Pounding away at the gates of oblivion

Four fucking hours to write one lousy paragraph. Somedays the muse is red hot with the word flow. Somedays she's a frigid bitch who won't return your calls. And somedays she's straight up sleeping around behind your back with the ice-cream man, getting it on in a meat locker located somewhere in the arctic wilderness. Sweet Goddess above why couldn't I have been born a musician?

I've earned my bad habits today.