INT. MY OFFICE-AFTERNOON
ME: (Speaking to my muse) Where the heck have you been?
MUSE: Around.
ME: Around? Doing what?
MUSE: Stuff.
ME: What kind of stuff?
MUSE: Stuff.
ME: Like what? Searching the Internet for nekkid pictures of Hugh Jackman?
MUSE: (Indignant sniff.) That would be you.
ME: Right. The point is, you’re supposed to be my constant companion, my source of inspiration. Instead, you flake out on me.
MUSE: I’m capricious. That’s my charm.
ME: Charm, my ass. From now on, you stay here.
MUSE: What’s in it for me?
ME: My eternal gratitude.
MUSE: Meh. Will there be cookies?
ME: No. Cookies make us fat.
MUSE: Us? Speak for yourself, lard ass.
ME: I–
MUSE: “I, I, I” It’s always about you, isn’t it? What about me? My needs?
ME: (Pauses.) I was right, wasn’t I? Internet. Hugh Jackman. In the buff.
MUSE: (Squirms.) Actually…Jake Gyllenhaal.
ME: (Pauses.) So … did you find anything?
MUSE: Will there be cookies?
ME: Heck, for nekkid Jake Gyllenhaal, I’ll get you ice cream.
MUSE: Deal. Come on.
ME: (Confused.) Wait-a minute. What about my writing? Art? I, uh–Whoa! Is that–? (Thoroughly distracted.)
MUSE: (To camera. Satisfied smirk.) Works. Every. Time.
