"Hmmmm," she said, not looking up from her video game playing.
"Case in point: the past half hour I spent writing about our dinner tonight at the Vietnamese place. I likened my inability to eat noodle soup with chopsticks to cataract-stricken chimpanzees trying to pick nits off of one another in the dark."
"I referred to you dumping an entire plate of shrimp on me as using me for your own personal chum bucket, and then turned around and made a terrible pun on the word "chum" to try to force feed some humor into the whole thing for the hundreds and thousands of people who read me."
"And then I went so far as to make a Casablanca-themed comment, about how 'the Germans wore black, you wore red, and I wore the shrimp noodle soup.' Definitely not funny, and yet you never said a word about the entire two pages of crap."
"Shit," she muttered as she lost a life in the game she was playing. She looked back over her shoulder at me. "So it took you two whole pages to realize that it was crap and should be abandoned, hmm?"
"Hmm." She turned her eyes back to her game. "And how long did it take you to realize that the last crappy thing you wrote was, in fact, complete and utter shit?"
"God! An entire chapter, Muse! Twenty pages, easy!"
"Wow, and only two pages this time," she said, killing some mutant on the television. "Guess that must mean you're getting to be a better writer or something. Funny, that."
Pause for a beat.
"I hate it, Muse, when you're trying to prove a point."
"I know, I'm a bitch when I'm right. Now write another two pages and see if it's better than the last. I'm going to kill some more of these fuckers while you're at it."