire mass and then returned to the collective masses instantaneously. There is no time. Only union. This is not as a shooting star or rocket ship, where one energy is fueled down, and then another energy fueled back up. There is no up or down. Source and fire mass are within. Light is within. Thusly, the one is continually expanding and imploding. The fire mass is held by all light bearers. The unity is light bearers. All are light bearers. All are unity.

When one evaluates, judges, or analyzes another one, the one is choosing to send these thoughts directly to the one, to the other one, and to the fire mass. As in thought there exists no one.

When one believes the reality of, You make me feel, there is an instant separation. When one is able to step outside of self and practice as observer, then unity remains. With the absence and removal of the thought, You make me feel, there is a flow of transitioning from non-beneficial (stagnant) to beneficial (growing) vibration. The beneficial vibration expands the fire mass; the more one expands the illusion of reality, recognizes thought, and practices as observer, the more one expands beyond the senses, and the more the collective fire mass expands beyond the senses.

The flow of transition of thought into vibration into the fire ball (fire mass) may be observed in the following manner:

I am angry at you.

I am choosing to be angry at you.

I am choosing to be angry.

I am choosing to be.

I am choosing.

We are choosing.

We are.

In the first string of words (or string of vibrations), I am angry at you, one is choosing to be angry at another one.

In the second string of words, I am choosing to be angry at you, the one is releasing the belief of direct effect. The one is recognizing choice.

In the third string of words, I am choosing to be angry, the one is recognizing there is no distinction between one and the other one, and that all feelings stem from the fire mass. All feelings are a direct response from the vibration of the fire mass. The fire mass is held within one and held within the other, and held by the union of whole. Thusly, one feeling is not attached to only one.

In the fourth string of words, I am choosing to be, the one is recognizing the choosing and the absence of another one. The one is recognizing the absence of separation. In the absence of separation the illusion of blame does not exist.

In the fifth string of words, I am choosing, the one is releasing the sense of having to be in order to exist. In essence the one is detaching from the element of being and existing and viewing the one as choice.

In the sixth string of words, We are choosing, the one is recognizing the fire mass: that all choice Is collective. That all is a reflection.

In the seventh string of words, We are, the one (WE) has transitioned the illusion of reality, stepped beyond individuality, and is able to view the collective.

All strings of words can transition into the seventh level. Vibration at the seventh level is optimal. Those vibrating at the seventh level omit a vibration of growth, nurturing, and serenity. There is a calmness and a glow. The glow is spirit: the light of the fire ball. Thusly, the glow the one carries is the glow the unity or whole carries. Thusly, as the reflection glows as does the whole.

The seventh transition is seen in other form likewise.

I am ugly.

I am choosing ugly.

I am choosing.

I am choosing beauty.

I am beauty.

We are beauty.

We are.


That man is bothering me.

I am choosing for that man to bother me.

I am choosing bothered.

I am choosing serenity.

I am serenity.

We are serenity.

We are


I hope he likes me.

I am choosing to hope he likes me.

I am choosing likable.

I am choosing I am likeable

I am choosing we are likable.

We are likable.

We are.


What if she doesn’t think I am special?

I am choosing to fear she doesn’t think I am special.

I am choosing fear that I am not special.

I am choosing special.

I am choosing we are special.

We are special.

We are.

With practice, one can vibrate at the fourth and fifth level. The fifth and sixth level occur when one is able to accept the illusion of reality and experience the fire ball within, recognizing one is in truth WE.

There is no right or wrong in the transition of seven. One will experience the vibration of the transition as beneficial or non-beneficial. In beneficial transition, there will be a releasing of separateness and a growth of collective. In non-beneficial transition, the separateness will stagnate. Separateness cannot grow; there exists nothing beyond the wall of separateness. Once separate, in all ways separate. Once whole, in all ways whole.

The transition of non-seven will create non-beneficial vibration for the fire mass. In example, the string of words below demonstrates the stream of vibration feeding non-beneficial vibration. Again, this is not bad or good. This is stagnation which serves a purpose, as all vibrations serve a purpose.

It is vital to remember what one holds as truth for one holds for truth as all. The one who sees his one as ugly, likewise sees the other one as ugly. There is only unity, no one. The one who sees his one as ugly vibrates this into the collective fire ball, the fire ball each carries. Thusly, all ones carrying fire balls will see ugly, and the collective whole will be ugly. Ugly is an illusion. One can choose to create whatever one chooses. Choosing is the key and the power.

In reference, the following string of words reflects the non-beneficial string of non-seven transition:

I have an ugly face.

I am ugly.

You are ugly.

We are ugly.

We are.

Here the vibration vibrates as stagnant. This is non-beneficial but not bad. The one has not recognized the effect one has on the collective. This is stagnation that feeds back into the fire mass (ball). When one believes in the illusion of ugly, all are ugly. One cannot proclaim one is ugly without proclaiming that he is equally ugly.

All ugly is an illusion. All beauty is an illusion. Words are vibration. Vibration creates form and reality. The vibration of ugly is determined by the illusion of ugly. If one chooses ugly as bad, then the vibration of ugly is bad. This bad is an illusion as well, creating its own ripple of vibration.

All words carry power—but the true power is in the choice of vibration behind the illusion of the word. This choice vibrates into the collective and feeds the fire mass. This fire mass is within one and within the other. Ugly feeds the one, and so ugly feeds the other. Stagnation, or non-beneficial vibration occurs when this ugly, this word, this vibration meets the fire mass. The vibration of non-beneficial energy will feed to implode the fire mass instead of expand, decreasing the light. Again, the word is not bad, neither is the vibration. The word is an illusion, the vibration behind the word is created by choosing illusion. We are in a constant state of choosing illusion.

Dirty D’s, Don’t You Weep!

Here’s the song, so you can have the tune in your head.

Replace the lyrics Dirty Deeds, Done Dirt Cheap with the words Dirty D’s, Don’t you Weep. And then you’ll know what the inside of Sir Brain sounds like!

Crazy Frog has a crush on Joan Jett. I like her nose. And she’s easier on my ears, than AC/DC. Thus the choice in videos.

I herby proclaim myself a defender of the letter D!

I’ve been thinking about the letter D for about a week now. Yes, this is an example of what I think about. Laugh now, or forever remain silent.What made the D-thinking worse, is having the D’s singing and dancing to the song of Dirty Deeds by AC/DC, inside my head.  I knew there was no resting until I wrote about the letter D. My sanity takes precedence over what I write about. Hmmmm??? I have to wonder what that previous sentence actually means.

Did you know that the letter D has a bad rap? Think about it. The letters A, B, and C get all the credit in grade school and college; D is passing, but barely. It’s like the lowest of the lowest, before you fail. Not a very nice position to be in.

Poor lowly, D!

D is associated with words like dirt, ditch, demon and the ruler of the underworld. D is the beginning letter of dystopia, which means a place where all is as bad as possible! I can’t write that sentence without an explanation mark. It literally doesn’t get any worse than dystopia. (That’s humor.)

D starts the word dysteleology, a doctrine of purposelessness in nature, as in nonfunctional or nonessential parts. Yikes. And the letter D is found in one of the most debilitating phobias: dromophobia, the fear of crossing streets (sidewalks can be dangerous, too). Imagine that one! Thinking Aspergers and dromophobia would be an awful combo!

The more I ponder letter D, the more I realize I do a lot of avoiding of  D-words. (Sorry, Letter D.)

In fact, I often write for the sole reason of avoiding D-words!

I wager you avoid D-words, too, without even knowing. Take a look at this list. How many D-words do you wish you didn’t dwell upon? How many of these words have the potential to drag you down or get the best of you?















Dysphoria (uneasiness/general depression)





Dirty Duds

Dirty Dishes


Dog Doo

Daylight (lack of in Washington state)



Dork heads


Diving (I just threw this in because the first time, which was my last time too, that I ever dived into a swimming pool, a honeybee landed on my arm and stung me, right as I was taking my plunge. I took this as a sign to never dive again.)

Dormition (death)

Dubiety (doubtfulness)






Dinner (preparation)

Doorbells, Door knocks (This is for those of us with Aspergers.)

More I thought of: Dieting, Deception, Dementia, Delusions, Dust, Dust-mites, Dander, Dank Days, Dictator, Diminishing Democracy, Digestion, Deficit, Dungeons, Doomsday, Drunks, Dirty Diapers…it’s endless…

I can’t formulate another list using only one beginning letter other than D that thoroughly explains things I dread or worry about, as well as this list. I know. I tried.

If you research the letter D, (laughing, thinking this is highly unlikely), you will notice that the letter D has one of the shortest list of positive words available. D is right in there with letters like x and z—limited number of positives. (But a letter that is much easier to use in the game of Scrabble than x and z.)

The letter D has had a HUGE responsibility of holding down a lot of the masses’ frets and worries. Including yours and mine. And the time has come to celebrate D’s uniqueness and positive attributes. To say: “Thank you D for doing the dirty work!”

You can consider me one of those types that gives birthday parties for dogs; just pretend D is a dog. So here’s to you Darling Letter D! We aDore you!

D words to Dig!








Disport (play or frolic)





Daffy Duck




Darling Dear

















And my favorite song when I was eight: Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah! (I’m counting this one.)

I Do!

Did it!


Doritos Chips


Perhaps even Dreadlocks

Oh! And Dough, as in raw cookie dough!

And maybe Dark as in Dark Chocolate…am I digressing?

After digging up the D-words, maybe I will finally get that dang Dirty D’s, Don’t You Weep out of my head. (Nope. Still there.)

There is a very good chance, I am being haunted by a mob of classic-rock-loving letter D’s. I can see them with long dark hair head-banding and air-guitaring. Cute D’s but very annoying, they be!

Like my mother always says: Anything is possible.

Thinking I used the word think a lot in this post!

Now I’m realizing, if you primarily speak another language, this post is entirely a dud! Darn it!

Does anyone else have an inkling to want to color in the Big Letter D with the Count from Sesame Street atop the post? I’m thinking purple.

D in Love (Thanks AlienHippy for this song)

Wait a second! How did a monkey get in the picture!


Day 51: 4 Play


I just discovered the word fore-play can only be used in one way!

In California slang: Oh, My Gosh!

And here I was thinking I could use the word to mean: the time before I played or the time leading up to play.

(I’m hyphenating the word fore-play, in hopes of avoiding the p-er-v-s that might use the search term. No offense if you used that search term and were just looking for tips with your Honey. I don’t mean you. But maybe I do. Can’t be too sure, these days…now I’m realizing I just typed p-e-r-v-. I give up.)

Writing is an act I generally enjoy. Not so much yesterday’s post, but overall, writing is like PLAY to me. I believe I ought to be able to write fore-play to imply the play time leading up to my writing. But it looks like I’m out of luck!

I am picturing myself in a crowded room (heart beating fast) and having a small-chat-chat with a stranger (heart beating faster), and casually offering, “My writing involves a lot of foreplay.”

At this time, I would probably start obsessing about my heart beating so very fast, and start hypothesizing all the ways in which I could be dying, e.g., heart attack brought on by genetic mutation, clogged arteries, and my favorite, that Sir Brain continually obsesses about—heart suddenly explodes for unknown reason!

As I was obsessing, I’d likely miss the nonverbal clues of the person standing next to me, who was processing my statement.

I’d miss the person raise a brow or I’d miss him/her attempt to raise a brow. (I can raise my right eyebrow super high, and forget others don’t have my same skill set.) I’d miss the quizzical-who-the-heck-are-you-smile. I’d not realize a tape (CD for younger generation) was playing in the stranger’s mind.

Perhaps something like this: “Is she naïve, uneducated, bold, or just plain stupid? Or maybe trying to pick me up?”

I’d miss the follow-up smirk or wink—dependent upon interpretation. And I’d mosey along towards the food table, entirely oblivious of the person’s response to my utterance, while gorging myself on prawns and crab-cakes, in an attempt to subside Sir Brain’s rapid thinking on death.

They know what I'm talking about!

 Words like fore-play get tangled in my mind.

I love words. I am fascinated by words. They are brilliant and beautiful. And I love to paint pictures with words. Words are my primary colors blended into soothing pastels, when they merge with the white of my computer screen.

Words are my friends. And they are also my enemies. I keep words close. I watch them carefully and with awe. The slightest change, just one little letter, alters the whole meaning. Just a slight dab of painted word, a speck in the corner of the canvas, transforms the entire picture.

I still don’t comprehend why the word fore-play can’t be used in other ways.

The word fore can mean: the front, that which is in front; the future. A method of proceeding. Before. Previously.

 The word Play means: Engage in activity for enjoyment or recreation rather than practical purpose. Usually involving children.

But when I combine the two together, they don’t mean: the play you do before the play. This is confusing.

Why can’t the word combo mean the play writing I do before the writing? I love to play write before I write. I usually write a half page or more, before I find my voice and know what I want to write about. Then I delete, and begin again.

Some people, reading this post, are thinking, really? This is the best you got after you played and deleted?

Yep. This is ME!

I wanted to call this post the Origin of Fore-play. But I didn’t want to attract creeps.

Just putting that out there.

It is a funny and intriguing title, after all.

Be forewarned, don’t go digging into the word origin of fore-play, unless you want an eye-full. Neither do you want to search for images or search for examples of what p-e-r-v means. And YouTube—you know how Crazy Frog likes to find associated videos for my posts. In relation to this post, AVOID YouTube searches. LV is still hiding in shame. 

You might be wondering about the point of this here post. How this could possibly relate to Asperger’s Syndrome.

Let me point out what this post demonstrates:

  1. Words mean a lot to me.
  2. Words are confusing, especially when they have multiple meanings, or when society has combined two words to mean something different than expected and/or that don’t make logical sense.
  3. I confuse words.
  4. Confusing words can cause embarrassment.
  5. I am often unaware I ought to maybe be embarrassed.
  6. My actions confuse others.
  7. Confusing others can ostracize me (or make people like me even more).
  8. I can pretty much write about anything given a particular topic.
  9. I’m a risk taker and have a hidden talent for finding cool videos.
  10. The combo of Green Tea, chocolate cookies, and the supplement Gaba make me even more interesting.

You Tube Links You Might Enjoy

Sometimes certain words leave me feeling unsettled. If you’re like me, this is to relax you.

For those of you who were really hoping for more out of this post, here’s a frisky dolphin. 

And music, we have to have music!

Now I’m wondering about the words play toy! And thinking about when I was 18 years of age, a college freshman, and how one of my first college courses was all juniors and seniors, an upper division class, that I had no idea I ought not to have signed up for. And I’m thinking about the videos in that class, and the topic, and how my face was always beet-red.

Day Forty-Three: Sam Craft’s Lament

You know what’s great about this blog? Don’t think too hard.

Answer: You never ever know what to expect!

You know what? (Again don’t think so hard.)

I never know what to expect either!

Isn’t that fantastic?

Just nod.

For instance, I thought I’d be writing about the blustering Winnie-the-Pooh day outside, with fallen trees and cresting waves on the Puget Sound. Instead, I end up comparing my experience at the university with the impaling of a vampire. How cool is that?

Just to be completely honest, before I type on, I’ve been working very hard at out-witting my own dang rules. Having seen the dilemma of me against me, I’ve decided to lighten up some. Today, I’m quite gleefully typing in my pajamas and socks. Who wants to get showered and dressed to blog? Who was I kidding?

This is good, or rather beneficial, this rebel mood I’m in, because today is the big day I’ve been both anticipating and dreading, for around three or more weeks. I’ve lost count. And it’s not worth my time to look at the calendar. I’ve spent enough time and energy on this whole university blowup event.

That’s what I’m calling the happening: a huge blowup. Blowup as in filling up a balloon with so much helium that it bursts. Blowup as in a tire’s thread worn to the bone causing the tire to bust. Blowup as in a restless volcano blowing its top!

I’m pretty darn proud of myself that I haven’t blurted out all that transpired in black and white on this blog. I like the mysteriousness surrounding what I have offered, and the respect I’m giving the villains.

I’m feeling okay about calling them villains, even though I know we are all God’s (Universe’s, String Theory’s, what-have-you’s) creatures.

I know these people have taught me plenty; especially about how I don’t want to lead and teach like them. And I know these lessons will carry me far, that the experience has already given me that extra sheet of armadillo-layer across my soft-bellied-sensitive-tummy.

Still, something feels so delightfully good about calling them villains.

Some words for villain are anti-hero and contemptible person.

I picture a little ant with a small red cape that reads HERO going up against a grotesque giant in a huge white nappy (diaper) that reads Anti-Hero. And I envision the ant winning by some divine intervention from the Roman Gods.

I like the term beyond the pale, too. It’s a word related to contemptible and means an unpardonable action. I believe I am in the right to say the professor was beyond the pale.  He was outside the acceptable and agreed upon standards of decency. And dang it, if I have to constantly adjust my actions and phrases to make others feel comfortable, then he ought to have at least had decency.

A little word origin lesson, as I’m a teacher at heart, and always shall be: The pale means a stake or pointed piece of wood. Think vampire. I’m thinking a sexy vampire. Pale is in the word impale, like in the Dracula flicks. A paling fence represents an area enclosed by a fence; so to be beyond the pale is to be outside the accepted home area, or designated safety zone.

Fenced areas or regions were set up for people for safety, such as when Catherine the Great created the Pale of Settlement in Russia.

So the message is: “If there is a pale, decent people remain inside the pale.”

Look what Crazy Frog Found!

By the way, my professor, he jumped the fence.

Now I’m stuck on word origin again. I just reviewed the origin of flipping the bird, ducks in a row, and, you might be happy to know with all my rambling, I’m reviewing that’s all she wrote.  Okay, done.

Last night I dreamt that I parked my ten-speed bike in front of a quaint neighborhood house. When I returned to retrieve the bike, I found it broke into two (repairable) parts. I knocked on the door of the nearby house. An older man answered. (He looked like my professor but way uglier.) The man explained that he took the bike apart because I left too much of my bike sticking out in his driveway. I hadn’t. He then offered to fix the bike for a large sum of money. I knew he was applying trickery and trying to gain from my loss. I declined, and instead had him carry the pieces into my van. I drove away.

Hmmmm? I wonder how my subconscious is feeling about my dumbass professor?

Another thought: How in the world can I produce such deep felt all-loving, nonjudgmental prose like The Wounded Healer and On Leadership one day, and then turn around and have the audacity to call a professional a dumbass?

Oh! I’m raising my hand! I know. I know. Call on me!

Answer: Because I’m human (just like you’re human, I hope), and I refuse to act like I’m not human to earn some semblance of self-manipulated respect. Plus, who hasn’t wanted to call at least one teacher in their life a dumbass?

Okay, just so you know Melancholic Little Me is still around, and obviously Sir Brain (as I’m still rambling). Little Me is carrying an index card that reads:

My Authentic Self: “…caring, nurturing, kind, creative, intelligent, beautiful being who doesn’t wish harm on anyone and wants to be the most beneficial light wherever she is.”

I said those words aloud during a group therapy meeting (in the college course I’ve dropped) when asked by the professor, “What do you wish to share in this group?”

But I didn’t share what I truly wanted to share. I had wanted to say, in group, how my heart had been impaled by two professors and by my classroom study-partner. That would have been authentic!


Who is Van Helsing? A protagonist in Bram Stoker’s 1897 Gothic horror novel Dracula.

Day Forty: 13 Mouth Facts


Each and everyday, many people in the blogging realm are typing in the search terms 13 or mouthGuess one place their glorious search takes these inquiring minds? Yep! You’re such a smart cookie! Right here: the happy little place of Everyday Aspergers.

Because of the lovely search term mouth, my Proverbial Foot in the Mouth post keeps ranking in the top five out of all my blog posts.

I can understand the obsession with the awesome number 13. Who doesn’t love number 13 facts? But why are numerous earthlings searching for the word mouth? Is it something to do with the Mayan calendar?

My middle-son offered studiously, when queried about the blogging-mouth-hunts, “It’s quite obvious, Mom. They are looking for a good dentist, and want to see what type of job the dentists are doing.”

Great thinking. But when I think of people searching for the word mouth, my mind doesn’t go in that exact dentist-handy-work direction.

One can only hypothesize.

Because I cannot control the search term mouth from boosting a post’s ranking—a post I consider mediocre in comparison to the other grand knowledge found  on this mighty blog—today I have spent many, many hours searching for 13 intriguing mouth images and  13 facts about mouths.

My favorite part was Googling: “Do Hippos Really Fart through their Mouths?”  I still don’t know. Although, I found some disturbing YouTube videos on the subject matter. Okay, without further nonsensical ado, I present a one of a kind list of 13 Mouth Facts.

13  Mouth Facts

People whose mouths have narrow roofs are more likely to snore.

It takes food seven seconds to go from the mouth to the stomach.

In Pennsylvania you may not catch a fish by any body part except the mouth.

A jellyfish passes waste material through its mouth.

An average dog’s mouth exerts 150 to 200 pounds of pressure per square inch.

A person cannot taste food unless it is mixed with saliva.

The crocodile bird flies into the open mouth of a crocodile and cleans its teeth for it.

The snail’s mouth is no larger than the head of a pin, but it can have over 25,000 teeth.

It takes more muscles to frown than smile.

Your tongue is the strongest muscle in your body.

Some moths never eat anything as adults because they don’t have mouths. They live on their caterpillar energy.

When a person pees a small deposit of urine enters the mouth through the saliva glands.

Just as we all have unique fingerprints, we all have unique tongue prints.

The Geek Posse Chimed in on more random facts “we” found while surfing the net.

Sir Brain: 80% of the brain is water.

LV: You cant’ tickle yourself!

Prophet: The sentence “The quick brown fox jumps over a lazy dog” uses every letter of the alphabet.

Crazy Frog: A group of frogs is called an army.

Little Me: Scientists say the higher your I.Q., the more you dream.

Phantom: A duck’s quack doesn’t echo. No one knows why.

Elephant: One pound of peanut butter typically contains up to 150 bug fragments and 5 rodent hairs.

OCFlea: A female flea consumes 15 times her own body weight in blood every day.

Crazy Frog cites the example of this anomaly as a side lesson: A frog when dropped should move towards the ground. If the frog remains in mid-air, the levitation would be considered an anomaly. Or considered super darn Matrix-Cool!

Sam Craft's Mouth. Or I guess, teeth!

Note: I have not confirmed all of these facts to be truthful. Please never rely on the validity of the Internet or the validity of Crazy Frog. 


Day Twenty-Six: Patch Freak Makes Life Change!


I’m going to attempt to use humor to explain a major life altering decision.

I’m back.

Bet you didn’t know I was gone.

I totally (California born and raised) slipped out of focus and got sidetracked for an hour’s time about the origin of the word humor. Why? Because I used the word humor in a sentence, Silly. And that led Brain away, like a string of yarn does for a kitten. This morning Brain’s string began at etymology: the origin or development of a word, affix, phrase, etc., and the string ended with black bile. Yucko-mania!

If Brain hadn’t allowed for a detour into Reasoning Forest, and instead he/she had left me in the moment, I fear I would be profusely apologizing for the spattering of snot and tears all over the computer screen. Yes, remarkably indeed, Brain returned me to an emotional state of equilibrium, with one quick, and rather boring, sidetrack.

And I have good news. When Brain examined the root origin of humor, which included words like phlegm, LV (little voice in my head) found us a new patch for our sash! Our lovely patch Melancholic is one of the four temperaments, the others being: Sanguine, Choleric, and Phlegmatic.


It is black in color, the Melancholic patch, and now firmly sewn on to LV’s slash, amongst her numerous other merit badges of distinction. She tore off the high-maintenance patch to make room for the new one. The patch of Melancholic represents the following traits: sensitive, intuitive, self-conscious, easily embarrassed, easily hurt, introspective, sentimental, moody, likes to be alone, empathetic, artistic, fussy and perfectionistic, deep, prone to depression, avarice, and gluttony!

Sidetrack: (Brain left again, but only for a brief stretch. He/She had to know the origin of origin. Call him/her crazy. I do. At first I was afraid that there was no origin of origin. Fear gripped, an anguish surfacing from the depths of Grendel’s mire: What if there is no origin of origin? Don’t panic. Luckily there is. The original meaning of origin is to rise, become visible, or from beginning source. I can live with that. I just wish the online etymology dictionary had the real origin of the universe. Which by definition would be the beginning source of the universe. Sadly, the definition only reads:  the cosmos, whole, and turned into one. No real origin there.)

The Melancholic patch is an improvement over some of the qualities listed on the other temperament patches, such as: hedonism (which is an ugly word to begin with), impetuous, prone to hypocrisy, and prone to sloth. Prone to sloth, makes me giggle. To learn more you can click here

I think from now on, when I’m in an Aspie funk, unable to make a decision, on overload, and/or plain overwhelmed with my brain, I will say: “I am prone to sloth, presently exhibiting attributes of the phlegmatic temperament.” Just warning you ahead of time.

Concerning the brief mentioning of my life altering decision, I was a daredevil speed racer in my mind for three hours straight last night, between the convenient hours of 11:00 pm and 2:00 am. Riding a cranked-up dirt bike up and around turn tunnels and across perilous ramps. LV had a lot of processing to do. And when I woke up, I endured two more hours. I did not know it was humanly possible to pour gallons of tears out of my tear ducts; but then again LV is sporting that hip new Melancholic patch.

The good news is the tears have cleared and hope has set in. There’s a seedling sprouting at this very moment at the belly of my spirit and stretching to the open sky.

What happened? You query, so sympathetically, (or not). Well…I took a whirl at taking care of Brain, LV, and Me, and got the Heck Out of Dodge! (Brain notes: Get the hell out of Dodge is in reference to Dodge City, Kansas, a favored location for westerns in the mid 20th century. Most notably, the saying was made infamous by the TV series Gunsmoke). And that’s the only reason my husband tolerates me–because I’m full of…interesting facts!

Sorry, about that. Suspense building. Drum roll. Shying away. Just going to splash it out in one big wave:

I got the Heck out of the University that I was attending for my Masters Degree in Counseling.

Kaput! We Gone!

There are a few distinct patches I’d like to stick on that subject, but I won’t.

For now, I’ll let Brain be, and LV rest, and Me, Little Sweet Me, I think I’ll treat her to an overdue retreat. Pardon me now, as I venture into my Phlegmatic Zone, and contemplate how to proceed through the glory of a new opened door.

Oh, Crap. Brain wants to explore truckers’ lingo! And LV is shouting, “Yes!”   The Gods truly must be crazy. I like the words: Gator Guts, Seat Cover, and Suds and Muds…you know you’re curious. Click  Truckers’ Slang Words or check out the video below:

Below You Can Read: All About the Origin of Humor, By Sir Brain  


Humor is Latin in origin and first meant liquid. The word represented moisture, especially the moisture of fluid of animal bodies, such as lymph.

Around 460 B.C. Hippocrates noticed that blood removed from the body separated into four parts: clear red, yellowish liquid that rises to the surface, dark liquid that settles at the bottom, and a whitish liquid. He and his students developed a theory based on Hipporcrates’ observations. Later the theory was expounded upon. Theorists believed mental health was a matter of a good balance of the four liquids (humors). The word humor eventually became connected with someone’s temporary state of mind. Humor’s meaning of amusement did not occur until the 1600’s.

The theory of bodily humors holds that each person produces four humors but that a preponderance of one relative to the others brings on sickness.  Fluid was thought to be part of the makeup of the body, and temperament, (meaning mixture), was determined by the proportions of four fluids (humors): blood, phlegm, bile, and black bile.

A predominance of blood, associated with the liver, equates to an optimistic and sanguine (confident) temperament. Sanguine is rooted in the original definition of ruddy or blood red face.

A predominance of yellow bile, associated with the spleen, equates to being choleric (short-tempered). Too much yellow bile and one viewed the world through a bilious eye. Choleric is rooted in the Greek khole, meaning bile.

A predominance of black bile, associated with the gall bladder, equate to a melancholic (pensively sad) temperament. From the Greek melas (black) and khole bile. Melancholia means too much black bile.

A predominance of Phlegm, associated with the lungs and brain, equates to being phlegmatic (slow and unexcitable).

Any imbalance of these humors made a person unwell and perhaps eccentric. Through the passing of time humor took on the meaning of oddness.

Fasting is thought to bring humors into balance. Humorism postulates that each person is born with a basic temperament.

You can find more information about the origin of humor here: In MY BRAIN!