So diary, I figured out what I'm going to do for Thanksgiving, since I can't afford to fly anywhere to eat other people's dead birds. I'm going to go here, on a romantic vacation all by myself. There's a slight chance that Adam will be able to come, too, but probably not, since he'll be busy saving the world from Big Business in Flint, Michigan. [Aside: Aren't you glad you don't live in Flint? No offense to the hard-working folks there, but it really brightens my day to know that there is almost no chance that I will ever end up in Flint, MI.]
I actually have a long history of taking romantic vacations by myself. When I lived in Oregon I used to go to the coast alone, which was a lot of fun except that invariably the innkeepers felt sorry for me. You see, the Oregon coast is made for sex. You can't swim there, you can't get a tan, and you'd look pretty silly sipping a drink with an umbrella in it. What the Oregon coast does really well, though, is function as a backdrop for sexual activity--at least, that's what I've heard. I'm sure the San Juan islands are the same way, but what can I do? Adam is several time zones away and John in the Morning still isn't returning my calls. I pledged and everything. What do you want from me, John, blood?
Oh well. I guess I'll have to bring along my shiny new purchase from that store.
p.s. I had to close my savings account this morning and transfer it to checking in order to cover my incredibly expensive xmas ticket home.
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