Date:???

Dear Diary,

Date:???

Okay, it's been... some time. I have no idea exactly how long, though. My consciousness keeps flickering on and off, like a dying light bulb. I wake up, try to make sense of things, and—poof—gone again. It's frustrating, but I think I've managed to gather some clues.

If I had to guess, it's been around five months. How do I know? Well, every time I wake, I hear these weird, muffled, underwater-like sounds—sloshing, whooshing. It's not constant, but it's definitely there. I feel like I'm stuck inside one of those water balloons kids throw at each other.

Oh, and here's the fun part: ChatGPT is my power. No wise inner monologue—just a search engine waiting for prompts. So, obviously, the first thing I did was ask:

"When do ears develop in an embryo?"

And bam! Week 18 to 22. That lines up with the wooshing sounds I've been hearing, meaning I've probably been stuck here for about five months.

But this isn't even the weirdest part. Every time I wake, it feels more cramped than before. Lately, my movements have become jerky—random kicks or twitches without any thought behind them, like my body's running on autopilot. And now, something new is happening.

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Date:??

I think it's almost time for my birth. Everything's getting super tight in here. I feel like I'm in one of those vacuum-sealed packs. Also, I'm pretty sure I've already done the flip—or, as ChatGPT calls it, "lightening."

(What's lightening, you ask? Well, turns out babies perform this little gymnastics trick where they flip to position their head toward the hips, ready for delivery. Pretty neat, right? Another random ChatGPT fact. You're welcome.)

Everything feels different now—more intense. My movements are restricted, like I'm wrapped in duct tape.

Yep, I think the main event's coming. Time to make my grand entrance into this new life.

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Date:?

One random day, I was doing whatever babies do in this tight space, just floating around in my little water world. But then—bam!—my mother decided it was time to bring calamity (a.k.a. me) into the world.

So now, here I am, being squeezed out like the last drop of toothpaste from the tube. Honestly, I think this might be the toothpaste's revenge for all those times I tried to get every last bit out!

It's incredibly difficult and painfully surreal. I mean, I can't even begin to describe the sensation. Every inch feels like I'm getting stuck in a super tight passage—like a cork getting pulled out of a bottle. The pressure builds and builds, and let me tell you, it's not pleasant.

As I get pushed through this narrow tunnel, I'm wondering if this is what it feels like to be a piece of spaghetti being squeezed through a too-small colander. I'm not sure how much longer I can handle it.

I just hope the world on the other side is worth this struggle... sigh. Which I know it's probably not. Honestly, part of me is thinking maybe I should just crawl back into my mother's stomach. But then I remember the ruthlessly efficient doctor waiting on the other side. What if they decide it's time to cut my mother open like a freakin' butcher and drag me out? Nope! Definitely don't want that.