“Write Deepti ‘Fucking’ Lamba! Write!”

“But what the fuck do I write?”

“I don’t friggin’ care bitch! Something! Anything”

I stared at the laptop screen and mutter “Nothing! I have nothing left to talk about. I’m freaking squeezed dry of any entertaining thought.”

“Fuck you bitch! Write!” the attention whore in me demands.

“Nada! I’m all out!”

“Go sit in a café and write some likeable gibberish. Stop catering to your shack of a home and move that fat arse.”

“But my kid is sick.”

“Give him his medicine.”

“But I can’t leave him at home.”

“You have a maid.”

“But-“

“Christ! You are such a whiny lazy cunt!”

“I gotta write! Its been seven days.”

“Yeah! Its been seven whole shop closed days, go to the café, you need ‘us’ time.”

“Us time? You mean ‘me’ time?”

“No Bitch not me ‘getting to go to Spa’ time but us time like- writing for me- the attention whore and for her clients.”

“Did you just call my readers Johns?”

“If the boot fits”

“It doesn’t, they aren’t buying any goods from me!”

“They are all the time – you are whoring your thoughts!”

“Come again?”

“All that sex talk, celeb gossip, hot stories, graphic novel reviews are for your Johns”

“My readers!”

“Your JOHNS!”

“Shud up bitch!”

“No you shud the fuck up and write something concrete you nasty old lump of lard.”

“I gotta write.”

“Well, you just did sweet heart and the Johns are here to read it.”