“Oh, no,” I gasped.
She rolled her eyes.
“What did I do to deserve this?” I whined. She’d only visited once before, when I’d stopped writing and started wallowing in self-pity. I didn’t know why, but I knew I was in for it. My muse’s sister is a diva.
“Let’s get this over with,” she huffed. “I’ve got a manicure at three.”
I turned my chair to her. “Fine.”
She put her hand on her hip. “You’re not funny. I mean, your sense of humor is so dry, it needs a chaser. Or a shot of tequila. Or both.”
“Yeah, I know.”
She started ticking off my offenses on her fingers. “You’re sarcastic and snarky.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“Every once in a great while, you manage a bit of wit but that’s it. And you’re completely crazy with your alliteration and internal rhyming.”
“I’m not the only one,” I…
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