Greetings, imaginary baby, as I lie staring up at the ceiling with a pillow under my ass. Okay, not up at the ceiling exactly, more like at the laptop propped on my legs. I'll spare you the particulars. Suffice it to say, I got a flashy smiley face today (in a related story, 37 year old women can still be relied upon to respond positively to smiley faces), and so.... anyway.
This is too much information for you. I can tell. Sorry.
So. Now what happens?
I guess that's partly up to you, isn't it. Not as a matter of will, which you do not possess, but perhaps as a matter of math. What's your schedule like? What are you up to, in there?
Has it been thirty minutes yet? Okay, I'm getting up. I have a book to write. This is how a lot of our interactions are going to end, I'm afraid.
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