When I came home for Thanksgiving this year, I made a vow to read a book (it’s been months) and to make sure not to stuff my face to the point of violent self-loathing. I can’t say either of these goals were accomplished. I’ve only read the first page of the introduction to Brothers Karamazov (maybe not the best book choice for someone who literally only reads Target circulars), and today I ate sooooo much food that when I look down, I can’t see my feet. That’s right, my stomach has grown so bloated, overbearing, and impregnated with stuffing that it obstructs the view to my feet.
This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Thanksgiving isn’t about reading or eating reasonable, humane portions of food. It’s about gathering around a table with loved ones and family and celebrating all that is good in life, an exercise we should do considerably more frequently, and eating until we cry. I am thankful for so many things—my family, my sun and stars Rocky (the dog), beautiful and thoughtful friends, the taco joint next to my apartment, Netflix, Obama, all of my limbs, my brain, my dreams, my camouflage snuggie, and sandwiches.
Happy Thanksgiving, guys. Thanks for reading this silly blog and thanks for all of your wonderfully kind words of support. It means the world to me.