Illustration by Ryan Alexander-Tanner

I THINK Thanksgiving is probably one of the most important holidays—well, it has the potential to be one of the most important holidays.

Look, if your way of celebrating Thanksgiving is to eat hella food, watch football, and then lie on the floor moaning like a wizard turned Godfather-era Marlon Brando into an elephant seal, that's fine. That's a passive kind of gratefulness... but I think that counts, no? You're grateful for food, you're grateful for your friends and family, you're grateful for the stern support of the living room floor—you're spending time with your loved ones. I'm into it.

Thanksgiving, though, can be much more powerful than just that—and yeah—this is going to be one of those columns where I get kind of hokey, BUT I'VE BEEN GOING THROUGH SOME SHIT THIS WEEK AND I AM BEING BATTERED BY THE UNDULATING TUMULT OF THE PRESENTLY UNKNOWABLE AND THIS IS WHO I AM RIGHT NOW.

You gotta actually sit down and think about the thanks for which you are grateful. You gotta actually give thanks for what you've been given. Maybe that happens with 30 different people going around in a circle before you're allowed to even take three bites of turkey. Or maybe it happens privately, in your head, in between being anxious about things—but you should make the time. Life has this tendency to blur behind you as you fixate on certain things. I get so wrapped up in the addictive nature of tangible accomplishments that I don't take any time to appreciate what I'm actually doing... not even almost.

When I open for some amazing comedian I fixate on the idea that I'm opening for that amazing comedian, and often times, I don't spend any time actually enjoying the time spent doing it. I think, "It's awesome that I get to do that," and rarely, "It's awesome that I'm presently doing this."

Sometimes I treat time with family like it's community service—clocking in five or six hours a visit, feeling satisfied with that time served, rather than reminding myself that these are the people who know me best, the people who've loved me the longest (way before Biggie got killed), and who will continue to love me the longest (way after Biggie's ghost is captured).

I spend so much time worrying that I'm not good enough for the girl I'm dating that I miss all the myriad ways she shows me that I am, and then I stomp around all anxious looking for my glasses, turning over couches, opening the fridge for some reason, when they're right the fuck there in my hand, AND MAYBE I WOULDN'T DO THAT IF I SPENT MORE TIME BEING MINDFUL. And maybe I would be more satisfied with my career. And maybe I wouldn't be so shocked when my brother's son is already walking and my sister's children are becoming tiny little grown-ups and my parents' hair is a little grayer.

Life will keep surging either way; maybe try and appreciate it.