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First lines

Every time I try to find words to write about this, what comes out is simply wrong:

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a child.

Nope. Paul's not single, his fortune is largely depleted by my ruinously expensive Gonal-F habit, and I'm pretty sure Elizabeth Bennet didn't do it on the first date.

Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as the first postpartum bowel movement.

Vulgar, contrived, and a great big goddamn lie.

Lochia, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-chi-a.

If Humbert Humbert ever knew the pleasure of having his hospital-issue slipper socks splashed with blood when he finally rose for his first post-surgical shower, I'll eat an inch-thick maxi.

It was a bright cold day in November, and the clocks were striking thirteen.

Nuh-uh. Altogether too many rats strapped to the face. Besides, it wasn't cold, it wasn't bright, and I lost all sense of time.

Once upon a time there were four little Rabbits, and their names were Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter.

What the fucking fuck? That might well be the Percosets talking.

You can see the problem I'm having. Okay, one more try:

Everything is different now forever.

For now, that'll do.

Charlie. 3 pounds, 11 ounces. November 27, 2004, 10:22 PM.

Everything is different now forever.