Inspiration

Inspiration was pretty in an edgy way, beautiful even. She was petite, thin like Twiggy, and sharp featured, with hair teased up into a candy-colored cloud around her head.
Her clothes were white, the accusation white of unpainted canvas, the taunt white of a blank manuscript.
Inspiration looked over my painting thoughtfully, and reached then reached for my brush.
“No, it’s my painting,” I told her.
And so she planted her pointer finger in the center of my masterpiece.
“The composition has been done before. It is positively worthless,” she said, Red Bull coming in waves off her words.
And before I could stop her she sunk her hand into my painting and smeared away all of my efforts with a swipe of her hand, blending every pigment into a single muddy ooze.
I gaped.
“If you want results you are going to have to sacrifice,” said Inspiration.
She pointed down at my holy mess.
“How can you expect to make art if you aren’t willing to make a sacrifice?”
I glared at the dirty canvas. She was right.
Inspiration was always right.
“Admit it, you want my help,” Inspiration said.
She sprung up from the seat and her perky little boobs punctuated the movement like exclamation marks.
“No, you need my help.”
“So help me,” I said, weary.

(Character development for a story I wrote in creative writing. The paragraph above is an exert from the story. Normally I do not draw in this style, but what can I say, I was feeling Inspired.)