two in a row.

I have gum. I have tortilla chips. I am rich, indeed.

Stayed awake 'til 4 a.m., had to be in this chair at 10 a.m. (was late, of course). Am paying the price now. Feel slightly drunk. Will take nap after shift ends.

My belly finally outranks my boobs. I've had more people talk to me about pregnancy this week than ever before. I actually get annoyed with it sometimes. I know, I know ... stop being so hormonal. I'm just so private (said the girl who types out bits of her life on the Internet) ... it's weird to have people question me about my secret world.

Tonight, I make pot stickers! I even have hot chili oil! Food is grrrreat!

I need some girl names, folks. I'm at a loss. Someone from L.'s place of employment christened her new baby girl with MY NAME! (bitch.) So now I have nothing, nada, zip, zilch, zero. Help me.

And confidential to M: You once told me to ride my wave and in the end everything will work itself out. You seem to be doing just that. Have faith in your supreme knowledge. I know you will land on your feet. We always do. Love, me.

HELL TO THE NO!

Damnitalltohell, I missed Bobby and Whitney this week. I fucking love that show.

Who the hell searches for "Bubba" from "In the Heat of the Night"? Whomever you may be, you need to live here because he's mayor and shit. And really tall, kind of buff even; but his conservative outlook kills the buzz. Just so you know, whomever you may be.

Here's what I'm eating (because I know you're interested): Grilled chicken breast tossed with crisp romaine, shredded parmeasan and creamy Caesar dressing wrapped in a sun-dried tomato tortilla. Yum.

Crack house, tract house -- who could possibly tell the difference?

I'd like to give a shout out to the multi-personalitied. I'm kind of jealous that you all are able to switch gears so goddamned easily. Rock the fuck on.

This post is brought to you by curse words and facetiousness. (See? I be playin' with you.)

Let's talk about sex, baby.

Or should I say gender.

I had another ultrasound yesterday. This time, I got the goo on the belly and all that. (The other times, I've been assaulted with a dildo-like object.) My child was not into moving around all that much at the time. We kind of had to poke at her to get some good pictures. The tech told me to keep my receipts, but it looks like a girl. I knew it. I know it. She is a she. She has ovaries and uterine gadgetry. She will menstruate and develop boobies and drive me insane with worry. And one day, hopefully, she will experience the joy of making her own baby girl. I hope.

Her father will go crazy before his time. He will teach her karate and beg her not to date boys. He will wring his hands every time she leaves the house without him. He will love her like crazy and she'll be his little angel.

She'll have curly hair and big, brown eyes. And too much attitude for most people's taste. And I could care less because she's my baby girl and I can take the 'tude. (Really.)

And now, I must stuff my face with salt and vinegar chips. Yes, I'm very health-conscious. Shut up and mind your business.