kevin
It’s 10:48 AM on Thanksgiving and I’m sitting on a skateboard in the middle of my driveway, drinking tequila and feeding Kevin the guinea hen. I have no idea who named him Kevin, but he’s been running loose since May. His presence is possibly the most scandalous thing to happen in the neighborhood since the guy two doors down traded his blonde girlfriend for a Japanese mail order bride.

It’s early, but I’ve already fought and made up with my mother, and am waiting to be shuffled over to my dad’s so she can entertain her second fake boyfriend of the day. It’s not surprising that the only food in the house is the frozen loaf of bread she keeps for whenever I visit and need breakfast. We haven’t bothered with the whole turkey hoopla for years. Last year we had Indian buffet. Before that, a Mexican fiesta. This year: liquid diet. I worry Kevin is giving me judgmental side eye as I try to drink enough to make playing football seem fun. I then realize he can’t help it if that’s where his eyes are located on his freaky little head.

This is easily the dumbest way to spend a day meant for celebrating what’s most important in life. I’ve been in a bad way lately, and the concept of giving thanks is a bit lost on me. I’ve been substituting mashed potatoes & gravy with sides of woe-is-me drama covered in self-pity, and no matter how ridiculous I know I’m being I can’t snap out of it. I must secretly thrive on masochism, as I find cheers-ing a stray bird to heartache bizarrely poetic.

I’ve gotten a lot of advice for how to feel better, and most of it involves making an active effort to stop being such a whiny brat (though less harsh, as my loved ones know to only speak to me in soft, docile tones at this point). They say to focus on all the great things in my life instead of the few painful blips. So, here ya go—some of the things I should be grateful for but often take for granted. Yet another T-gives cliché for those of you still starving for gush.

I’m thankful for my crazy mother, who may not know how to pick a man, but does a helluva job finding me cute dresses at thrift stores.

For my punk ass brother, who threw my iPod and yelled, “It’s fucking sunny and almost December, stop listening to this ‘November Rain’ shit.”

For my father, who knows exactly what I mean when I ask for a “grilled cheese with stuff in it.” The only man in my life my friends barely know about because I never have anything bad to say about him.

For those friends, who read this silly blog religiously and ask when they’ll be mentioned (ayy, Lucia). The ones who put up with me even when my sass veers way too far toward the downright bitchy side.

For my health, and the privilege of wearing a retainer every night to protect my $5,000 teeth. For the ability to lift 3 lb dumbbells and only falter on the last five reps.

For beer, puppies, pastries, and T-Swift’s new album for just, like, getting me.

For the self-awareness to know when I’m being self-destructive, and hopefully (someday) the strength to cut it out.

And last but not least, I’m thankful for whoever is actually reading these posts, even though it’s probably because you’re still in a food coma or need a break from your own neurotic family. Writing this blog has given me an outlet to not so passively aggressively say things I wish I could say in person, and it makes me very uncomfortable and giggly whenever people tell me they’ve been enjoying it. Thanks for making me feel like I have support from someone other than a nomadic neighborhood hen, ya buncha entertainment starved turkeys.

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