Imagine spending Thanksgiving day in a tiny cement cell, sitting on a metal bunkbed, eating soy turkey and a cupful of mushy carrots off a tray, a few feet away from a toilet. Alone. No family within hundreds of miles and a lifetime away. No friends anywhere missing you on a day of togetherness, and even your handfuls of gullible sycophants who cling to your infamy are elsewhere, forgetting you for at least the day.
Imagine knowing that even this empty lonely Thanksgiving might be as good as it will ever be again, that next year's will be spent in a prison you'll never walk out of alive, where pink underwear, pink sheets, soy turkey and occasional brief trips outside to a courtroom will seem like the good old days.
I don't feel any sympathy for the butcher. On days like Thanksgiving, though, its easier to see how meaningless her manipulations are now that she is no more than a convicted murderer. She's powerless, stripped of being able to control any part of her own life, much less any one else's. All that's left for her is to hope she still has an audience for her pathetic attempts to create drama. Maybe her delusions made that soy turkey taste real. Somehow I doubt they did.