Dear Suzanne Collins,

If I’m fired, I’m blaming you.

I’m supposed to be a quiet, steady, productive little worker bee right now.

Instead, I’m squirming around in my chair like a heroin addict in the beginning stages of withdrawals, eyeballing the book that’s in my purse, and it’s ALL YOUR FAULT.

You and your stupid intriguing writing. You and your stinky memorable characters. I hate your new series, The Hunger Games. I hate it!

Stupidly, I bought the first book in the new series.

Stupidlier (don’t be refudiating my new word. You’re just jealous I thought of it first), I cracked it open while waiting in the doctor’s office for an ultrasound of the Squidgelet.

Instantly, I was GONE. While I may have physically been sitting in a dingy little doctor’s waiting room, I wasn’t really there.

By the time the cranky nurses got around to calling my name, I resented the intrusion.

I SHOULD have been staring in breathless awe at the sight of my unborn child dancing merrily around the grainy screen of the ultrasound machine.

But NOOOOO.

No. You and your stupid Katniss and her STUPID desire to survive kept distracting me from the joy that was at hand.

“Hold on,” the technician said sweetly. “Your baby is playing hard to get, and I want to make sure you get a beautiful photo to take home and share with your husband.”

Normally, I’d be thrilled with a few extra minutes of watching The Squidgelet.

Thanks to YOU, Collins, my sweet little technician’s offer only irritated me.

“It’s fine. Just take a picture. Yeah, I know it’s just a leg. The Bean likes photos of grainy legs. He’ll be excited to see the femur up close. No, seriously. It’s fine. Just take a picture.” I glanced in the direction of my purse, sweating slightly. Katniss! Hold on, Katniss! I’ll be with you in a moment— I’ll set you free from your literary prison!

Stupid Suzanne Collins. You and your stupid writing could have made me have an accident. It’s not MY fault I didn’t have the strength to put the book in the trunk of my car. I barely managed to keep myself from reading it while driving, and only picked it up at the red lights.

For the record, I’ve never hit so many stupid green lights in all my life.

When I pulled up in front of my house and noticed that the Bean had surprised me by coming home early, was I excited? Was I thrilled to spend a few extra hours with my wonderful husband before he left on a five-day business trip?

No. Instead of rejoicing and dashing in to be with my family, I sat half-tangled in my unbuckled seat belt, slowly edging out the door, promising myself I would put the book down after …just…
one…

more……

…page…

Twenty minutes later, I guiltily crept out of the car and walked through the front door.

“Hello, Bean!” I smiled brightly.

“DragonMonkey!” I picked him up, twirled him, and gave him a hug and a kiss.

Perfunctory duties accomplished, I immediately shoved my nose deep inside the book and completely ignored my wonderful family for the next hour, occasionally murmuring out “Just one more page…” in completely unconvincing tones.

Darn you, Collins. DARN YOU. I wanted a lovely evening with my family, and you stole that from me.

On a side note… all of you blog readers out there? Yeah. You may love the men in your life, but I have the world’s BEST HUSBAND EVER. After watching me ignore him for hours, not only did The Bean forgive me… He claimed he had “errands to run”, snuck out to Target, and bought me Book Two of the Trilogy.

I.

Love.

My.

Husband.

The only problem is that now I am completely unable to focus on my work. I have a book at home… an unopened, unread, completely engrossing book. If I call out sick, is it really a lie? I mean, I’m dying to know what happens in the next book. Dying is like being sick, right?

Right?