It's Thanksgiving. Today we get to sit in a truck for 7.5 hours until reaching the Canadian border where we may or may not be scrutinized by a pensive uniform clad authority. They will ask if we have livestock, tobacco, liquor, or human limbs, parts and other organs, and though we will have livestock, tobacco, liquor and human limbs parts and other organs, we'll deny possessing such goods with a furious shake of two heads, nervously pick at ours noses and be on our merry way. An hour later, we'll check into a (hopefully bed-bug free) comfort inn, saunter a few blocks south to my father's apartment to cook some curried mussels and stuffed mushrooms with my dear little sister. We may get drunk on wine and chocolate and I most certainly will need an extra four feet of intestines, which I'll pull from our cooler and affix to my innards with velcro.
I'll be thankful for my family and friends and health and the abundance of food I'm shoving into my face despite all the atrocities and suffering happening in the world, despite the tomfoolery of myself and the rest of humanity, and despite the odorous stench of my flatulence. I'll say thanks seven to twenty times and I'll mean it. I'll feel adoration for everyone in the room and give them all encouraging high fives. I'll think about hiring cheerleaders for their toughest days ahead. I'll convince them that everything will be alright in one form or another. And they'll believe me.