The thrift store sweaters

are in a trash bag in the furthest corner of the room. I’ll take it as a recommendation to do laundry, but there’s still that question of whether I’ll be able to make it with the clothes I have clean until we get out for Thanksgiving. Basically, it’s not getting done.

The month of November is shining brightly, what with a brand new prescription of Klonopin to give me sleepy eyes for that mid-day haul, weekly counseling sessions where we talk about my dog and why I hate vegetables so much, what with my mother learning how to Skype and me learning that the dog has no idea when I’m talking to her through the computer.

It’s lovely. Furthermore, cranberry-flavored everything is in vogue, meaning I can ingest the stuff day in and day out in the form of cranberry covered turkey sandwiches, cranberry-infused rotisserie chickens, cranberry cocktails, cran-brr-itas. If we buy enough of them perhaps we can make it through winter and pretend that Thanksgiving never happened in the familial sense. Mother asked if I would like her to pick me up at the start of Thanksgiving break so I could get more time with the family and I said sure but my gut’s not all there with me. Being a guest at home is great, but I’ve found that the time frame on that lasts anywhere from 6 hours to about 36 hours and then everyone’s back to being awful around you as if you weren’t there to hear all of it.

It’s awful hard to keep up a habit of gender-related academic research when your family is solidly in support of the homemaker model of things. Maybe this will be the year I give up and just read my lesbian erotica in front of everybody.

Now I think it’s time to head to the shower so I can get all of the grime out of my pores. I slept much too long today (until two in the afternoon!) and the stench of sleep is upon me still.

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