Ah, Thanksgiving in rehab.
We got to sleep in this morning, which is a big, ghetto treat from our usual forced march at 6:45am every morning. The plus side, however, to not downing a case of Belvedere an hour and hiking through vineyards instead is that I need a Jethro belt to hold my jeans up. Booze has calories, you guys. FYI.
I'm saving my weekly freedom pass for Sunday, so I'll be spending Thanksgiving "on the unit" eating boxed mashed potatoes and playing with patients kids so they can go have sex in their rooms. While my pals here are out having regular food with regular people, I think I'll spend the afternoon in the gym. I'm kinda fancying myself Bette Midler in Ruthless People, and as I said to my counselor, I will emerge from these ashes more fabulous than a phoenix.
She considered putting me back on librium for a moment, but my being the sole "peer" from the big city, people seem to tolerate my bizarre practices of accessories, hair dryers and internet use, chalking it up with the commonly used phrase, "She's from San Francisco."
I figure I can suffer one Thanksgiving in the hab if it means not ending up fishing through dumpsters for Bud Lite backwash eventually, so get drunk for me, enjoy your organic, healthy food made for a group less than 50 and remember the wise words of my favorite peer, a 72 year old rancher I'll call T.R.
As we all went around "community group" offering up what we were thankful for last night, T.R., in his belt buckle and trucker hat deadpanned, "I'm grateful I ain't no turkey."