Writer's Block

She blinked a few times and stared at the screen.  But nothing came to her.  Something was welling under her skin, pushing and wriggling around, begging to be let out.  But she had to wait.1

So she chewed on her fingernails: first her left pinkie, then her right middle finger, inching closer and closet to her nail bed. Then she squinted at the screen, re-adjusted her mouse, and briefly watched it's little red light shine on the sticker-wood desk.2

Making fists with her hands, then extending her first finger knuckles, she drummed on the keyboard's wrist rest, playing out a beat from her favorite band.  Okay, so it really wasn't an actual beat, but in her mind, it sounded just like the drumline from "Radio".3

She stood up, and stretched her feet, then her legs, back, and arms; she felt the inspiration grow stronger as the energy pulsed through her limbs and various bodily appendages.4

Then came a slight gnawing noise from behind her.  She turned around, and found a field mouse.  In brief distraction, she stared in amazement as the tiny creature chewed on some carpet.  See took a step towards it.  But it scurried away before her foot hit the ground.5

So she swiveled on her heels, and fell into her computer chair, with an ever-familiar squeak from the leverage bar.  She adjusted, then re-adjusted the brightness and contrast on the computer screen, and listened to her computer's somewhat comforting hum.6

/Damn.  Writer's block./7