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I really have nothing to say. I should be spending this valuable, post-pizza time hitting the books (which of course means the internet) for meine Nature Experience de infierno. But instead I'm cross-legged on my floor, looking through ads and writing you. Quel fromage, I say. What the cheese.

Well. I could go make zucchini bread. That bloomin' pizza set my junk cravings off, flashing and sirening over every single sugary ad like police raiding a German bakery. Why German? Why not?

Steph thinks I should make zucci bread. I've just decided to call it that. I may even have to name my daughter 'Zucchini' so I can call her 'Zucci' for short. I'll make up some ridiculous story about how when I was pregnant with her I had the most horrid cravings for our neighbor's fresh zucchini, and I made her father go steal it for me. Till one day he got caught and arrested for trespassing (our neighbors will be the cantankerous sort). And that will take care of both her insecurities about her freakish first name and why she doesn't have a father *wicked grin*.


*sigh* I wish I could just scribble on forever. But, alas! My bed is calling me. Zucci bread will have to wait.