Nevergirl’s

I will admit that until last week, I never cared about Thanksgiving. To me, it was just one of those holidays everybody in the Western hemisphere is unusually gung-ho about. Besides, my sympathies are usually with the turkey and whoever ends up with kitchen duties. It can’t be easy spending 10 hours shopping, chopping, cooking, braising, and blanching only to see the food you slaved over disappear in 20 minutes.

This year is different though. Or, it was supposed to be. I had actually looked forward to Thanksgiving, more so because I wanted to see a grandma decapitate a turkey with an ax. I imagined making myself useful in the kitchen. I even thought of buying cheesecloth. I have never bought cheesecloth, but I found a recipe online that required soaking the cheesecloth in wine and butter, and then laying over the turkey’s breast. I liked how gloriously medieval it sounded. Then, to my dismay, I learned that I’d be stuck in Cebu instead of celebrating Thanksgiving back home. I also realized that there won’t be an ax-wielding grandma; this one is no purist and will most likely get hers from Rustan’s, instead of from a farm. They don’t do it anymore like the pilgrims did, alas.

What happens now? Well, since an old-fashioned Thanksgiving lunch or dinner isn’t in my immediate future anymore, I figured I’d properly mourn missing out on the occasion by substituting turkey with tofu. Nothing could be a more dismal replacement to meat than tofu. In its natural state, tofu is odorless and tasteless. You can use it for driveway repairs, tile grouting, or maybe as denture adhesive. In my case, it’ll have to do for Thanksgiving. Ack.

I hope your Thanksgiving turns out better than mine! To quote an old Pilgrim blessing: “May your stuffing be tasty, your turkey plump. May your potatoes and gravy have nary a lump. May your yams be delicious, may your pies take the prize. Most importantly, may your Thanksgiving dinner stay off your thighs!”

Did I just spend the last 15 minutes gawking at all the pretty linens on peacock alley? Ridiculous. I should be hauling ass right now, working frantically to beat the clock—mind a’whirring, fingers a’flying. But sometimes, there’s just so much to do I end up doing nothing at all. I just stare at my To Do list, wonder how it got to be at least two elbows long, sigh over how much work I still have to do, and then in the tradition of all drama queens, self-saboteurs, and good-for-naughts, do nothing. I can’t even remember the last time I feel this worn out and lost. I spent close to two weeks surrounded by buildings, billboards, and streetlamps. Now that I’m back in the boondocks and surrounded by so much space, foliage, and stillness, I feel disconcerted and disoriented.

I should just try to sleep this off. Maybe it’ll all be better tomorrow.

Or then again, maybe not. There are exactly 102 emails on my inbox. I’m willing to bet a month’s paycheck—heck, even a middle finger—it’ll balloon to 150 before the day is through.

You do not want to be me right now.

If Mama, bless her little provincial soul, could see the books I’m reading, she’d probably drag me to church and ask the good fathers for an exorcism. My mother is as dainty and ladylike as they come, and she believes a young lady’s place is in the kitchen, not in the bedroom where she can bury her nose in a book.

Two days ago, I finished Barbara Leonie Picard’s The Complete Fairy Tales. It was alright, though it dragged somewhat towards the end, and I had to force myself to finish. I do not like leaving books unfinished.

I’m poring through The World’s Worst Murders right now, and so far, I find it riveting. The book covers a multitude of single, multiple, and serial killings; and it’s too bad, really, that the photos are too few and far in between and aren’t in full color.

If you are a masochist like me and believe there hasn’t been much suffering in your life, give yourself more things to worry about by reading Everything Is Going To Kill Everybody. It’s written by a Cracked.com contributor and is ultimate proof that the horrible and ridiculous are joined at the hip. In a universe that seems to continually find new ways to kill us, this book will give you all the interesting ways you and the rest of humanity can die horribly. So fuck old age. I refuse to die of arthritis or a coronary. I’m holding out for a megatsunami (preferably one that arrives while I’m stranded in some lonely highway waiting for roadside assistance). Yep, nothing less than a megatsunami would do. That, or some virulent virus that’ll make zombies out of everyone.

Punch a wall through my heart—that’s what you just did; and I don’t know if after this, we can still be friends. Or if we’d still want to be. There’s no point in being friends with somebody who doesn’t have your best interest at heart, who pretends to think only of what’s good for you and then gives you the equivalent of a punch to the gut. Thanks for the kindness and the friendship—I will never forget those. But, we’re done, we’re through. And, because I have all the maturity of a 12-year-old when I’m hurting, I shall name a Sim after you, weigh it down with cufflinks made of marble, wall it up in a room with 25 stoves, and watch it catch fire.