2:45 a.m.: Wake up starving.

2:46 a.m.: Convince yourself you can go back to sleep.

2:51 a.m.: Accept that there will be no sleep. Decide that if that obnoxious freak David Blaine can fast for 44 days, you can make it until sunrise.

2:52 a.m.: Feel bad for calling David Blaine a freak.

2:57 a.m.: Get a yogurt and slowly indulge on the couch, embracing every delectable lick of the spoon. Resolve you were right; David Blaine is a freak. Food is awesome.

3:30 a.m.: Wake up with heartburn.

7:20 a.m.: Make cereal for breakfast.

7:21 a.m.: Realize you somehow have forgotten to put on a shirt.

7:30 a.m.: Find a shirt that actually fits around the growing bump and then leave. No time to eat.

8:04 a.m.: Remind yourself that when you're pregnant, the hungrier you get the dumber you become and the worse food sounds. Avoid the starvation cycle. Even the folks in the human centipede have to eat.

8:05 a.m.: Pull in to the Starbucks drive-thru. Decide there is nothing on the menu that looks good. You're too late. Ask the barista for a caffeine-free drink.

8:15 a.m.: A co-worker sees you sipping on a green tea latte and says, "You know there's a lot of caffeine in that." Throw the drink away. Tell yourself you feel full.

8:23 a.m.: Go to the work refrigerator. Stare at options, none of which is appetizing.

8:26 a.m.: Close the fridge door and notice the large magnet of a condom on the door. Scrawled across the condom are the words "Just wear it." Think the condom is taunting you. It whispers, "If you'd only listened to me, you could eat everything in this fridge. Just wear it."

8:27 a.m.: Look around the kitchen, curious about whether anyone read your crazy thoughts about the condom magnet's talking to you.

8:28 a.m.: Realize that looking around to see whether any co-worker read your thoughts makes you even crazier. Promptly walk away from the fridge.

9:00 a.m.: Start looking up places to eat lunch, trying to find something (anything!) that sounds appealing.

9:45 a.m.: Co-worker asks whether you're going to the 10 o'clock meeting. Scream, "Can't you see I'm busy?!" Show co-worker the 50 open tabs on your computer, all of food menus. Co-worker slinks away.

9:46 a.m.: Go to the bathroom to put some cold water on your hangry face. Notice that your shirt is on inside out. Fix your shirt. Spot some crusted food on the shirt from dinner last week. Remember the meal fondly. Wonder whether it would be weird to lick your shirt just for a taste. Decide that yes, yes, that would be weird. Beyond weird. Consider again, but would it really?

9:47 a.m.: Decide to turn your shirt inside out again so you are not tempted.

10:30 a.m.: Enlist a new co-worker to find a meal that you would want to eat.

10:35 a.m.: As a joke, she suggests pumpkin bisque and raspberry pie. Start to cry. It sounds so beautiful. Yes, that is what you want for food. Right now. Nothing else will do. Co-workers remind you it is the middle of summer. Pumpkin bisque isn't even easily accessible in the winter months. Yell at your co-workers for taunting you with unavailable soup, declaring they are "worse than the condom magnet!" Watch as the co-workers stare back, blinking. Confused.

10:40 a.m.: Call co-worker friends whom you haven't yelled at and enlist them for help in finding pumpkin soup and raspberry pie. Manage to bite your tongue when a friend asks whether raspberry pie is even a thing. You've alienated nearly everyone else this morning. You need her.

2:30 p.m.: Realize you have just spent four hours searching online for pumpkin bisque and have not done any work. You can't formulate sentences. The baby must be eating your brain.

2:35 p.m.: Drive to the cafe across the street and let the cashier pick a meal for you.

3:00 p.m.: Experience heartburn from scarfing down the deeply unsatisfying meal.

5:00 p.m.: Pack to go home. Notice something shiny in desk.

5:01 p.m.: Pull out an old can of soup. It's pumpkin bisque.

5:10 p.m.: Consider bringing the soup home for dinner, but now that you've eaten, pumpkin soup sounds disgusting.

5:15 p.m.: Pass the fridge on the way out. Grab the condom magnet off the door and throw it in the trash.

6:30 p.m.: Aren't hungry for dinner because of late lunch.

2:45 a.m.: Wake up starving.

Like Katiedid Langrock on Facebook, at http://www.facebook.com/katiedidhumor. Check out her column at http://didionsbible.com. To find out more about Katiedid Langrock and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.