Two birds. One boxcutter.

If you’re gonna cook the turkey, bake some pumpkin pie, OK?

 

Good comes with the bad, kill me so I can rise, blah, blah, blah. Mixed metaphors and cliches be gone. As of thus, my plans for Thanksgiving amount to me coiled in my cocoon, cherishing every second of silence and salivating at the gripping sensation of having two pounds of turkey, gravy, stuffing and potatoes in my mouth at once while a football game drones in the background. I’m thankful that Katie is okay, mom and dad are with her; and that all my friends are okay and nestling, however discordantly, with loved ones. I’d have to say I’m cool right now. I think the diner is okay with pouring shots of turkey gravy. To me, that rocks. That's the way it is this year. I might yelp and mope, but this is how I wish it, this is how I want it. Trust me. I'm grinning. But I've just realized that it's a terrible time to talk to bound friends.