Course, the writing style would have been more undeveloped sophomoric. Would have been exhausting repetitive tales of liver and brain damage, and stupid unprotective sex. Which would bore me now to read as a third party. Would definitely shake my head and say "kid, you fucked up".

Just was observing that my insomnia takes a greater toll, and thus more descriptions of illness appear. Old fart grumpiness on the rise makes me avoid the public, and thus less charming stories of my favorite city happen. Granted New York just ain't as dope as it was in the early 90's. Fucking Guiliani. I still observe pleasantries of Gotham, just not on a daily, or nightly rather, basis.

Time warp deconstruction. The past is behind me like a tail wind. Basically, I am hoping the life becomes more interesting to me soon.

So yeah, the head still creaks and cracks. On the mend. Taking a god awful long fucking time though. The treatment makes me feel as shitty as the sickness at this point. Gotta keep the overdosing up. Gotta dry out the head swamp. Yay virus.

Sunday of the Thirteenth in the month of April: Gobble gobble in springtime.

Tradition in my family is that I come home for two weeks around Thanksgiving. Xmas turns me into a murder goblin. Tinsel is to be shunned at all cost. Fuck holly holly mirthbitch santacrack bullshit. Yeah not a fan.

Lurve the Thanksgiving though. Glowing embers of satisfaction and familial chumminess. More recently it's also around Sis' wedding aniversary, which is a good memory. So all the good time Ma, Pop and Sis fixes happen around Thanksgiving.

Had to miss out this last one. Fucking jobby snapped it off in my rectum so successfully that I wasn't allowed a proper vacation last year. This depressed me to no end.

*Editor's note* Arrrrrrrrgh! Anyone else hate hitting Ctrl V, instead of Ctrl C? Just deleted half this entry. Gotta tax the short term memory now. Stank. *End of editor's note*

Pop was not to be culinarily defeated. Woke up early to start the Thanksgiving feast. All the regulars. Turkey filled with sausage stuffing. Giblet and drippings gravy. Buttery mashed potatos. Cranberry sauce. Creamy green bean caserole with the crispy onion crust. Devil good pumpkin pie.

I decided to throw down some in the kitchen. Made a yam gratin. Layers of sliced yams with cream, seasoned with salt, black pepper, ground ginger and nutmeg. Topped with dots of cream cheese, sprinkled with liberal amounts of parmesan and brown sugar. Baked to golden perfection. It's a heart attack but it's damn nummy.

Sunshine and Ma had an excursion whilst I was cheffing it up. Ma is a singular lady. Sunshine ain't all that typical herself. This is a big compliment in my freak brain as I enjoy individualists. Anyway, I'm sure whatever conversations they had on their outing were highly interesting. I wouldn't mind a written transcript of the event.

We shoveled the food on in. Tested the seams of our belly skin. Livingroom full of dining table battlefield victims. Nice mouth drooling nap. Very decent springtime Thanksgiving.