Writers Block

The block has trapped me again. I sit infront of the glow of the monitor, starring at the text, waiting. Waiting for something, anything, to strike me as pertenant to the subject at hand. Anything at all that I can type into the document that I can claim to be inspired by that which has been placed before. But no. That's not going to happen. The 6 cups of coffee runs thru me quickly as I sit listening to my iTunes throw random noises at me hoping I'll approve, listening the the swollen impregnated one making subtle sleep-noises beside me, listening to the juvenile in the next room shooting nazies. And still nothing strikes me like a gratefull southern woman with a mouth that runs a mile a minute just after her ungrateful and tired husband comes home from his laborus vocation to a house that remarkably does not smell of a freshly home cooked meal.
But that's not the extent of woes. To my right lays a tome of blank pages screeming for me to mar them with the scratchings of graphite wounds that would, in our greatest hopes, slightly resemble (in some ungodly fashion) a woman or a man, performing some vital activity in the extended task of slaughtering a much lesser creature.
Then the nagging conscious mind goes on the tell me that I must partake in the digital joys of the World of Warcraft before my daughter gets her turn.
-Sigh-