Two weeks, he thought. Two weeks since he had bathed, two weeks since he had eaten anything that he could keep down, and two weeks since he had written more than a page for his novel.

He cringed as he remembered that it had also been two weeks since Miyoko, the Japanese girl he had used as inspiration for his novel had tied him to a chair and stolen half of his manuscript before escaping the apartment wearing his favourite t-shirt when he wouldn’t agree to marry her.

Throughout the past fourteen days, he had sworn off shower curtains, take-out, and women. Of course, he still held a small amount of hope for his severed novel, which lay in a misshapen heap that was sticking out from under the couch.