The Artistic Process

“Oh my God,” Bez says from in my kitchen. “Have you been eating anything that isn’t bad for you?”

I am on the sofa, in grimy sweat pants and a T-shirt I’ve been wearing for three days straight. “I’ve been writing. Nutrition wasn’t important. Productivity was.”

“You’re living like a homeless person.”

“I wasn’t living like a homeless person,” I say. “I was living like a wolverine.”

She sticks her head in from the other room. “Wolverines don’t live on Taco Bell and expired milk.”

“It’s nonfat milk. It takes longer to get chunky.”

“You could have called me. I would have brought you supplies.”

“The phone died. I was too busy to plug it in.”

She comes over to the sofa and leans over me, sniffing. “You smell like the crotch of David Lee Roth’s spandex pants.”

“Do not,” I say. I sniff one armpit, then the other. “Maybe Eddie Van Halen’s. Maybe.”

“Get up,” Bez says, tugging on my arm. “We’re getting you into the shower.”

“I don’t need a shower. I need sleep.”

“Shower first, sleep after. Oh my God, how long have you been wearing this shirt? It’s crunchy!”

“Writing isn’t pretty,” I say. “Embrace your inner wolverine. Embrace it!”

She puts her fingers into my hair and peers at it. “What is this in your hair?” She pulls something out. “Is this part of a Funyun?”

I take it from her and pop it into my mouth. “Don’t judge me.”

She points in the direction of the bathroom. “Go. Turn on the water and get in. I’m braving the kitchen to find a scouring pad. And rubber gloves. And Lysol.”

“You don’t understand the artistic process.”

I am a WOLVERINE.