Stand at the door in aviator sunglasses and greet every guest by asking if they know how fast they were driving.

Read aloud from my childhood diary and sob on cue every time the entry mentions any of our now-deceased family dogs.

Perform a one-man musical about the life and death of our turkey, which is live-streamed to all of my ex-boyfriends.

Serve everyone their mashed potatoes while looking them dead in the eye and whispering “The body of Christ, broken for you.”

Fill my socks with cranberry sauce and choreograph an interpretive dance in which I attempt to depict, through the art of movement, cranberry sauce’s specific shade of red.

Volunteer to bless the food and instead recite a spoken word rendition of “My Humps” by the Black Eyed Peas.

Eat my meal by doing that whole “my arms are behind my back and someone else is pretending to be my arms” thing with Uncle Jerry, who called me his “healthy little butternut squash” at last year’s Thanksgiving, and whose actual connection to any single member of my family has never been addressed.

Mold all of my food into hundreds of tiny, pea-like balls that my brother has to toss into my mouth from across the table.

Ask “Did you guys hear that?” and “No really, has anyone else ever thought this place was haunted?” every time my great-grandmother says anything out loud.

Pack my bra with brussels sprouts until they protrude from my shirt collar and spend the entirety of the dinner pretending that my bra is not, in fact, packed with brussels sprouts.

Appear shocked and scream “IS ANYONE HERE A MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL?” when one of said brussels sprouts comes loose and rolls across the table.

Tie whatever we stuffed in the turkey around my neck and wear it about the town as a fashion necklace.

Secretly spend the meal dropping food on the floor for Uncle Jerry, who is now sneaking around under the table like our old family dog who passed away.

Damn it, now I have to do the sobbing thing again.

Put two whole carrots in my mouth so that they stick out kinda like tusks and read the entire Wikipedia article on “walruses” out loud.

Have my meal spoon-fed to me by a distant cousin whom I have never met, and who also happens to have a large and unfortunate face mole that falls directly in my line of vision, so that I must attempt to look away from said large and unfortunate face mole while I politely thank them between bites.

Give a TED talk to my family titled “The Evolution of My Personal Blogs,” except every time I would usually say “blog” I have to say “blerg.”

Send a photo of my bloated, food-impregnated stomach to the last man to message me on Tinder and insist that he is the father even though we’ve never met in person or engaged in a dialogue longer than “hey nice pics lmao.”

Take a shot of skim milk after every bite of food, then belch loudly and exclaim “THAT’S THE STUFF!”

Abruptly announce in the middle of dessert that as of this moment I am actually on a strict no-sugar diet, then cry quiet, bitter tears and mutter things like “How could you?” “You monsters!” and “You only ever think of yourselves!” each time anyone takes a bite of pie.

Wash all the dishes using my own tongue, just like our old family dog who— …goddamnit.

Make my exit by donning the tablecloth as a cape and shouting “You haven’t seen the last of me!” before scurrying out an open window and into the night.