Dear "Elizabeth Taylor,"
I hope that it's okay that I'm already blaming you for things, but I believe that you are responsible for how much I ate tonight. Yes, the soup was great, as well as the hamburger, yet I feel the milkshake was a bit too much. You should have stopped there.
I believe you are in league with your father. How do you two communicate these subversive exchanges? Telepathy? Or it is just your similar genes which make you act as his liaison?
Perhaps we can just stay on board with the salad and small lunch tomorrow. Let's get in sync with this, okay?
P.S. I believe you are "sitting" on my bladder. If you shifted a bit to the left, or right - whichever direction - I would be eternally grateful. Thanks.
P.P.S. Those little quickening flutters and small jabs to my abdomen are sooooo cute. I mean, I know in the future they're going to be Bruce Lee kicks to the ribcage, but right now I am in love with your dancing and how it feels from the inside out. Keep it up. It gets me through my day.
P.P.P.S. I really, really, really love you.