Reality Bites.

T-Mobile only sends me a bill. But is she happy?

When I started my script, an ode to good ol' Seventies Grindhouse and 'Sploitation titled Street Life, I had no idea that I was already knocked up. In fact, I was preparing to fly to England to visit my in-laws and friends for a month, and it was easy to knock out a few pages in the glow of excitement. I had also just finished my stint as a contract copywriter, and the freedom from being Princess Leia chained to my Jabba the Hut of an employer gave me the extra gusto to dig into the process of creating that Great American Screenplay (albeit with blood and guts and balls and boobs).

And then England happened. And then two pink stripes on the pee stick happened. And before I knew it, my script was not happening.

If you've never been pregnant, or if you're thinking about getting pregnant, or if you're a random dude who will never have any idea of what being pregnant is like, I will tell you. It's not just those happy-ass viral videos you see on the news or Inside Edition, where Grandma-to-be sits on the settee all a-wonder as she stares at the camera like a deer on Valium before her daughter and son-in-law reveal their pregnancy with all the charm of a father-daughter breakdance at a wedding reception.

Here's what it's really like: you crave, you eat, you puke, you sleep. You wake, you pee, you hurt, you weep. You crave, you eat, you puke, you sleep. Rinse and repeat. Somewhere in there, you make it to the OB/Gyn, where you get confirmation that a baby's still in there, and then you weep some more because you're reminded of why you bother with any of it. And you're always hot, but not in a sexy way. You're hot in a Golden Girls way, except Blanche was sexy. And you're so not.

So, what did I do when I wasn't working on my script? I read drivel. Pure crapola, courtesy of the Daily Mail app on my husband's phone. I read about the daily goings-on of WAGs and British TV presenters. I learned that Dubai had become the new Ibiza. I discovered that Rihanna has a mental condition that compels her to be naked everywhere she goes. And I read about Kim Kardashian.

Let's focus on that bit for a mo. I read. About. Kim. Kardashian. The adorable baby she's hardly seen with. The nutbar of a delusional fiance. The unromantic baseball stadium engagement that makes me glad I was proposed to outside a coffee kiosk at Heathrow. The life struggle to find a hardworking pair of jeans. The tacky wedding plans in France that turned into tackier wedding plans in Italy. But reading about everything Kim K. did something unexpected for me. Well, besides making me feel better about my own simple little life, if not my inferior finances.

Reading about Kim Kardashian made me resume writing.

Say whuuut? Now look, the older I get, the less I crave that deep-down body thirst for Haterade. I'm at the end of my Thirties. I'm housing a growing entity currently the size of a tangerine. I don't have it in me anymore to loathe anyone I don't know. Well, that's a bit bullshit. I still get that stomach wretch when Gwyneth Paltrow promotes $100 plain white T-shirts on her goopy blog, or when Beyonce stands there like a Stepford wife while her sister beats on Jay-Z in an elevator for sucking so hard. But Kim Kardashian? She never did anything to me except be everygoddamnwhere on the Internets. Sure, Siri is smarter by a good mile, but let's be honest—Kim Kardashian, like her fame-hungry mother Kris Jenner—is only still around because she works it.

Now, notice I didn't say works hard. A garbage man works hard. You over there—you work hard. Kim? She works it. The opening of an envelope? She's there. Someone unveiling a new vodka bra in London? She'll wear it, and give you a suckle for an extra hundred grand. I saw an episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians a few years back, and in it, Kim K. had just arrived in Vegas without sleep after making an overnight appearance somewhere else just a few hours prior. And—First-World Problem alert—she had another appearance to make not long after landing. So what did sistagirl do? She passed out on the sofa for 30 minutes, then got up and did the Vegas appearance, fake smile and big, bouncy booty intact. If the girl worked at a strip joint, she'd make it rain so much, Al Roker would show up to do Today Show weather remotes.

While it would be easier for me to sit at home and grind my teeth over the knowledge that no one will ever pay me a kabillion bucks to sip their drink poolside at Mandalay Bay, I'd rather take the lesson here, which is to keep going. If I don't finish my script, I'm always going to be the stupid bitch who sits home on her ass dreaming about writing that Great American Script while Kim Kardashian gets paid every time her phone's autocorrect doesn't add an "e" to Absolut in a tweet. Yes, Kim Kardashian is famous for doing nothing, but she does nothing like a goddamned pro. I don't wish to be famous, but I want to write the film that could be. And because I kept going—through every crave, eat, puke and sleep of my first trimester—I'm happy to announce that my script is now nearly complete.

So thanks, Kim. You keep getting everywhere doing nothing. You're like the Highlander of Hos, and there can only be one. For the rest of us, doing nothing will get us nowhere.