I’m tired. I’m so very awfully uncomfortably and wearily tired. How am I supposed to take over the film industry with my enthralling dialogue and gripping story when I just want to nap, face down in a pillow five times a day? I’d drink more caffeine, but you’re supposed to limit your caffeine intake when you’re pregnant (along with limiting everything else, or cutting things out completely.)

My father-in-law asked me the other day how it is that Ernest Hemingway could have killed himself when he was such a good writer. I told him that Ernest Hemingway was an alcoholic. My father-in-law failed to find the connection. I told him I believed it was Hemingway’s misery that made him such a good writer. Well, I don’t drink anymore, so I can’t wallow in the beautiful depths of drunken writing. However, I am pregnant, so hopefully my fatigued, crampy, moody, (insert other gross things) misery could make me a better writer?

Maybe next time. Thanks anyway, Ernest.

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