My Name is Acid/I Still Got It

I've had almost two hours of sleep, spread out over the night in 10-15 minute intervals. My chest and throat are burning and nothing seems to be doing the trick, other than not lying down. Note to self: Butterscotch sundae after dinner, bad bad idea. Stick to fruit. If Chris really loved me, he'd rush home with one of those lazy boy chairs so I could find a way to sleep sitting up. Maybe now that he's gone I can go back to bed and try building a pillow tower to prop myself on.

Anyhow, I had a lot of time to think, one conclusion I came up with is that most men are closet chubby chasers. I just assumed once I started to show I'd become invisible. You know, oh, a breeder, next. Apparently my just swallowed a Christmas ham look makes me even more irresistible. I waddle into a store with my comfortable shoes and a scowl on my face because the elastic on the waist is stretched to it's limit and pinching and hubba hubba look at me. The only difference is that men act a little less creepy. I haven't had to use my trademark "I don't fuck" line which is good because coming from a pregnant woman makes it more a conversation starter instead of an ender.

Last night at Best Buy the guy who sold me my new washer and dryer gave me his phone number if I ever wanted to call him up and talk about "children." Score!