Hello Misery, My Dear Friend

This is it. I'm in hell (or a rendition of a slightly different take on Misery). There's nothing quite like sitting criss-cross apple sauce in the living room recliner at 3 a.m., gasping for breath, hoping for death, and repetitively singing You're So Vain in your head. Should I be looking for a f'in mirage? Shall I park my camel in the foyer or on the porch?

It seems my organs are shutting down. The baby is putting so much pressure on my stomach and perhaps other vital organs (as well as my lungs, let's not forget the fact that I haven't breathed since somewhere around 35 weeks) that a half of a turkey sandwich has been left to rot in my stomach for the past 5.5 hours. It's tasting really good about right now, especially considering it was questionably safe to eat in the first place.

This leads me to a new truth in life. Never, ever eat the turkey when it says "Best if sold by ______________," which was yesterday (and possibly go 100% raw during the last few weeks of pregnancy).

If I had any right mind left, I'd throw the mother of all come-aparts. Since I don't, I'll have to refer you to Clark W. Griswold, who's done it for me fairly well...