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If you are reading this message, I have succeeded. Please send Jamba Juice. New clothes. And a maid.
It is the only source of nourishment my captive is allowing me to enjoy. Scratch that. I did get to eat an entire mashed potato bowl from KFC without regurgitating last week. A few more of those bad boys and I will gain back the nine pounds I have lost. I have been stripped of all my proper fitting clothing. It's too saggy in the butt and thighs, but I can't keep it buttoned the entire day. By mid afternoon they are hanging somewhere around my knees so I change back into my pajama bottoms. My will is weakened. There is crayon on my wall and I didn't even freak. One of these days I'll just watch my husband paint over it. I bought frozen corn dogs. I woke up bright and early Monday morning thinking I'd earned some release with the passing of the first trimester, only to find myself again captive by the bathroom floors and laundry room. I take comfort in knowing that I was right. As I've gotten to know my captive a little better, I realize just how right I was.
My body has been invaded by an alien.
But don't feel too sorry for me. I hold out hope that there's a chance Will Smith will deliver my baby.