Carmen and Melissa and Lidia and Sarah and Jim all invite me to have Thanksgiving dinner with their families. I decline, but I am glad they offered. Instead, I mope around the house. I cry a little and feel sorry for myself. Take the dogs for a long walk. Come back, cry. Eat pizza and doughnuts. Have a short nap. My mother doesn’t call. Watch the dog show and football game, then muster the energy to go to the movies, all emotional and whiny and teary-eyed like a woman or homo or something. I choose the Dallas Buyer’s Club, and cry. I cry for Jordan Catalano and I cry for friends that have died from AIDS and I cry because I’m lonely. After the movie, I sneak into 12 Years a Slave. I cry because of slavery. I cry because I am no longer young and skinny. I cry because I’m lonely, and I cry when something happens at the end of the movie of course. I come home and curl up with Cricket and Squeak, and I don’t cry, I’m all cried out. I’m going to get a haircut Friday and maybe workout and clean the apartment and go to the flea market and ask this guy John from Port Orange out on a date, to somewhere nice like the Olive Garden or the Red Lobsters. I want to be happy again, I sure hope that I will be soon.