‘Twas the night before Thanksgiving, when all through the city, every creature was stirring, getting (as the kids say) “litty.”
So after hours of being hunched over the viscous Rubik’s Cube that is a Turducken, you decide it’s time to get “litty” yourself.
You grab your phone from the counter and, forgetting to wipe the entrails off your hands, drop a typo-laden text to your BFF.
She discerns it, somehow, and the two of you agree to meet at the local watering hole — you know, the one with that odd mix of octogenarians and college freshman. You make your way out the door and into the night, suddenly unburdened by the logistics of meal prep and the minefield of Uncle Stu’s food allergies.
You guiltily consider, for a moment, that your mother will spend the next few hours awake in her bed, dreaming of a Rockwell-esque Thanksgiving feast while knowing full well that you, her family, could never pull it off.