Pregnancy continues pregnantily. I'm in Melbourne for a conference that I'm not at at the moment because I have no more immune system. Pregnant women don't have much of one, you see; that way, their own bodies don't turn on the embryos. Which means the common cold chews through you like a rabid fucking wolverine. Oh well. It looked like a crappy conference anyways. But I'd rather be home, of course, eating according to my very, very odd predilections, and not having to share a washroom with other B&B guests.
I'm keen on having my own kitchen back because not only are my predilections in terms of what I can eat odd, but eating is further complicated by how it's not supposed to involve much salt, due to my blood pressure, which continues borderline-I-gotta-see-an-OB-instead-of-a-midwife-hey-maybe-I-can-get-a-C-section-instead-of-pushing-a-bowling-ball-out-of-my-insert-whistling-sound-here. Of course this week it's involving salt, because it's involving restaurants. And that's fine by me aside from the health issues. Pregnancy isn't giving me a sweet tooth, sadly. I could sit here eating french fries all day, no trouble. Best not to think about it.
Well, that's enough of all that now. Time for more sleeping.