Letters.

Dear Stomach,
What do you want from me, exactly? You gag at the smell or sight of food – sometimes even the thought of it – but I need to feed you, there’s a baby inside me and we all need the nutrients. When you don’t let me eat, I’m even more tired and draggy than necessary, and if my stomach is empty for the nausea-induced heaving, it’s even more painful. If you’d let me eat something, there’d be something in there for you to purge. I don’t think that’s an ideal situation for either of us, but maybe we could compromise, okay?

Dear Couch,
I love you so much. I love how you’re soft and pillowy and let me press my whole body against you whenever I want. I love how you’re located right next to my lappy and the TV and my DVD collection. I love how I can lie on you and pretend I’m still part of the World of the Living when in fact, I probably couldn’t get off you if the house was burning down. Let’s never end this affair, some days you are all that matters to me.

Dear Bed,
We really need to spend more time together. I really love being with you, on you, in you – my time there is always so satisfying. But there’s something between us, Bed. It makes me uncomfortable to talk about, but I feel I owe to you to come clean. It’s the stairs. I just can’t manage them until I’ve napped on the couch for an hour or two first. And once I’m on the couch, well, you know how it goes. I have a hard time leaving. Just like I have a hard time leaving you in the mornings.

Dear Headache,
Fuck off. Seriously. I hate you.

Dear Energy, I miss you. I’m getting fat over here. Please come back and at least visit once in a while, okay? I know sometimes I took you for granted but now … I’ve come to understand, I need you. I’m nothing without you. Please take pity on me and come back.

Dear Breasts,
I’m sorry for what you’re going through. I really am. When they say, “It hurts me as much as it hurts you,” well, that’s how I feel. It really, really hurts me to go through this with you. The only comfort I can offer is that it will all be over soon. Well, if by “soon” you mean “in 8 months”, and if by “over” you mean that you’ll be full of milk and getting chewed on by a newborn. Sorry about that. I’m afraid life is going to suck (heh) from here on in. It's true, things will never be the same, but I hope someday you’ll forgive me.