Most days I sit in my office and dream about quitting my job to become a full-time writer. I'd probably have a stylish layered haircut, wear very expensive jeans, and drive a Subaru wagon from coffee shop to coffee shop--because seriously, they're not just for lesbians. I'd give the occasional lecture at the over-priced liberal arts schools that dot the New England landscape, I'd do some evening-time humor workshops at the off-beat church houses in my region, and--dang it!--I'd get paid to do all of it.
But lately, my officetime daydreams have changed. These days I sit in my dark, little sheetrocked cube and fantasize about more important things--like butter. I think about eating melted butter on blueberry bagels, I think about eating butter on my morningtime banana, on my eveningtime M&Ms, and straight from that luscious-looking stick.
I want to make out with butter, and honestly it's consuming my thoughts.
I'm not sure if this is a pregnancy thing, or if all of the sudden I've turned disgusting. I wouldn't be surprised either way.