This year we give thanks to, wait.. no. Nevermind.

It's Tuesday, November 25. In two days we celebrate a holiday that revolves around the farce that Native Americans and European settlers got along and passed around the mashed potatoes and the cup of brotherhood. We are also expected to eat excessively and pass out on family member's sofas/chairs/recliners/etc. Somewhere along the way, the actual meaning of thanksgiving has been forgotten (which I've always considered it to be full of it anyway as the Native Americans taught the settlers how to do all these things and then they are repaid with the stealing of their land, disease, raping and pillaging. How lovely.) Last Thursday on a friend's radio show, I got strong armed into telling what I was thankful for. I didn't want to do it. What was I going to say? "I am thankful for my family... Oh wait, most of them are dead." This year, I stand as the oldest living male on my mother's side of the family. Eleven years ago, it was my great-grandfather. It's me, my first cousin, and my grandmother. THAT'S IT. Granted, my grandmother has a sister who has a huge pile of family members, but it wasn't that long ago that there were as many of us running around as there are of them. They've invited the tiny remnants of our family to their house for thanksgiving. I said I would go, but only after they begged and begged and begged for me to. If it weren't for that, I wouldn't have gone. I still don't want to go. I can't just go to a place and enjoy myself. I spend the entire thinking about who isn't there and who I'll never be able to spend a holiday with again. The only consolation will be knowing that I'll be able to get away from the high school dramatic bullshit of Jacksonville for four or five days. I guess that's something to be thankful for.