It's the 24th. I'm at home for the holiday, desperately whacking my way through a bug list about a mile long. Dolly and her male counterharmonic are crooning about the timelessness of this particular Christmas. Hard to say for a season that's just now starting, but I'm sure that the upcoming December 25th will be memorable. Thanksgiving is waddling it's way to a close and I'm already wishing it was January 2nd.
I don't want to just get through the next month. No, I want to transcend it on a cloud of self-actualized oblivion.
There was no turkey this year -- just a ham, some spaghetti squash, flaming coffee, skewered tempers and a movie about infectious diseases.
I didn't give much thought to coming home for Thanksgiving until it had already been mostly planned out beneath me. Work, cooking classes, food, dinners, friends coming into town. All I had to do was get myself there.
Now I'm at home, my last night in town and I'm hating myself for not getting more work done earlier in the day. My dad's on the sofa, reading a magazine, while my sister's off with a mutual friend. Her and I talked, a few days ago. We talked about New Years and New York and new plans and old dreams. I cried myself to sleep when it was finally over, distraught over the thought of the coming month.
Well, here it comes. Howdy December.
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