Sassy gnome

by Bill Tiepelman

How to Lose a Dragon in 10 Hugs

The Hug Heard 'Round the Forest There once lived a gnome named Brambletug who had two core beliefs: that all creatures secretly longed for his affection, and that personal space was a myth perpetuated by introverts and elves. He wore a hat the color of fermented cherries, a smile that bordered on litigation, and had the emotional intelligence of a wet rock. One fine morning — the kind where the sun peeks through the trees just enough to blind you and a squirrel poops on your head for luck — Brambletug set out to do something noble. “Today,” he declared to absolutely no one, “I shall befriend a dragon.” He even brought a friendship starter pack: a pinecone (gift-wrapped in moss), a cinnamon-scented hug, and three wildly outdated knock-knock jokes. Meanwhile, not far from where Brambletug was rehearsing his icebreakers, lurked a dragon. Not a fire-breathing, village-burning sort of dragon. No, this one was more... emotionally scorched. His name was Krivven, and he had the perpetual expression of someone who just discovered oat milk in their coffee after asking for cream. He had scales the color of swamp envy, horns that curved like a passive-aggressive eyebrow, and the aura of a grumpy librarian who was denied tenure. Krivven wasn’t *technically* evil — just very, very tired. He’d moved to the quiet forest glade after centuries of babysitting unstable sorcerers and being summoned by teenagers with bad Latin and worse tattoos. All he wanted now was to sulk in peace and maybe binge-watch the sun setting through the trees. Alone. Unhugged. So when Brambletug crept into his clearing, arms wide and teeth bared in what was legally considered a smile, Krivven knew — with a deep, resigned exhale — that his day had just gone to hell. “GREETINGS!” Brambletug hollered, as if the dragon were hard of hearing or hard of tolerating nonsense. “My name is Brambletug Bartholomew Bramblewhack the Third, and you, sir, are my destined bestie.” Krivven blinked. Once. Slowly. In a tone that could curdle sap, he responded, “No.” “A classic!” Brambletug giggled. “You're funny! That’s good. Friendships should be built on humor. Also: hugging. Prepare yourself.” Before Krivven could retract into his sulky little safe space (read: three perfectly arranged rocks and a Do Not Disturb sign carved into a tree), Brambletug lunged like a caffeinated chipmunk on a sugar bender and latched onto his scaly midsection. And there it was — the first hug. Krivven’s soul sighed. Birds scattered. Somewhere, a butterfly died out of secondhand embarrassment. “You smell like toasted anxiety,” Brambletug whispered, delighted. “We’re going to be *so* good for each other.” Krivven began counting backward from ten. And then forward. And then in Elvish. None of it helped. Of Singed Moss and Questionable Boundaries Krivven, to his credit, didn’t immediately immolate Brambletug. It was a close call — his nostrils flared, a single puff of smoke leaked out, and he did momentarily imagine the gnome roasting like a festive meatball — but ultimately, he decided against it. Not out of mercy, mind you. He simply didn’t want to get gnome stench in his nostril vents. Again. “You are... still here,” the dragon said, half observation, half prayer for this to be a hallucination caused by expired toadstools. “Of course I’m still here! Hugging is not a one-time event. It’s a lifestyle,” Brambletug chirped, still firmly attached to Krivven’s side like a burr with daddy issues. Krivven sighed and attempted to peel the gnome off. Unfortunately, Brambletug had the cling strength of a raccoon on Adderall. “We are not friends,” Krivven growled. “Oh Krivvy,” the gnome said with a wink so aggressive it should’ve come with a warning label, “that’s just your trauma talking.” The dragon’s left eye twitched. “My what?” “Don’t worry,” Brambletug said, patting Krivven’s chest like he was a wounded house cat, “I read a scroll once about emotional baggage. I’m basically your life coach now.” It was around this time Krivven made a mental list of potential witnesses, legal consequences, and whether gnome meat counted as poultry. The math didn’t add up in his favor. Yet. Over the next three days, Brambletug launched a full-scale, unsolicited friendship offensive. He moved into Krivven’s territory with all the subtlety of a bard in heat. First came the *"snack bonding."* Brambletug brought marshmallows, mushrooms, and something he called “squirrel crack”—a suspiciously crunchy trail mix that made Krivven mildly paranoid. The gnome insisted they roast things together “like real adventuring bros.” “I do not eat marshmallows,” Krivven said, as Brambletug jammed one onto the tip of his horn like a skewered confection of shame. “Not yet you don’t!” the gnome chirped. “But give it time. You’ll be licking caramel off your claws and asking for seconds, Krivvy-doodle.” “Never call me that again.” “Okay, Krivster.” Krivven's eye twitched again. Harder. The marshmallow did, against his better instincts, catch fire — spectacularly. Brambletug squealed with glee and shouted, “YES! CHARRED OUTSIDE, GOOEY SOUL. Just like you!” Krivven, too stunned to reply, simply watched as Brambletug proceeded to eat the flaming lump directly from his claw, singing his tongue and squealing, “PAIN IS JUST SPICY FRIENDSHIP.” Then came the *"trust-building games,"* which included: falling backward off a log while expecting Krivven to catch him (“It builds vulnerability!”), shadow puppets in the firelight (“Look, it’s you... being sad!”), and a roleplaying exercise where Brambletug played a “sad forest orphan” and Krivven was expected to “adopt him emotionally.” Krivven, staring blankly, responded, “I am this close to developing a new hobby that involves gnome launch velocity and trebuchets.” “Awwwwww! You’re thinking of crafts! That’s progress!” One night, Brambletug declared they needed a **Friendship Manifesto**, and tried to tattoo it on a tree using Krivven’s claw while the dragon was asleep. Krivven woke to find the word “CUDDLEPACT” etched into bark and Brambletug humming what suspiciously sounded like a duet. From both parts. “Are you... singing with yourself?” “No, I’m harmonizing with your inner child,” Brambletug said, deadpan. Krivven reconsidered his moral stance on gnome-flicking. Hard. Despite all this, something bizarre began to happen. A shift. A crack — not in Krivven’s emotional carapace (that thing was still fortified like a dwarven panic room), but in his routine. He was... less bored. More annoyed, yes. But that was technically a form of engagement. And every now and then — between the monologues, the unsolicited riddles, and the horrifying “hug sneak attacks” — Brambletug would say something... almost profound. Like the time they watched a snail cross the path for 45 minutes and Brambletug said, “You know, we’re all just goo-filled meat tubes pretending we have direction.” Or when he sat on Krivven’s tail and whispered, “Everyone wants to be a dragon, but no one wants to be misunderstood.” It was annoying. It was invasive. It was kind of true. And now, Krivven couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just *maybe*, this annoying, clingy, wildly codependent fuzzball... wasn’t trying to change him. Just... annoy him into healing. Which was worse, really. And then, on the fourth day, Brambletug said the most horrifying thing yet: “I’ve planned a group picnic. For your social skills.” Krivven froze. “A what.” “I invited some unicorns, a banshee, two dryads, and a sentient puddle named Dave. It’s going to be adorable.” The dragon began to quake. “There will be snacks,” Brambletug added, “and a group activity called ‘Affirmation Volleyball.’” Krivven’s left eye twitched so hard it dislocated a horn ridge. Somewhere in the forest, birds paused in terror. Somewhere else, Dave the puddle prepared emotionally for volleyball. The Picnic of the Damned (and Slightly Moist) Krivven tried to flee. Not metaphorically. Literally. He spread his wings, launched six feet into the air, and was immediately tackled mid-lift-off by a gnome clutching a wicker basket full of “snack bonding opportunities.” “WE HAVE TO MAKE AN ENTRANCE TOGETHER,” Brambletug yelled, riding him like a therapy gremlin. “LIKE A POWER COUPLE. YOU'RE THE GRUMPY ONE, I’M THE CHAOTIC OPTIMIST. IT’S OUR BRAND!” “This is a hostage situation,” Krivven muttered as they crash-landed beside a checkered blanket and a crowd of creatures who looked like they deeply regretted RSVPing ‘yes’ to the tiny scroll that had been left under their respective mossy doorsteps. The picnic was a fever dream. A banshee in a sunhat handed out herbal tea and screamed compliments at everyone. The dryads brought “root-based tapas” and spent twenty minutes arguing about whether hummus had ethical implications. Dave the sentient puddle kept trying to infiltrate the fruit bowl and flirted openly with Krivven’s tail. Unicorns — plural — stood off to the side, quietly judging everything with the passive-aggressive elegance of wine moms at a PTA meeting. One wore horn glitter. Another smoked something suspicious and kept muttering about “manifesting stable energy.” “This,” Krivven hissed, “is social terrorism.” “This,” Brambletug corrected, “is growth.” The nightmare crescendoed with **Affirmation Volleyball**, a team sport in which you could only spike the ball after shouting a compliment at someone across the field. If the compliment was “lazy,” the ball turned to custard. (That was Dave’s rule. Don’t ask.) Krivven was cornered, emotionally and literally, as Brambletug served him a volleyball and screamed, “YOUR EMOTIONAL WALLS ARE JUST A SIGN OF VULNERABILITY MASKED AS STRENGTH!” The ball hit Krivven in the snout. No custard. Which meant the compliment was, by this game’s logic, valid. He stared down at it, then at Brambletug, who beamed like the world’s most self-satisfied anxiety demon. And for one fleeting moment — just a flicker — Krivven... almost smiled. Not a full smile, of course. It was more of a muscle spasm. But it terrified the unicorns and made Dave do a sexy ripple. Progress! The picnic eventually dissolved into chaos. The banshee got wine drunk and started singing breakup ballads from the cliffside. One of the dryads turned into a shrub and refused to leave. The unicorns gentrified the nearest field. Dave split into three smaller puddles and declared himself a commune. Amidst it all, Brambletug sat next to Krivven, gnawing contentedly on a cookie shaped like a dragon butt. “So... what did we learn today?” he asked, crumbs flaking down his tunic like snow from a cursed bakery. Krivven exhaled — not a sigh, not smoke, just... air. “I learned that hugs are a form of magical assault,” he said flatly. “And?” “...That sometimes being annoyed is better than being alone.” “BOOM!” Brambletug shouted, launching himself into Krivven’s lap. “THAT, MY SCALY DUDE, IS CHARACTER ARC.” Krivven did not incinerate him. Instead, with a noise that was not a growl but could pass for one at parties, he muttered, “You may continue... existing. In my vicinity.” Brambletug gasped. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me! Quick! Someone write it on a mug!” And from that day on — against every law of nature and common sense — the gnome and the dragon became companions. Not friends. Not exactly. But... tolerable cohabitants with joint custody of a cursed picnic blanket and a banshee who now slept on their porch. Every few days, Brambletug would initiate a new hug, call it “installment number whatever,” and Krivven would groan and accept it with all the grace of a barbed-wire hug vest. He’d never admit it, but by the tenth hug — the one with the extra sparkles and a sarcastic unicorn DJ playing Enya — Krivven actually leaned in for half a second. Not long. Just enough. And Brambletug, bless his deranged heart, whispered, “See? Told you I’d wear you down.” Krivven rolled his eyes. “You’re insufferable.” “And yet... hugged.” The moral of the story? If you ever find yourself emotionally constipated in a forest, just wait. A gnome will show up eventually. Probably uninvited. Definitely holding marshmallows. And absolutely ready to violate your boundaries into emotional progress.     Need a daily reminder that unsolicited gnome affection is the purest form of emotional growth? Bring Brambletug and Krivven’s chaotic friendship to your own world with beautifully crafted collectibles from the Unfocussed shop. Whether you're decorating your lair, scribbling questionable poetry, or just want to send a passive-aggressive greeting to your favorite introvert, we've got you covered: Metal Print: Give your walls the grumpy, glossy dragon energy they never knew they needed. Framed Print: Because every magical forest disaster deserves a place of honor in your home gallery. Greeting Card: Perfect for birthdays, breakups, and emotionally unavailable cryptids. Spiral Notebook: Jot down your trauma, sketch your inner gnome, or track your personal hug quota. Shop the full lineup now and carry a little enchanted chaos wherever you go. Brambletug approved. Krivven… tolerated.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Howling Hat of Hooten Hollow

The Hat That Bit Back By the time Glumbella Fernwhistle turned ninety-seven-and-a-half, she’d stopped pretending her hat wasn’t alive. It gurgled when she yawned, belched when she ate lentils, and once slapped a squirrel clean out of a tree for looking at her mushrooms the wrong way. And not metaphorical mushrooms, mind you—actual fungi sprouting from the side of her floppy, overgrown headpiece. She called it Carl. Carl the Hat. Carl did not approve of sobriety, shame, or squirrels. This suited Glumbella just fine. She lived in a cobbled mushroom cottage on the edge of Hooten Hollow, a place so full of mischief that the trees had mood swings and the moss had opinions. Glumbella was the kind of gnome you didn’t visit unless you brought both a bottle and an apology—for what, you weren’t always sure. She had a cackle like a goat in therapy and a tongue so frequently stuck out it had developed a tan. But what really made Glumbella infamous was the night she made the moon blush. It started, as most regrettable triumphs do, with a dare. Her neighbor, Tildy Grizzleblum—renowned inventor of the self-stirring gravy cauldron—bet Glumbella ten copper buttons she couldn’t seduce the moon. Glumbella, three elderberry wines in and barefoot, had climbed to the top of Flasher’s Bluff, bared one spectacularly unfiltered grin, and shouted, “OI! MOON! You big glowing tease! Show us yer craters!” The moon, previously considered emotionally distant, turned pink for the first time in recorded history. Tildy never paid up. Claimed the blush was atmospheric disturbance. Glumbella hexed her gravy to taste like regret for a week. It was the talk of the Hollow until the time Glumbella accidentally married a toad. But that’s a whole other issue involving a cursed wedding veil and a case of mistaken identity during mating season. Still, nothing in her long, outrageously inappropriate life prepared her for the arrival of HIM. A forest path, a suspicious breeze, and one very disheveled male gnome with eyes like drunken chestnuts. She could smell trouble. And a hint of old socks. Her favorite combination. “You lost, sweetcheeks?” she asked, lips curled, Carl twitching with interest. He didn’t blink. Just grinned with a mouth full of crooked charm and said, “Only if you say no.” And just like that, the Hollow was no longer the weirdest thing in Glumbella’s life. He was. Spells, Sass, and One Regrettable Pickle He called himself Bramble. No last name. Just Bramble. Which was, of course, either suspicious or sexy. Possibly both. Glumbella squinted at him the way one examines mold on cheese—trying to decide if it added flavor or would cause hallucinations. Carl the Hat drooped slightly in what might’ve been approval. Or gas. No one could ever tell with Carl. “So,” Glumbella said, leaning against a crooked fencepost with all the grace of a drunk poetry critic, “you show up here with those boots—muddy, charming, criminally well-worn—and that beard that’s clearly never met a comb, and expect me not to ask where you’re hiding your motives?” Bramble chuckled, a low, gravel-smooth sound that tickled her mossy instincts. “I’m just a wanderer,” he said, “looking for trouble.” “You found it,” she grinned. “And she bites.” They traded words like potions—some bubbling with innuendo, others fizzing with sarcasm. The gnomes of Hooten Hollow weren’t known for subtlety, but even Glumbella’s porch toad stopped sunbathing to observe the sparks flying. Within the hour, Bramble had accepted an invitation into her kitchen, where the mugs were mismatched, the wine was elderberry and defiant, and every single piece of furniture had at least one embarrassing story attached to it. “That chair over there,” she said, pointing with a ladle, “once hosted an orgy of pixies during a midsummer moon rave. Still smells like glitter and fermented rose hips.” Bramble sat in it without hesitation. “Now I’m even more comfortable.” Carl let out a low hum. The hat was always a little jealous. It had once hexed a suitor’s beard into a nest for furious hummingbirds. But Carl… Carl liked Bramble. Not trust, not yet. But interest. Carl only drooled on things he wanted to keep. Bramble got drooled on. A lot. As the wine flowed, the conversation turned slippery. Spells were swapped like dirty jokes. Glumbella showed off her prized collection of cursed socks—each one stolen from mysterious laundry disappearances across dimensions. Bramble, in turn, revealed a tattoo on his hip that could whisper insults in seventeen languages. “Say something in Gobbledygroan,” she purred. “It just called you a ‘shimmer-skulled minx with wild cabbage energy.’” She nearly choked on her wine. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me this decade.” Their evening escalated into potion pong (she won), a one-on-one broom jousting match (she also won, but he looked great falling), and a heated debate over whether moonlight was better for hexes or skinny-dipping (jury's still out). At some point, Bramble dared her to let Carl cast a spell unsupervised. “Are you mad?” she cried. “Carl once tried to turn a goose into a loaf of bread and ended up with a squawking baguette that still haunts my pantry.” “I live dangerously,” Bramble grinned. “And you’re obviously into chaos.” “Well,” she said, standing dramatically and knocking over a bottle of sparkle tonic, “I suppose it’s not a proper Tuesday until something catches fire or someone gets kissed.” And that was how Bramble ended up stuck to the ceiling. Carl, in a rare mood of cooperation, had tried to conjure a “romantic levitation spell.” It worked. Too well. Bramble hovered upside down, flailing, one sock falling off while Glumbella roared with laughter and took notes on a napkin titled “future foreplay ideas.” “How long does this last?” Bramble asked from above, spinning slowly. “Oh, I’d guess until the hat gets bored or until you compliment my knees,” she smirked. He eyed her legs. “Sturdy as a spellbound oak and twice as enchanting.” With a dramatic “fwoomp,” he fell directly into her arms. She dropped him, naturally, because she was built for insults and wine, not bridal carries. They landed in a heap of limbs, lace, and one rather smug hat who casually slithered off Glumbella’s head to claim the wine bottle for itself. “Carl’s gone rogue,” she muttered. “Does this mean the date’s going well?” Bramble asked, breathless. “Sweetcheeks,” she said, brushing leaf confetti from his beard, “if this were going badly, you’d already be a frog wearing a tutu and begging for flies.” And just like that, a new kind of trouble rooted itself in Hooten Hollow—a mischievous, magnetic, absolutely inadvisable connection between a gnome witch with no filter and a rogue wanderer who smiled like he knew how to start fires with compliments. Toads began gossiping. The trees leaned closer. Carl sharpened his brim. The Hangover, The Hex, and The Honeymoon (Not Necessarily In That Order) The next morning smelled like regret, roasted acorns, and singed beard hair. Bramble awoke dangling upside-down in a hammock made entirely of enchanted laundry, his left eyebrow missing and his right one twitching in Morse code. Carl was perched beside him with an empty flask and a threatening gleam in his brim. “Good morning, you rakish woodland degenerate,” Glumbella chirped from the garden, dressed in a scandalously mossy robe and wielding a trowel like a sword. “You shrieked in your sleep. Either you were dreaming of tax audits or you’re allergic to flirtation.” “I dreamed I was a zucchini,” he groaned. “Being judged. By squirrels.” She cackled so hard a tomato blushed. “Then we’re progressing nicely.” The Hollow was in full gossip bloom. Gnomelings whispered of a courtship forged in chaos. The Elder Council sent Glumbella a strongly worded scroll urging “discretion, decency, and pants.” She framed it above her loo. Bramble, now semi-resident and fully shirtless 60% of the time, fit into the ecosystem like a charming virus. Plants leaned toward him. Crickets composed sonnets about his butt. Carl hissed when they kissed, but only out of habit. And then came the Pickle Incident. It started with a potion. Always does. Glumbella had been experimenting with a “Love Me, Loathe Me, Lick Me” elixir—allegedly a mild flirtation enhancer. She left it on the kitchen shelf labeled Not For Bramble, which of course ensured that Bramble would absolutely drink it by accident while trying to pickle beets. The result? He fell desperately, dramatically in love with a jar of fermented cucumbers. “She understands me,” he declared, cradling the jar, eyes misty. “She’s complex. Salty. A little spicy.” Glumbella responded with a hex so potent it briefly turned him into a sentient sandwich. He still has nightmares about mayonnaise therapy. Once the elixir wore off (with the help of two sarcastic fairies, one slap from Carl, and a kiss so aggressive it startled a flock of crows), Bramble regained his senses. He apologized by crafting her a love letter out of enchanted leaves that screamed compliments when read aloud. The neighbors complained. Glumbella cried once—silently, while pouring wine into her boots. Eventually, the Hollow began to accept the duo as a necessary evil. Like seasonal flooding or emotionally unstable hedgehogs. The town bakery started selling “Carl Crust” sourdough. The local tavern offered a cocktail called the “Witch’s Whiplash”—two parts elderberry brandy, one part seductive regret. Tourists wandered into the woods hoping to see the infamous hat-witch and her dangerously handsome consort. Most of them got lost. One married a tree. It happens. But Glumbella and Bramble? They simply… thrived. Like fungus in a damp drawer. They didn’t marry in any traditional sense. There were no doves or rings or solemn declarations. Instead, one foggy morning, Glumbella woke to find Bramble had carved their initials into the moon using a stolen weather spell and a goat with anxiety issues. The moon blinked twice. Carl sang a sea shanty. And that was that. They celebrated by getting drunk in a treehouse, racing leaf-boats in the river, and aggressively ignoring the concept of monogamy for six months straight. It was perfect. Some say their laughter still echoes through the Hollow. Others claim Carl runs a poker game on Wednesdays and cheats with his brim. One thing’s for certain: if you ever find yourself lost in Hooten Hollow and stumble upon a wild-haired witch with a wicked grin and a man beside her who looks like he just kissed a tornado, you’ve found them. Don’t stare. Don’t judge. And absolutely do not touch the hat. It bites.     Bring the Magic Home If Glumbella’s sass, Bramble’s charm, and Carl’s unpredictable brim made you laugh, blush, or consider abandoning your career for a life of enchanted chaos—why not invite their mischief into your space? Explore a range of beautifully printed keepsakes inspired by The Howling Hat of Hooten Hollow—each crafted with care to bring a touch of forest whimsy and gnomish delight into your everyday world: Tapestry – Transform any room with this richly detailed woven tapestry featuring Glumbella in all her wild glory. Wood Print – Add rustic charm to your walls with this vibrant artwork printed on smooth wood grain—just like Carl would want (assuming he approved). Framed Print – A classic option for lovers of fantasy art and chaotic gnome energy—framed, ready to hang, and guaranteed to make guests ask questions. Fleece Blanket – Cozy up with a blanket that captures the warmth, whimsy, and low-key seduction of a magical night in Hooten Hollow. Greeting Card – Send a giggle, a wink, or a mild hex in the mail with a card featuring this unforgettable scene. Each item is perfect for fans of whimsical fantasy, mischievous storytelling, and the kind of art that feels alive (possibly sentient, definitely opinionated). Find your favorite at shop.unfocussed.com and let the spirit of Hooten Hollow haunt your heart—and maybe your guest room.

by Bill Tiepelman

A Gnome’s New Year Revelry

The Gnome Who Gave Zero F***s About New Year's It was a snowy New Year’s Eve in the middle of nowhere—exactly how the gnome liked it. His name? Didn’t matter. Let’s just call him "That Gnome." He wasn’t the cute kind you’d stick in a garden. No, this one was a little rough around the edges, with a long curly hat that screamed, “I’m festive, but also don’t touch me.” That Gnome was perched on a wooden stump, surrounded by glittering crap that would make even Martha Stewart gag from the excess. A Christmas tree, decked out in so much gold it looked like a Kardashian got to it, loomed behind him. At his feet, champagne bottles were scattered like battlefield casualties, their corks long popped, their bubbly contents half-drained. “Here we go again,” he muttered, staring at the fireworks that were lighting up the snowy forest sky. “Another year, another pile of resolutions no one’s gonna keep. Cheers to more lies and gym memberships!” He grabbed his glass of champagne, but not before kicking over a perfectly wrapped gift. "What is this? Socks? F***ing socks again? I live in the damn woods! What part of ‘practical’ don’t you people understand?” He sighed dramatically and took a swig. The bubbles burned just right. He’d definitely regret it tomorrow, but that was tomorrow’s problem. The Party Nobody Was Invited To Despite his grumpy demeanor, That Gnome had set quite the scene. Candles flickered, casting a warm glow over the forest clearing. Golden ornaments dangled from nearby trees, glinting in the firelight. A clock, ominously ticking down to midnight, sat on a makeshift table. He’d stolen it from a passing hiker months ago. Recycling, he called it. “Ten minutes until midnight,” he grumbled, looking at the clock. “Just enough time to regret everything I’ve eaten this week and remind myself that kale is still garbage.” He leaned back against the stump, watching the world celebrate through his tiny, judgmental eyes. Somewhere, people were singing “Auld Lang Syne,” holding hands, and pretending they weren’t going to ghost half the people in that room by February. Midnight Madness The countdown began, and That Gnome groaned audibly. “Ten… nine… blah, blah, blah,” he mocked as the fireworks began to crescendo overhead. “Three… two… one—oh, look! It’s another year where I have to pretend to care!” The clock struck midnight, and the forest exploded in light and noise. Fireworks crackled, the tree sparkled, and That Gnome raised his glass. “Cheers to you, 2025. Let’s see if you can suck a little less than last year. Though, knowing how this world works, I’m not holding my breath.” He drained his glass in one gulp and threw the flute into the snow. “That’s it! Party’s over. Go home, you losers!” he shouted to absolutely no one. He was, after all, completely alone. Resolution? Don’t Hold Your Breath By the time the fireworks faded and the champagne bottles were empty, That Gnome was passed out in the snow, snoring loudly. His curly hat drooped comically over his face, and his beard was covered in glitter from a champagne mishap. Somewhere in his alcohol-soaked brain, he muttered, “Next year, I’ll try harder. Just kidding—screw that.” And there he lay, the most festive, grumpy little gnome in the forest, dreaming of a world where people actually gave up on the whole “New Year, New Me” charade. As far as he was concerned, New Year’s resolutions were for suckers, and champagne was the only thing worth celebrating. So, here’s to That Gnome: the hero we didn’t ask for, but the one we all secretly are. May your New Year be full of snark, sass, and just enough champagne to make it bearable.     Shop the Look Love the vibe of this grumpy little gnome’s celebration? Bring some of that festive sass into your home or wardrobe with these amazing products: Shop this scene as a tapestry – Perfect for covering that boring wall you’ve been meaning to fix. Canvas print – Because your living room deserves a gnome’s touch of sarcasm. Throw pillow – A soft place to rest while you contemplate your next fake resolution. Tote bag – For carrying your champagne and snacks to the next party you’ll regret attending. Start your year with a laugh and some style! Click the links above to shop now.