This is not an exhaustive list. I’m grateful for lots of stuff. But TLDR is no way to kick off Thanksgiving.

——

Friends: They make life way more fun. And they buy me things like this.

It’s a Star Trek phone that sat on my nightstand for a long, long time. A few friends bought this for me in high school, because they accept and nurture my geekiness. I love you guys so much, and I’m not even drunk. Much.

Family: Some family. Not all family. I would tell a few of them to kiss my ass, but I don’t trust them to stand behind me. But of the family that doesn’t suck, and you know who you are, I love you. You have convinced me that I should not move into in a cave with my cats and a case of Peak Organic.

Devon: Without him, I would have fewer fun things to blog about and fewer tasty omelets to eat. Considering the events of the last three years (many of which I can’t blog about now because weasels will eat my toes), I would have also thrown myself in front of a lawnmower. He handles my blog abuse with good humor and sometimes suggests things to abuse him about, which makes me worry for his mental health. He also fits into categories #1 and #2, which is pretty sweet.

Roleplaying games: Gaming might have ensured my virginity for far too long, but as an adult, DnD and Pathfinder are reasons to drink excessively and hang out with awesome friends (see #1). It’s also the only chance I have to be a badass half-orc fighter/cleric. It’s hard to take yourself seriously when you’re summoning a dire rat.

Cats: My cats complete me. Sahrah plays hackysack with my hair bands. Fatass punts Sahrah off the table with her paw. The both demand fuzzy love whenever they damn well please, and they hovered close when I was alone the night Dad died. Cats are so much better than iguanas.

The Internet: Without the Internet, I would have to talk to people face to face and shop in real stores. Many of these stores aren’t close to me, which seems like a design flaw. Also, I wouldn’t be able to write this blog. I don’t know what I would do with all that time. Maybe count really high on my abacus, then shake it up and start over.

What are y’all grateful for?

This shit is cool. Trust me:

When parents learn to text
Cats and dogs, living together
My liberal bias is clear: Abortion laws 

Devon:  What the fuck does a wrist mounted crossbow need with a LASER?
Me:  Why DOESN’T a wrist-mounted crossbow need a laser?
Devon:  It doesn’t even hit where the laser is.
Me:  Who gives a shit? It’s a WRIST-MOUNTED CROSSBOW. It doesn’t need to take your crap.

Sigh. He just doesn’t understand my needs.

+++++++

This shit is cool. Trust me:

Everything you want, you can get in pewter
Dream job for getting the hell away from your family
Read the comments

I got about halfway to the subway before Devon was all, “You walk like a toddler on smack” and offered to let me use his arm to stay upright. Because despite the frequent blog abuse I inflict upon him, he loves me. He even worked hard to hail a cab at the end of the night so I wouldn’t  have to walk back home. I abuse him enough that it’s only fair to not abuse him sometimes.

The reason he had to work hard to hail a cab is because convincing Manhattan cabbies to go to Brooklyn is like convincing Lindsay Lohan to switch to O’Doul’s, and the ones who refuse should rot in the hell of first-world problems. But I digress.

These turn me into a bobble-headed doll: Everything is fine as long as I stand perfectly still and don’t move too far in any one direction.

You might have noticed a few changes to this blog. Or maybe you’ve been huffing paint thinner and don’t notice much. That’s OK. I’m not judgmental, and I love you just the way you are. Even if you’re retarded from huffing paint thinner.

I’ve added a button on the right side of the blog to make it easier to subscribe. I’ve also added the ability to post comments via your Facebook account.

So many of you post comments on my Facebook wall that I thought I would make it easier for you, because I’m sensitive like that. And because with most of the comments going to my Facebook wall, I look like that homeless chick out in the park talking to herself.

Devon: Losing all this weight means I can see my penis better.
Me: Umm…that’s awesome! Go you!

See, I’m not the only one who says weird things. I try to be supportive, both of weight loss and of saying weird things.

Just in case I’m giving you the wrong impression, it’s not like Jabba the Jones was drowning in his own blubber or anything. I don’t notice a difference. But I suppose he’s the expert on the subject.

The subject being his penis, in case that wasn’t clear.

Like, I want to tell you guys about it, but Devon said, “That falls under the heading of ‘too much information.’” He pointed out that nobody wants to know that about me, and he’s right. If I tell you, I can’t untell you, and then you’ll know forever. And if I ever run for president, everyone will know, because you guys are assholes and would probably go on Fox News and tell everyone all about it, even if I deleted this blog post.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. You guys aren’t assholes. I must be on the rag.

So I’m not going to tell you. It’s better for everyone that way.

But it was amazing. I swear.

Smokey the Bear would never pull that shit, by the way. Smokey has class.

Also, I wrote a lengthy entry about how Eric Cantor needs to DIAF before news broke that he recanted on his asinine plan to tie relief funding to budget cuts. I’m so glad he seems to have seen the error of his political ways (temporarily) that I’m not even going to give him too much shit for being a troll-faced weasel in the first place. It has to be humbling to wake up and realize you are a bigger dick than even the people who voted for you are willing to tolerate.

Cantor says they “found the money,” which makes me wonder if he ransacked GE CEO Jeff Immelt’s sock drawer.

At the same time, I hold my breath wondering how he is going to use funding the clean-up of Hurricane Irene to starve babies and push old people down stairs. Funny how disaster relief needs to be funded, but wars and tax cuts are like cookies from heaven — a right-wing heaven that bakes only heterosexual, God-fearing cookies.

TrES-2b, Illustration courtesy David A. Aguilar, CFA

Devon thinks the newly discovered gas-giant planet TrES-2b could be legitimate evidence of alien life, for reasons that even sorta make sense when he explains it.

I THINK his explanation makes sense. All I know about Dyson Spheres I learned from that episode of “Star Trek: The Next Generation” where the Enterprise D crew saves Scotty from the transporter.

I really, really, really hope it’s aliens. Of course, everyone feels that way until they start eating all your Reese’s Pieces and slapping Brent Spiner around with their mighty tentacles of DOOM.

Brent Spiner in "Independence Day," shortly before aliens separate him from life

You see, every time a person or critter I love dies, I write a nice blog entry, saying lots of nice things, like what an awesome mother/father/grandparent/dog he or she was. You might have gotten the impression that it’s OK to die, since I will say nice things about you.

Uh-uh. No way. Forget that crap.

I will trash talk you to all your friends. I will say shit about you on Facebook. I will tell your mom where you hid your porn stash.

I know what you’re thinking: “I don’t have a porn stash.” I’m also gonna tell your mom what a goddamn filthy liar you are. If you truly do not have a porn stash, I will put one in your bathroom, right next to a box of tissues and some hand cream. If you do not have a mom, through illness, accident or asexual reproduction, I will create CafePress t-shirts with your naked baby pictures and sell them until the police confiscate my computer.

I hope I’m making myself clear: Don’t die. The consequences won’t be good for you.

This came on the heels of me dying my hair red and whacking off about four inches of hair that the dude called “frazzle city.” He claimed to be “heartbroken” that I do not use leave-in conditioner.

Every once in awhile I worry that someone is going to revoke my girl card. Like, they’re going to discover that I never learned how to style my hair like a supermodel or accentuate my eyes with just the right shade of eyeshadow. Sometimes I wonder whether I should have spent my adolescence learning girlie things instead of playing video games and reading age-inappropriate books. Then I remember how awesome I was at Super Mario Bros., and the feeling passes.

I am slowly accepting that my hair has changed. It’s darker than the almost platinum blonde I sported as a kid. It’s also finer, and there are some grays that I borrowed from a friend and plan to give back as soon as that jerk comes to pick them up. Seriously, guys, these aren’t mine.

The rest of this post, which I considered making a post of its own, is about how I turned my apartment into the site of a porn flick for three quarters of a second.

So I sit here with my newly phenomenal red hair, in a black micro nightie that I sometimes wear to bed, reminding myself that I need to look through the peephole before opening the door, just in case it’s the Fresh Direct guy delivering my groceries and not Devon too lazy to get his keys out. Also, Fitz would do well not to dart through the door, as she discovered that being slammed between the door and the doorjamb when I suddenly fling that bitch shut is totally not cool.

We both learned a little something today.