The Great Turkey Pardoning

On April 1, 2014, I baked two turkey drumsticks. On April 2, I halfheartedly nibbled at one of them before giving Edie the lesser-spiced bits and adding the remainder to my perennial stock pot. On April 3, I brought the second turkey leg to my office to serve as my lunch. 

On April 16, I collected some things from my office and put them in the backseat of my car. One of them was this pyrex containing the drumstick I'd intended to eat for lunch on April 3, then April 4.

On April 17, I brought some of those things I'd collected from my office from my car into my home.

On April 18, I went through the bag of things I'd collected from my car, and I came across the pyrex with the turkey leg.

On April 21, the turkey leg is still on my counter in the pyrex.

Do not be misled: I have not forgotten about the turkey leg. I have never ceased being fully aware of its existence. I look at it every time I step into my kitchen, which is the path to my closet—and 75 percent of my belongings.

I think about it in the morning. I think about it in the afternoon. I think about it in the evening and late at night. I think about it as I lie in bed and read. Or when I'm taking out the trash or running to the grocery store or spring cleaning my entire apartment. Cleaning my entire apartment would, of course, include the act of lifting up the putrefying carnage to wipe the countertop beneath it.

I have performed the activities of nearly normal life as a nearly normal person all while fully cognizant of the ever-festering turkey carcass encased in sure-to-be-ruined $8 tupperware on my kitchen counter.

I know this can't go on. I mean...I know it can't last forever. I realize no matter how I spin this, it's pay now or pay later. I know I should just rip off the bandaid. But for the time being, I'm paralyzed. You see, as long as my turkey terrarium remains sealed, I'm safe. Right now, we're coexisting in near harmony: both breathing our own little biodome atmospheres. I just can't break the seal! I've been through this before, and I know how it works: “end it now with quite a bit of pain” or “end it later with even more pain”.

But I can't do it. I can't do it.

You're all going to tell me to throw the whole thing away, aren't you? But you know I can't do that. You know how I feel about my pyrex food storage containers. You know I wash and reuse my gallon-size freezer bags. 

I'm...in this for the long haul.