I am scared of the things that are coming, and I want for the things I don't have.
I spent four days and four nights in the wilderness, but I let the Australian farmers eat the locusts and so did not learn anything. Although thanks were given by many and turkey enjoyed by all, warming my heart with that familial glow, I was chilled to the bone and lost my warm center when I stepped off the plane into the balmy, seventy-one-degree Central Texas air. It was twenty-two this morning and the frost glinted silver in the sun, setting the cows in the field in silhouette. Winter, winter, where are the snow dens of yesteryear?
I'm not complaining, though, (yes I am): I have plenty to be thankful for. I return bearing the trophies of the small triumphs. I avoided playing Phase Ten even once the entire time I was living under my parents' roof. What is their zombie-like obsession with that soul-sucking game? I also managed to continue avoiding (despite repeated, emphatic invitations from my dad) watching everyone's favorite movie about the gory sufferings of someone named Jesus. Morbid, morbid.