Shan: Thou hast forsaken me.

The Bitch Muse: Shakespeare? Listen, doll—even 1970’s maternity pants weren’t that much of a stretch.

Shan: You’re a cruel and fickle mistress.

The Bitch Muse: What do you expect? After the icky flu stuff and the icky tax staff—math for god’s sake—and your hour-long rant on the evils of the capital “U” yesterday, you expect me to be creative?

Shan: They’re teaching my eldest to type with only the right shift! That’s just wrong! Did you see the way his wrist curled all up when he showed me how to cap the “U”? I may not get NECAP testing or new math, but I sure as hell know how to type.

The Bitch Muse: You can’t even type your own name without backspacing at least once.

Shan: You know, there are a lot of writers who keep their muses in the basement from what I hear.

The Bitch Muse: I’m your muse. I already reside in the fifth circle of Hell, so a basement scaring me? Not so much.

Shan: Oh, like it’s that hard. All you have to do is vomit up a shitty first draft. I have to do the hard stuff.

The Bitch Muse: I thought we weren’t using the word “vomit” ever again.

Shan: Can we at least bang out a Thursday Thirteen?

The Bitch Muse: Sure! Thirteen reasons I wish I was Nora’s muse…

Shan: Never mind.