With Thanksgiving comes many a wonderful thing. That feeling of euphoria, that general recognition of the #highbless state of your life, your mom’s (or the Yale Club’s—hay, New Yorkers) roast turkey. But with it comes the inevitable assault of your Facebook newsfeed, as each of your 2,172 friends attempts to outdo one another on their levels of #bless. “Soooo thankful this year, y’all!!” one might say. “oMG, how did I get the coolest family eva?! #blessed,” proclaims another.

Here in the WKND lounge, we decided that something needed to be done. And what better way to put an alternative spin on Thanksgiving than to release all of our pent-up passive aggression, to inform you darling WKNDers what we’re really thankful for? Keep reading, and see what it means to be truly #blessed this holiday season.


An Ode to JE, et al.

// by Andrew Koenig


I’m thankful for the fact that Yale recently acquired the hugest heap of money I’ve ever heard of, and that, in spite of that, I can still smell the stench of garbage coming into my bathroom from the dumpsters behind it, because they’re all overstuffed and JE won’t buy new ones. Grateful that now I only inhale through my mouth when showering. That, when the dumpster smell isn’t there, a mysterious cloud of body odor lingers in my entryway as if to compensate.

Since sophomore year began, I’ve had the pleasure of hearing every piece of drama in the lives of my college’s dining hall workers, who all happen to take their cigarette break in front of my bedroom window, and who happen to engage in insane screaming matches with one another. (“WHY DO YOU COOK SO BADLY?” “I WANT MY BABY!” among others.)

I live so close to Harkness Tower that every time I begin to have nostalgic feelings about a certain slant of light that hits it on winter afternoons, I rediscover the eternal unpleasantness of being rudely awakened from naps by the sounds of the same exact songs (Theme from “Up,” “Suite Archaïque”), playing over. And over. And over.

I’m thankful for daylight savings, which is brilliantly scheduled during the winter, when there’s already a shortage of light. Seriously, who needs natural light past five o’clock? That’s not depressing or anything. More than that, I’m thankful for JE’s unwillingness to accept the absence of sunlight, i.e. its refusal to provide halfway-decent artificial lighting in our libraries and dining hall. There’s nothing like sitting in the corner of the dining hall with friends who look like they’re glowering in the semi-darkness and eating food that’s acquired a sad, brownish hue. Or maybe that’s just the color of the food and the way people look when the going gets rough and the sophomore slump sets in. Thankful for not knowing which — for ambiguities, their rich interpretive possibilities, for sometimes seeing the slant of light or just hearing the same damn bells.


To My Beloved Bar H

// by Allie Krause


As a Brit, I’m not usually one to celebrate the awfully American holiday that is Thanksgiving. But in spite of myself, this November I have been reflecting on what I am thankful for. This year has been one to remember. I have great friends, a good life — indeed, I am grateful for many a thing. And of course, there is my gender-neutral suite. Last April, deciding to take advantage of my upcoming status as a junior, I chose to live with four male friends in the Rosenfeld Hall suite fondly nicknamed “Bar H.” And what an absolute delight it has been.

Can you imagine anything more splendid than a large beer-pong table right in the centre of your once-spacious pad? Sometimes, if I’m fortunate enough, there are two. Or even better, the melodious sound of ping pong balls landing in Solo cups one after the other as my considerate suitemates engage in endless rounds of water pong at 3 a.m. on a Tuesday night when I’m in bed and have early-morning class the next day!

Of course, one can’t forget the wonderful décor that accompanies such a living situation. I myself am of the school of making a room as homelike as possible, so I relish in the decorations chosen by my creative suitemates. The walls are bedecked with countless rows of Pabst Blue Ribbon and Keystone Light boxes, proclaiming a variety of insightful messages like “Never fear a 7 a.m. Walk of Pride.” They just ooze klassiness (yes, with a “k”).

But my absolute favourite part of living with these magnificent gentlemen is the wonderful surprise I receive every Sunday morning. On awaking much in the manner of a Disney princess (think woodland creatures that sing as they dress me), I step out from my boudoir to experience the scene of carnage that follows a Saturday night spent “chugging dranks” and fist pumping the air to the newest 2 Chainz album. As I make my way to the toilette, my slippers stick satisfyingly to the floor and the invigorating scent of stale beer reminds me of the beautiful day ahead. That combined with a slew of Solo cups and empty bottles strewn around the room all remind me of how truly blessed I am. So this year, Bar H, my thanks goes to you.


Red, White and What?

// by Djenab Conde


Technology should make it easier for friends to stay in touch, but instead there’re a million ways for me to get stood up. When we make an appointment on the interweb, I plan my day around our Skype catch-up. I’ll look forward to it, tell my friends about you and how cool you are … but then you cancel on me via Facebook message! Eight minutes after our scheduled rendezvous time! You couldn’t even tweet at me so I get a notification and my “@” goes all pretty and blue?! Or post on my wall so everyone can see how terrible you are?! So EXCUUUUSE me if I don’t want to try to find another meeting time … for the fifth time! I haven’t even been stood up by a guy. Maybe that’s because no one asks me on dates? #awks

I mean really, what’s wrong with going on a date? I would even offer to split the bill, if that’s what’s worrying you. Keep in mind, I fully expect you to dissuade me and pay the entire bill, but it’s the thought that counts, right? Before, I thought it was just Yale men who have a distaste for dates, but here at St. Andrews (where I’m studying abroad for the semester), I have discovered that is not true. Here, money would be an important factor (no arepas for $5.50?) — it seems that St Andrews is the most expensive city in the U.K., outside of London. It’s not even a city; it’s a little town, because it only has two Chinese restaurants and one Thai restaurant, and a bowl of ramen goes for $18!! (#wtf?!?!?) So this year, I give thanks for Amurrica. Can’t wait for my to-go orders at Thai Taste when I return in the spring.


You Go, Yale Dining. You Go.

// by Payal Marathe


Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, I’ll admit not because of the inevitable family arguments or because the football team I’m rooting for always loses, but because I love good food. As soon as I finish the last of my Halloween candy every year, I start dreaming of moist turkey, mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie. With Thanksgiving only a couple weeks away, I’ve been thinking about food quite a lot lately. And this year, I’d like to give thanks for Yale Dining.

I’m thankful for dinner meat that is reliably either greasy or dry. Keeps things interesting — you never know which piece you’re going to get. I’m grateful for items like gnocchi stuffed with potatoes, because who doesn’t want carbs wrapped in carbs? Then there are magic bars. It’s so wonderful that we never have to agonize over choosing a dessert, because magic bars are seven desserts in one. On the days I really want to eat healthy, there are vegetables. Sometimes it’s squash; sometimes it’s zucchini. But it always comes in a soup of oil. The best part is that even after consuming twice the recommended amount of daily calories at dinner, I’m hungry enough for a late-night buttery snack. Thank you, Yale Dining, for ending dinner at 7:30.

Let’s not forget to acknowledge the variety. I never knew quinoa could be prepared in so many different ways. And for those of us who miss lunch, Yale Dining is gracious enough to offer us a swipe at Durfee’s, where we have our pick among overpriced Naked Juice, overpriced Chobani and overpriced Triscuits. It’s nice to sometimes stress about losing weight and saving money instead of worrying about the paper I can’t write because the eggs in Commons gave me food poisoning.

But in all honesty, I really am thankful for chicken tenders. Amen.


Please Stop the Music, Actually

// by Stephanie Addenbrooke


Dear our good friend, the organ player,

This Thanksgiving, I, along with all of my suitemates, just want to thank you from the bottom of our hearts for educating us so finely in your art and in your skill. I have always appreciated organ music, and I get to do so at two in the morning. What more could I have ever wanted? I can deprive myself of sleep just to hear the sounds that Battell Chapel can never just keep to itself.

And, on that note…

Dear suite upstairs,

On the days that I’m lacking in my organ experience, you make sure that I can always hear some form of music. The music that you play has been so insightful — I never expected my musical knowledge to expand in the way that it has, and for that, I am truly thankful. The ambience of Toads swells down into our suite so that I can never tell the difference between a Monday and a Saturday night, which is just perfect when I’m trying to plow through “The Iliad” or a psychology paper.

And what’s more is that you both have perfect timing. Irrespective of when I choose to fall asleep, the music is always there to act as a somewhat distorted lullaby. I thought I had escaped being sung to sleep when I turned five, but apparently my childhood has come back to haunt me.

I know that Andrew Lloyd Webber wrote all about the “music of the night,” but this is one phantom I could live without. This Thanksgiving, spare us a little of your holiday kindness and give us the one thing we’ve been hoping all year for — a good nights’ sleep.