An edited version of what Justin might say in my situation: Screw a bunch of A.S. Byatt. That'd be the author of this stupid, stupid book I'm reading. Yeah, so I'm supposed to have six chapters read by tomorrow. I'm still in chapter four, the chapter I was supposed to have read through for Wednesday. Oh, well, I guess if I just get the idea of the book down before the final, I might be okay.
All this talk of wanting to go home and Thanksgivingy things made me realize something on the way to humanities this morning. Okay, first, you have to know that I've been professing my love for my sister's sweet potato casserole for something like a week now, anticipating it's Thanksgiving Day appearance. But as a craving for Cracker Barrel hit me on the way to class today, I remember. Yep. We're observing the holiday at the new Cracker Barrel in Calvert City. I do love the CB, but what the world? Maybe I'm being a selfish, mindless, college-aged ingrate. But isn't there some sort of law somewhere that states that if you move off to school, you get the royal cornucopia treatment 'round the holidays? But maybe if you aren't pictured in the family portrait, you are exempt from that right. In that case, I would indeed not apply. You know, the BSU does this thing where you can take a foreign exchange student home for Thanksgiving. Do you think I could sign up for that? You know, somebody could take me home?
Okay, please know that I am completely not serious about any of the above. It is true that we are eating at Cracker Barrel. It is true that my family took a portrait without me, but it was under extenuating circumstances that I wholly understand. I'm sure as soon as I get home, I'll wish I was back at school because Mom and Dad will argue over something petty. It always happens. And then I'll get mad over something. And Mom will say that she wishes the dorms hadn't closed so I could've just stayed in Murray. And the gettin'-up-and-goin' to Sissy's on Thursday will inevitably be a big up-roar where Dad threatens not to go, and Mom and I will sit in the driveway, knowing that as soon as he gets his crap together, he'll be in the car in a few seconds. For each of those twenty deadly miles, Dad will be on the look-out for the 293 Deer and swearing that if Mom (or me, if I get the guts to drive) doesn't speed up, slow down, ride the white line more, or ride the yellow line more, we're going to die a deery, deery death. When we roll into Calvert, the fun begins. The variations of somebody-versus-somebody else will ensue immediately. Those battles are all kinds of fun. Or not. I'll be ready to come home come Sunday. But despite every bit of this, and more, I do love my family. Family has always been very important to me. I was never a friend-oriented person until a few years ago. But it seems like so much changes. And sometimes I feel like I'm missing out on my family these days. I love my friends and all, but as sad as it is, they oftentimes come and go. But family is a different story, at least for me. I know some people's families really aren't much to be desired, and their friends are the only family they have. I'm glad to say I have both. But I have this fear of losing both, too. It's so jarring to me that someday, my parents will be gone. And I really don't know when that will be. I do have older parents. But they don't seem that old. Well, at least my mom anyway. My dad might as well be eighty for all the griping and carrying on about the weather that he does, but he's in pretty good health for an almost-sixty-year-old dude. But my mom is still very young at heart. We are really close. She's always been my best friend, in a mommie-sort-of-way. And I don't know what I'd give if I could just sit and talk to her right now.
(Why all the depressing blogs, folks?)