Last night when I left I wished every one a good Thanksgiving. But was that really honest? No, it wasn't. I haven't really had a Thanksgiving in very many years. Even when Savage Kitten was still my girlfriend, an honest actual Thanksgiving wasn't part of the programme, and since we split seven years ago it has been entirely off the table.
No turkey, no group feast.
No social event.
Eccentric middle aged white guys do not deserve a Thanksgiving.
Hell, middle aged of any derivation.
White especially.
Do I really want the people to whom I wished a good holiday to actually have one? No. I know they will, but I wish they wouldn't.
I'm not that friendly, or that human.
It's time they grew up. Thanksgiving is supposed to be horribly depressing and unpleasant. The only people who should validly enjoy the holiday are children, every body else should be painfully aware that they stand alone in a cold dark world and nobody really cares.
The bird is dry, the stuffing undercooked. and the side dishes unimaginative and mediocre. Cranberries! And after it's over you will buy overpriced video games and tacky synthetic fabric clothing, then come back to an overflowing sink, and a garbage pail that has started fermenting.
There is stuff in your fridge you never want to see again.
The folks I wished a happy Thanksgiving did not wish it back; they were pre-occupied. Each year at this time every body is pre-occupied.
They'll have such fun.
Oh yes.
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