Thanksgiving has passed: the turkey was relatively moist and no one died of undercooked-poultry-poisoning, suffings and pies and potatoes were delicious, autumnal centerpieces were admired, and Agent Cooper drove into town and drank coffee made with a fish in the percolater. So all is well.
I'm afraid I will never be able to concentrate again. This is a serious fear I get from time to time. Right now I'm going to try to get my brain going and to exorcise some of the ghost of turkeys past by reading a book about Marianne Moore at the gym. I also just added a longish personal note to my rejection wall!
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