me: (lolling on Dr. Krog) OE!
Dr. Krog: What's wrong with you?
me: I suffer!
Dr. Krog: Huh?
me: It's TORTURE.
Dr. Krog: What is? Besides motherhood and trying to keep a clean towel in the house.
me: The query process of writing. The waiting. The rejection. Waiting and being rejected are definitely two of my biggest failures as a human being.
Dr. Krog: Yeah, well, you kinda knew that going into the whole "writing" thing.
me: Yeah, but... it's the finger cuffs of the waitingness?
Dr. Krog: Are you referring to a Kevin Smith movie here? Because that's gross.
me: No, no. It's torture. Like medieval torture. It's like, the thumb screws of my genius!
Dr. Krog: Still with the euphemisms here?
me: No, you're not getting it. It's the Iron Maiden of my pulchritude.
Dr. Krog: Something about a hair band, and you're very attractive?
me: No, dunderhead. It's the pointy, red-hot poker of the yawning chasm of indifference.
Dr. Krog: Why are you yawning? It's only 8:20.
me: Ugh. No. Listen. It's about the pointy-head-snapping-basket of the whitened sepulchre of my soul.
Dr. Krog: Did you take painkillers? And drink?
me: NO. I AM A TORTURED ARTIST. A DOUBLY TORTURED ARTIST.
Dr. Krog: No, you're not. You're fine at the art bit. You just impatient as hell. You need to get over that. And fix me a snack.
me: Et tu, Kroggy? You want something from me, too? You want to bleed my soul dry, set me up on the waterboard of your lambasting? IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT FROM ME? BECAUSE YOU CAN JUST STAB ME IN THE HEART WITH YOUR QUILL OF CRITICISM AND STICK BAMBOO SHOOTS UNDER THE TAWDRY FINGERNAILS OF MY SYNESTHETE'S SOUL!
Dr. Krog: I just wanted a sammich. And some milk. And maybe you could change the DVD, too, as we're on the next disc of Buffy. Crazy person.
me: I'm not crazy, I just have a poetic license to drive you insane.
(Note: I may have made up approximately 40% of this conversation, but again, IT'S MY ARTISTIC LICENSE, DAMMIT.)