I have not always been thankful on Thanksgiving. It is not necessarily my default state-of-mind. Although being thankful is an act of introspection and humility (appreciated traits, yes?) it smells ever so faintly of contentment and submission. Most Thanksgiving mornings I have woken up hungry. Not for turkey leg and sweet potatoes. Hungry for respect and success…and whatever other fleeting and hard to gauge things I wanted in my life and felt I didn’t have. But this morning I woke up feeling good. And thankful. Not in an overly-sentimental-sticky-candied-apple sort of way…but in a kilt-the-bar-that-kilt-me sort of way. I woke up a few hours ago a thousand miles away from any family, but nevertheless, thankful as hell I finally found a town to live in where I could make a living talking to fishermen about fishing. And that somewhere behind me—always—there are mountains. And that my big sister, after thirty some years, finally thinks I am cool. And, as macabre as it may sound, I am thankful I still have the stomach to put a bloody boot heal to the neck of obstacles, adversity and ingrates.
Oh, and I am pretty stoked that tomorrow there will be some massive turkey carcasses on crazy sale at the grocery store! Gonna buy one and hyena-gnaw the thing for a week!
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