It's Saturday night and I'm writing a post. This is sad.

Thanks, Babble, for including me in your top 50 mom blogs. I've got some excellent company in there. And hello to any new readers, who I imagine are already impatient with me. "She's the funniest? She hasn't made me laugh even once so far. I'm going to go to her house and punch her right in her stupid hair." Why are you so angry, new readers? When I only want to love and be loved? Fine, come to my house. It's an apartment building, anyway. I dare you to find which unit is mine. And then like I'm going to buzz you in? Dream on, weirdly driven angry readers I just invented! Yeah, good luck scaling the side of the building to get to me! What's that you say? Fire escape? Oh, hell and damnation! Where's my jet pack?!

As proof of how funny I am, I've added a new essay to the writing section: Eighteen Attempts at Writing about a Miscarriage. Okay, maybe not the most amusing piece, but I must tell you--in case you read it and grow concerned over my mental health--it was the most satisfying thing I've ever written. It was so cathartic to write I was sure it was junk. (Catharsis-inducing writing is rarely any good. Usually it's like scrawling I HATE YOU I HATE YOU in your diary and then throwing your diary at your mom right while she's on the phone with your Grandma, smoking her stupid cigarette like she's so fancy.) But hey, it was published, and nominated for a Pushcart Prize, not that I'm bragging but of course I am because I still can't get over it. It didn't win, though. Because the Pushcart Prize judges hate babies. I think that's clear.