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Is it possible to die from eating too much? Because I’m pretty sure that’s what’s happening to me. I got up at 8:30am yesterday morning, taught a class from 10am-1pm, another class from 2:30-5pm, and another from 7-10:30pm. Then I collapsed in a heap into a booth at Carolina Ale House, where I proceeded to eat my weight in chicken zingers and Carolina Mudpie. I think it was the Mudpie that did it. This thing was triple the size that it normally is. And they sprinkled extra cinnamon sugar on it, and holy mother-of-deliciousness, Batman! I couldn’t stop. I ate and ate and ate and now I have a food baby and it’s trying to claw its way out through my belly button. It’s 3:45am and I’m still wide awake because the food baby won’t shut the hell up. I think it’s demonic based on the growling noises emanating from my stomach. I should call in Ghostbusters because when this thing finally manages to tear through the last layer of skin, there’s going to be an explosion of ectoplasm. I wonder if it’s a boy or a girl? Phoebe or Pheobo? Since it’s my own damn fault, I feel like I should take ownership of it and give it a name. Maybe it’ll be gentler on me then. I’m thinking I’d like to name it Bertha if it’s a girl and Barnabus if it’s a boy, but I’m open to suggestion. Either way, I’m pretty sure I’m dying and won’t be around long to watch the havoc it will wreak upon this world. It’ll give the Kardashians a run for their money. I’m sorry, dear friends. This was not my intent. I’ll miss you.