Here in the eating disorder clinic, the idea of a Thanksgiving dinner has thoughtfully been planned. Our superiors have correctly adjudicated that the very onus of a day solely centered on food would be too much for this gaggle of women, who have mirrored Thanksgiving's idea and used transference to apply it to every single day, all of that day, then its night, too.

So we're having T-day, as I like to call it, a few days early. It keeps in step with the idea of girls like us wolfing down before we get the main meal, which of course we'd daintily turn down when it came about.

Our T-day is not like your T-day if yours has the works that most assuredly includes:

The T, otherwise known as turkey, is that large, steaming pile of juices that tastes so pangy against the back of throat that you eat it once a year.

Notice, too, that because of all other foods that go along with T-day, you never actually consume as much T as you initially think, and, often times, you never consume all the T that was originally plopped on the plate.

More often than not, the plated T never looks as tantalizing as the T yet left on the serving platter, which looks juicier and more finely curved than the T before you. Then, as you draw that T closer, you recognize it, in fact, is the same T that you have on your plate, and you immediately get dissatisfied with the Monet-like quality of all the baked T. So then, you turn to other foods like:

Potatoes, which are steamed and mashed to the point that they become increasingly difficult to throw up.

Or Green Beans, which are preferably in a Funyun casserole with onion water and cheap, clumpy cheese, so greasy and slimy that they make me think of worms in mud, sliming all over the grass that I'm about to pick up and tweeze in my mouth.

Sometimes, the worms seem as though they are defecating all over the grass, even though I am not sure that worms actually defecate, or just run the dirt all the way through their system so that it comes out cleaner than it was before, under which case the dirt would be about as safe as it ever was going to be.

Or Stuffing, your mother's or grandmother's collection of bread and other food too inedible to eat by its lonesome so it arrives in the stuffing. I believe that it is entirely possible that supermarket folks put out the most intestinal sausage they can find, I mean the absolute ground-up snout of the pig (or of the cow, if one prefer to clog their heart with beef), near this holiday so that it can be sold and simultaneously recognized as the worst sausage, and therefore put into the stuffing as yum-yum filler meat.

Cranberry sauce, which I was taught at a young age exactly resembled the hardened blood extract of a giant South American spider. The live blood, for anyone who may be interested, is most like tomato soup without the milk, which then hardens and darkens into cranberry sauce. The hardening process, I have been told, lends to the darkening, hence the coloring change.

That tray of shit, with all the shit on it, which varies from family to family, and typically contains the most fattening-per-capita foods that the world has ever seen and will only see on T-day. Like those ground-up deviled eggs that could actually double as nuggets of certain pulmonary death if 20 are consumed. Or the food version of the bulbous vagina - the olive, which taunts with its ability to make feet explode.

This shit tray is key, quite key really, because it serves as the alternative to the T, which has already dissatisfied you, and now serves to stare back at you in anger, because it is T-day, and you bought this hunk of T meat instead of a big roasting chicken. And now, frightful eater, you have been forced to eat it.

What the shit tray does is give an excuse, really, to keep lifting from it before and during the main meal, and thus turn the T away by using the excuse that the shit tray did you in. Parents enjoy scolding their children for this, as my mother did to me, when, in fact, we only learn from watching them as they are attempting to escape the wrath of T on an empty.

Then, of course, there is dessert, which for a girl like me, trumps all that has come before it by simply being called dessert and having a desserty item upon it like chocolate sauce.

Like, say, you take a foul piece of potted meat. Douse this in chocolate sauce, and I am more excited about this supposed dessert than I was the T or the stuffing, which had foul ground-up snout in it anyway.

I understand that for some reason, pumpkin has been included in the dessert items on T-day and thus can only be saved by whipped cream. We blind ourselves to the reality of pumpkin, or PMP, as I like to call it. Has one after scooping out all the goop that is in the Halloween PMP considered eating that PMP? And yet toss some fake syrup into the mix and drudge it down into the powder, and one is ready to dive in.

Much worse is the mince meat, the foulest collection of yucky nuts and fruits thrown in a conglomeration. It's worst than trail mix - it's trail mix ground-up into semi-size chunks. Others attempt to save it with those giant chocolate chips.

Why doesn't one soul think of what I used to in my T heydays? Pure chocolate. Like take chocolate chips, melt them and create a paste that you can drink out of the short glass. It comes up amazingly fast when it comes up, which is the essential goal of the entire process.

Here in the clinic, T-day will include some health vitamins, fruits and for those who are truly brave and entirely cured, which is not possible, a small T basting in its juices on the yonder table. There will be no dessert as this might create a wave of binge and purge this world has not yet seen.

No stuffing, no PMP, no potatoes. No dried up blood. No games. No options. No obsessing. No control, no control whatsoever because you only get that when there seems to be no control.

Here, we are not even presented with attacking the T-day foods and then succumbing to hypocrisy and devouring them. No viable alternatives. No fun. No eating disorder. I suppose, in my dark logic, that this is the point.