Thanksgiving has been repetitively unfortunate these past years. I’m not going to hide anymore though. My grandmother had eight sisters, and I’ve only ever met one, so when they arrive this time, I can’t simply intake my vegetables and pass out in the nearest bed. Yes, I will hear the same stories a dozen times, they’ll tell me I don’t eat enough, and I’ll have to listen to my brothers accomplishments for at least an hour, but it will be okay. I know the intentions are pure.
When a forest fire rages, lushes grasses grow back.
I’m going to go paint this now.
