Invocation to the Muse

Listen, Chica, help me out.

No, no, put that cigarette out and come in from the snow, you can smoke in the house, it’s totally ok. Nice lipstick–are you sure about those shoes?

Oh, of course, you’re right. I do have a big mouth–but that’s why you like me, right? They’re fabulous. Chartreuse platforms with red bows are absolutely the new black slingback.

Can I get you some coffee? Tea? A pillow? A poor, bedraggled writer with a deadline and an alarmingly blank brain who will happily build up a perfect cherry cordial hecatomb to you if you will just sit with her for awhile and make with the book.

Haven’t I always rubbed your feet after we’re finished? Haven’t I always kept the house stocked with limoncello and crayons just the way you like it?

Come on, why are you doing this to me? I’ve been a good vessel, haven’t I? I hardly ever say no, even when you want to make with the crazy depressing deathlit and lesbian necrophilia. I’ll paint your toenails to match your shoes. I promise.

Just come over here and sit by me.

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