Is this whole blog-thingy supposed to hurt? Please be gentle. I'm a fragile, awkward flower. Anyway, I'm actually excited to start rambling my everyday, most personal thoughts with complete strangers. It's way better than spilling out all my problems to coffee baristas and crying in bathroom stalls at Walmart. Although, I'm not sure if anyone is actually reading this. And quite frankly, a large part of me is okay with talking to myself. So, it's Thanksgiving, or Native American slaughter day. You decide. No judgement. My family is supposed to visit and gorge themselves with turkey and converse about their conservative ways. I usually just sit in an isolated corner and talk to my dog or inanimate objects. Various family member will casually hither over to my corner and ask vague questions like, "How's school" or "Are you still obsessed with the color black". My response is usually forced and polite, because I can see my Father giving me the evil eye from across the room.
After a while I usually can start to smell the slaughtered turkey and the hydrogenated potato casseroles. I hear the giggles of women, only women, in the kitchen. I take a quick gander in the living room and there's all the men. They huff and puff as their team loses and take swigs of cheap, light beer. Then, there's me. I'm ostracized and sitting alone between this sexist bubble in which my family is conforming to. Sometimes I think to myself that I should just construct a giant glass box around the women in the kitchen. Honestly, they would probably just start windexing it. ("windexing" that isn't a verb, right? Meh.) Anyway, I guess that's a typical Thanksgiving for me. I guess I'll start getting ready for this shindig, or maybe I'll just watch Schindler's List.
