I have a great office.
At least I can write.
I guess I'm way too kind and generous, and a saint - if you can believe that!
I've never dreamed of a story idea. I have such boring dreams.
The next day, Greg is so large that he cannot even ride the car to school because he can't fit in the car. His parents believe this to have been caused by a food allergy and resolve to take him to the doctor later.
I've had a very sheltered life. What can happen to you if you stay home writing all day?