“Thanksgiving. It proved you had survived another year with its wars, inflation, unemployment, smog, presidents. It was a grand neurotic gathering of clans: loud drunks, grandmothers, sisters, aunts, screaming children, would-be suicides. And don’t forget indigestion. I wasn’t different from anyone else: there sat the 18 pound bird on my sink, dead, plucked, totally disemboweled. Iris would roast it for me.” – Charles Bukowski
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