Flour, butter, egg

I've decided this evening that I hope to die in a comfortable chair, drinking a Plymouth martini while reading The New York Review of Books.

Good light, something to munch on, the sound of my wife in the kitchen beating eggs for two pumpkin pies– that's how I'll go, on Thanksgiving evening.

True, I'm tempted to write that Thanksgiving is superior to Christmas but that would be a competitive analogy, an unnecessary comparison, and I can do without such writing. Such writing is only the way my mind works at the moment, and this evening I'm happy with the way my mind is working and hope to keep it that way by giving thanks for it.

And yes, it's still weird being a human being, Thanksgiving or not, and this hoping I can finally become what I'm not.

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