I'm Not Thankful for You. Get Out.

I HATE POTATOES!!!

At this very moment a large bowl of their mashed state stares at me every time I open the fridge. It's huge. It's impossible not to stare back. I have to denounce them in my mind to get my eyes off of them. "I'm NOT going to eat you. I'm NOT."

Temptation, outrage, and butter: all things of which my Thanksgiving consisted.

You know, that time? Thanksgiving? That holiday of hunger? The feast-ival of foods? The Christmas of our stomachs? The gravy train ride of green beaned and creamed corn passengers alike?

Yeah, that happened.

It happened hard.

Not one, but two big ole bowls of mashed pertaters were set on our long table that fateful day. The one sitting in front of me stared me down like a territorial cat with a severe lack of eyelids. It smelled wonderful.

I filled my plate with many other things that day, turkey, ham, green beanies, broccoli, and countless desserts, but not one morsel of potato anything passed my lips that day. My perseverance is absolute. My commitment is commendable. You people should be proud of me. It was like being a crank addict in a meth lab. (Yes, I did have to do wiki research to form that sentence.)

Yet, somehow, I survived, instead opting to eat a lot of cheesecake with a Reese's layer baked into it to compensate. I was still full and happy, since all it really takes to make me happy is being full of food.

I'm sure Mr. Lay was distraught and depressed this Thanksgiving without me. This year broke one of our most sacred and hallowed of all Thanksgiving traditions: after stuffing myself with table foods, I would retreat to the back room with full bags of chips and my cousins and continue to eat. (The chips, not the cousins.) As glorious of a tradition as it was, I'm sure it was time to retire it.

I apparently have the metabolism of a hummingbird, have acquired a tapeworm, or a micro black hole inside my stomach to eat the way that I have for all these years and still be fairly small.

Perhaps I am a food god. Yes, I like the sound of that. Rini, the god of food. I'll have to print up business cards.

Well! So I hate potatoes, but only because of how they torment me with their delicious butter-injected goodness. Lucky for them I'm the forgiving sort. I should really be shaking my metaphorical fists at my giggling family for the enhanced temptations (I see you there, Aunt Lisa O.o), but I love them far too much to ever be angry at them.

I'll just get bitter and slowly rot from the inside instead.

I'm sure all the ice cream I eat will keep me sweet enough.

Legitimately thankful for family and friends (and ecstatic to have them up and see them),

Rini