there’s never enough lighting in this room. it’s too dark. how am i supposed to see you? all brooding and whatnot. this isn’t how hemingway wrote the great american novel, stuck in a stuffy basement with one tab on google docs and the other on pornhub. now, i brought you some food. food you have to cook. rice, beans, some cans of veggies, corn, etc. you have to cook these, vance. these aren’t frozen pizzas. so please eat, i don’t want to do this anymore. i’ll give you a call tonight. i got things that you like, i promise.
(it’s too much; she breaks) … vance this place is a shithole and you are a waste of a human being right now. this book you’re writing, what’s the point? you’re not hemingway, you’re not shakespeare, i mean look you’re on page 3,918. how long is this fucking thing? and every time i come down you’re practically ignoring me. i don’t like this. i don’t like it anymore. i need the real you back, the one who wasn’t caught up in this. please, either finish that fucking book or i’m not coming back anymore, ever, for anything. you can starve to death for all i care. this shit isn’t worth it.
hello? are you even going to respond to me?
fine. fuck off. (she leaves)
