my bohemian life in brooklyn

Penniless theater major chain-smokes cigarillos and extinguishes them in a can of Red Bull, tightens her arms around her torso, making sure too much of her psychological motives doesn't escape.

Always on some collision course, something getting in her way; laziness, booze, drugs, it's all written somewhere in her DNA, nurture, nature, who the hell can wrap their mind around any of that s**t, anyway?

"I swear," she says, choking up, leaving the thought unfinished.

"Please," I say, sucking on an unlit cigarette. "Don't compare yourself to Amy Winehouse tonight. Let's celebrate your sublime inner torment by remaining tight-lipped and stoic, shall we?"

Her shoulders remain drooped with the collective weight of The Actors Studio. "There are so many subtle allusions to many different things going on here," she says.

As I struggle to replicate my square-jawed ruggedness, she remains aloof, almost unreadable. She turns on the TV and settles into watching some banal chick-flick that fails to produce any innovative ideas and is laughably formulaic.

There will be no more breathtaking responses to my cliché questions because she's had enough of my direction for tonight.