Giving Thanks (Or, I'm Glad She Didn't Give Me Gonorrhea)

Most people I know (including myself) love to bitch about everything. Nothing satisfies us; there is always that one thing, one detail, one aspect, however minute or inconsequential, which opens the door for a day's worth of whining and complaining.

On this day of giving thanks, I woke up to a slight hangover (you know, the kind that merely feels like a head cold) and realized something. I lay awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling, and did not, as I have done more than a few times, contemplate on why I was waking alone. This time, my stare at the ceiling was more significant. I can't tell you why or how this thought entered my mind, but I can tell you that I am extremely thankful for it.

I am thankful that it doesn't burn when I pee.

I am thankful that I don't have any unexplained marks, bruises, sores, lesions, tire tracks, or any one of several unwanted tenants on my dick (or on, what I can call the Buckhead Village of my genitalia, my balls). I am thankful that those commercials for Valtrex ("the only once-a-day prescription medication proven to suppress future genital herpes outbreaks") aren't speaking to me. I am especially thankful that I could have contracted something on more than a few occasions, and didn't (to include having fucked, several times, the rather attractive human equivalent of a public commode--everyone's used it, and it's never anyone you know*).

So today, while you sit around the table, chewing on bits of dry, over-cooked turkey, chew on this instead: a nice pink may mean a whole lot more than rare.

*First clue is when she has three kids--by three different guys. Second clue is when she smells like she's on her period--all the time.