some kind of gratitude                                                                       

I just ate two pieces of pizza. And they tasted almost ... normal. I even added in a few sips of coke. I didn't have to run to the bathroom to furiously scrub the taste of poison out of my mouth for almost ten minutes. 

I've lost all of the two pounds I'd gained last week. Hard to say if it was the in-laws, the 118 consecutive hours of cooking that took place in our kitchen, the turkey that was brined in an unholy concoction of maple syrup or the two days of undigested food I finally vomited up in the bathtub. 

I want to write that I'm finally feeling brave enough to accept that I hate being pregnant, but looks on people's faces when I even allude as much stops me short in my tracks. Maybe if I were back in New York or home in California I would have the fortitude to be so bold. But here in strange and uptight New England, where most women wear sweater sets with christmas wreaths pinned to their left breasts and matching reindeer earrings, I duck away and turn my head, quietly accepting their oh pumpkin, you'll feel better any day now I just know it!

I never expected to miss my broken down little hospital so much; a place where I could turn to basically anyone and say this fucking blows and they'd be all, oooooh child, you think this is bad girl? Wait 'til you try to push that shit out your cooter. You ain't seen nothing yet.