To the guy who likes all my blog posts without actually reading them:

How was your Thanksgiving? Mine was kind of weird. I understand these days the importance of recognizing myself as a colonizer, how fucked up the holiday is historically and all that. But to be honest, no one I know has ever discussed pilgrims or Native Americans during Thanksgiving gatherings. They just overserve themselves and talk shit about the people who aren’t there.

We didn’t talk about Native Americans, and if that’s wrong, I’m sorry. I thought about it for a bit in the morning before I piped mayo-drenched egg yolks into their hardboiled whites, stirring cranberries while they popped in the hot sugar water. That was it, though.

Suburban me drives to the heart of the city to have Thanksgiving in an industrial apartment. I think about all the angsty Instagram photoshoots I could have here if I could stand the way my body looks right now. There are colorful graffiti walls, drums of who the hell knows what, random props. I couldn’t live here, but I could pose here.

I got wine drunk early on, lied on the couch for a while with my eyes closed and listened to all the sounds. The musical stylings of Jerry Garcia were going, the heater wheezing loudly. Three conversations at once. Footsteps on the concrete floors.

By the time I was sober, everyone else was sloshed pretty good. I think we went through four bottles of wine in total. The boys almost made it through an entire bottle of Jack Daniels. Smoked a little weed. Ate pie. Then it kind of felt like everyone was having a competition to see who had the most childhood trauma. I always lose this one, because sometimes trauma is quiet and people don’t get that.

I only want to be the most fucked up when it’s the title people are fighting over. When it’s a good thing, you know?

I sat and listened to everyone contradict themselves for a couple hours, entertained but also kind of sad. It wasn’t the kind of sadness that ruins you. It just sits there and begs you to recognize it, so I did just that before it was time to go home. I think I drank a whole pot of coffee by myself, not because I was tired or drunk but because it just tasted so good.

My boyfriend slept the whole way home. I felt like a mother holding his hand, the dog’s leash, and two big bags filled with leftovers. I wished I was strong enough to throw him over my shoulder and carry him upstairs. He passed out immediately. I sat on the couch in my underwear and ate a couple deviled eggs, watched Netflix for several hours, and passed out around 2 in the morning.

I think I want to host Christmas.