Okay. Okay, I could do this. I’d white-knuckled my way through narcoleptic episodes, through diets so brutal that gallons of coffee were the only way to stop my stomach from chewing itself apart, through long dinners with Michael where he never tore his eyes away from his phone to talk to me. If I’d made myself uncomfortable for him, for my parents, for my old agent, then why couldn’t I make myself uncomfortable for myself? For something that I wanted to do? The new Winnie Baker had herself under control. The new Winnie Baker had her shit together. And she was going to make a sexy Santa movie
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