I can't work here. I've been trying. It's impossible. I've written three pages in the last six weeks. Three pages! The book is due on Wednesday. If we don't hand in the book I don't know what we're gonna do. We can't pay for anything. We can't pay for the runners, for the stools. We can't pay for the tanned jello bowl that you like. We can't pay for your little happy mug vase thing.
Well, what if you got out of the house for a little while and went to write at, like a Starbucks or something?
And what? You're gonna stay here and try to find work while she has you running around doing things for her? Doing all the little errands, all the little chores that she asks you to do? I don't think you could take it. I love you, but honestly, I've been there and I don't think you could take it.