::lays head upon desk with labored breathing::

Dear God,
Please send me an angel to hold my hair & wipe my brow with a cool cloth. For I am about to spew chunks of Cook Out hushpuppies into my plastic trashcan. And if I must throw up, please let it be before my 3-piece-suited clients walk through my door.

Love,
Blair

p.s. please tell my pregnancy hormones to calm the eff down before I rabidly attack the dumbest creature you ever created, aka my coworker, and personally stab my ann taylor stiletto through the stupid claw-twist in her hair.