Musette wakes up in pain. The dog is sitting by the door, wanting to go out. Cozette wants to take us shopping for baby things. I have to drop the American Express back off at my boss’ work. My stepfather is at a mountain somewhere. He’s got his boss’ car, and he’ll meet us at his wife’s house.

I don’t got no reason for the giving of another moment’s worth of time for this same dang thing, I say.

I am gaseous and bloated. I am a walking, rotting corpse.

Give me a five dollar foot long on my five dollar foot schlong. That’s the creamy, dreamy, steamy kind of life.

This headband is the crown of my dominion. I make it so with my belief, knowing that the more matter you put behind your ideas, the better. I’ve got a lot of stuff in my bag. It’s pretty heavy. Babe’s computer, my phone charger, something to read, coffee, the thermos.

I’m totally open to having an epidural, says my wife.

You have to tell them that, says her twin.

We’re at the store together. We’re looking at baby things. Her dad is here with us. The look that he just gave me, with his putrid smile, was so horrendous that I had to shade myself behind Cozette.

You’ve really got to tell them that you don’t want pitocin, says Cozette. This is why you’ve got to have a detailed birth plan.

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