Me: Help! HEEEEEEEEELP MEEEEEEEEE!!!
The Muse: Shh. We’re watching Entertainment Tonight.
Me: No! You have to help me! It’s time for writing and I don’t know what to say!
The Muse: Sigh. So don’t write.
Me: No. No way. I talked all about how important it is to write every day and I’m not going to be a hypocrite.
The Muse: Um, I’m really trying to watch TV right now.
Me: Dammit, you just lounge around all day and I ask you for one simple favor…
The Muse: Cry me a river, diva-girl.
Me: Why are you so nasty today? You’re supposed to be the good, creative, HELPFUL part of me.
The Muse: We can bitch about the American Music Awards. Look at Bieber. What a disgrace to music.
Me: I absolutely refuse to write about Justin freaking Bieber.
The Muse: Why not?
Me: Because I am not 12 years old, that’s why. And let me tell you something.
The Muse: I smell a rant coming on.
Me: Damn right. Let me tell you this for free. When I was 12 and everyone had New Kids on the Block posters in their lockers, what did *I* have in my locker?
The Muse: Aerosmith.
Me: AEROSMITH. Because even at 12, I knew good vs. bad music.
The Muse: Get off your high horse. You totally would have made out with Donnie Wahlberg.
The Muse: YOU WOULD HAVE.
Me: *mumbles* He was the bad boy.
The Muse: Ah HA! J’accuse!
Me: Oh go to hell.
The Muse: And you would have made out with Sebastian Bach, Nikki Sixx and Slash.
Me: Shit, I STILL want to make out with Baz and Nikki. Not much has changed there.
The Muse: You wonder and ponder and bitch and moan about your sorry excuse for a love life and yet you will not let the damn bad boy thing go. You know what the secret is to bad boys?
Me: I don’t want to hear it.
The Muse: THEY’RE BAD.
Me: How did we get on this topic? I don’t want to talk about my non-existent love life.
The Muse: It all comes back to The Biebs.
Me: IT MOST CERTAINLY DOES NOT.
The Muse: Yes it does. We went from the Biebs to Donnie to Nikki Sixx and now we’re here. And that timeline is more than a little disturbing, by the way.
Me: I’m an enigma like that.
The Muse: You’re a huge weirdo, more like it.
Me: Listen, let’s get off the topic of boys, okay? It’s depressing.
The Muse: So what do you want to talk about? Oh wait, don’t tell me. You want to talk about your hair.
Me: Well it’s time.
The Muse: Time for what? You had it perfect like, one week ago. You want to ruin it now?
Me: Now it’s too long.
The Muse: In the nano-millimeter it grew from last week to now? NOW it’s too long?
Me: Too long.
The Muse: You’re just going to get it cut and hate it. You do this EVERY TIME.
Me: And I need to dye it. I’m thinking fire engine red.
The Muse: I’m thinking you’ll hate it in two days and dye it black again.
Me: You’re so NEGATIVE.
The Muse: You’re so PREDICTABLE.
Me: This is going nowhere.
The Muse: I have one more thing to say.
Me: Great. By all means. You have the floor.
The Muse: If you don’t spike up your hair? You totally look like The Biebs.
Me: I hate you.