Is Thanksgiving Trying To Kill Me?

Dear Modern Philosophers,

I am writing to you because I have an overwhelming sense of foreboding, and if anything happens to me, I want you to be able to tell the authorities who did it.

I think Thanksgiving is trying to kill me!

I know the holiday has passed, but that doesn’t mean that its homicidal tendencies have subsided.

I have long alluded to the fact that Thanksgiving is a very difficult time for me, and this year was no exception.

It started off innocently enough with Mr. Fitness Freak going for a long run to burn up some calories before his traditional lonely man’s feast.

The mere fact that I’m talking about myself in the third person should be a red flag that all is not well.

Give me a moment to collect my thoughts…

Okay, so I went out for a run, but it was bitterly cold.  Every time I turned down a street, a frigid wind would slap me across the face and try to shove me into traffic.  I was not pleased, but I pushed myself to go four and a half miles.

I wrote off the uncomfortable temperature and strong winds to it being November in Maine, but looking back at it now, I realize it was Thanksgiving’s first attempt to kill me.

Once I was safely back at The House on the Hill, I turned to the comfort of Thanksgiving tradition.  First, I continued a longstanding tradition of preparing a plate of pepperoni and cheese to enjoy with the football game.

Serving this appetizer was something my Dad always did, and I like to continue it so that there’s a little bit of him with me on a holiday I choose to spend alone.

I also decided to start a new tradition.  Every major relationship in my life has had a seminal moment that took place either on or right around Thanksgiving.

I wrote a post the other day about trying to find the good in all the bad, and that led to my wanting to email everyone involved so I could finally face my Thanksgiving demons.

This might not have been the wisest idea, but I thought it was time to stop letting this holiday and the Ghosts of Thanksgivings Past have such a choke hold on me.

I’d like to eventually be able to enjoy Thanksgiving again, and maybe even celebrate it with others, rather than locked up inside The House on the Hill.

So I wrote long emails, explaining what was on my mind, the link the recipient had to Thanksgiving, and my desire to be done running from the past.

I thought it might be cathartic and free me from my chains of anxiety.  It ended up just making me afraid to check my email for the rest of the day.

Instead of resolving the problem, I found a way to make it worse.  At first, I feared angry responses, but then I worried that my email would get deleted without even being read because I meant absolutely nothing to someone who once meant the world to me.

Thanksgiving was really trying to kill me now, and I was showing it the slowest, most painful way to take me out.

I eventually went to bed, having never received a reply to my emails, but that offered no relief from the day’s murderous plotting.  As I tossed and turned, whatever demons had awakened in my stomach tried to tear me apart from the inside.

Let this be a lesson to you, Modern Philosophers…never accept an invitation to The House on the Hill for Thanksgiving.  I clearly don’t know how to cook a turkey.

I eventually fell asleep, but I woke up early this morning with stomach pains, and they tormented me for hours.  Even now, all is not right in the gastric regions.

What does Thanksgiving have against me?  Why does it want me dead for badly?  How is it that such unforgettable moments in my life always seem to occur on this holiday?

I hope the fact that I’m still alive means I’ve survived the killer holiday for another year, but Thanksgiving will probably linger as long as there are still leftovers in the fridge.

Promise me, Modern Philosophers, that you’ll make sure Thanksgiving pays for its crime should anything happen to me.  I’m counting on you to avenge me…