While I appreciate being spared by-and-large from the vomiting bit so far, being plagued with what seems like never-ending bout of nausea is, I feel, a really crappy alternative. I heard you can make my nails grow and my hair look awesome, how about you concentrate on that? Or maybe you can at least make me crave something that will reverse your effects--you lied to me about pizza, and pickles don't have enough calories to carry me through the day, so either get over yourself, or drop clearer hints.
You're not respecting my body. You make me gag over my leftover juice from breakfast (because somehow it smells like the drippy-yolk eggs that Frank ate), cause me to blubber over figments of my own imagination, and transform my normal fiber-filled diet into fuel for a noxious bio-hazard.
I hope you understand where I'm coming from, and that you could take it easy on me. Just know that my mom is coming to town tomorrow, and if you don't start chilling out a little, she's going to have a little sit-down with you and straighten you out. I heard she made you some macaroni and cheese to be nice, so behave, or else you'll get just what you want--YOU WON'T GET ANY.
Deepest resentment,
Carla
P.S. I know I get a baby at the end. I'll thank you then.
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