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Less than 24-hours before the big meal, and this is what’s going on in our house:

My 90 year old great aunt is trying to figure out an ipad (she’s never even touched a computer) so that she can play poker. I just heard her scream, “It wants the flesh of the finger. It won’t accept my nail,’ and then mumble about Chinese advertisements (I’m gonna guess pop-ups?).

My 80 something grandmother is both screaming at my father for coming home again with the wrong brand of phyllo dough and at my mother for not allowing her to put as much butter and olive oil into a recipe as she wants because it’s ruining the flavor and texture and fuck Uncle Farouk’s high cholesterol and diabetes.

My siblings and I are being forced to model a thousand combinations of the same few outfits that will maximize showing off our chastity while also making us look enviable to the members of our church who will be here.

And then I got a text from a fellow law school student reading: Dude, do you know anybody who could get me some adderall before finals?

Nope, but I just opened a delightful bottle of nerve-calming red wine.

Happy Thanksgiving!