Writer's Block and The Incubus Plain, white writing paper has life. I know because it disrespects me. Only that which is alive can show disrespect. Having received an assignment to write either a process essay or a cause and effect essay, I looked to the sheet of plain, white, writing paper in front of me to produce the desired result. It failed. It insulted and mocked me by its mute riposte. I offered it freedom, freedom to choose which format it preferred. It refused to cooperate. That's when I knew it was alive. The paper began a slow but methodical process of extracting my sanity. Every time I made an offering of words, it was rejected. I typed a short, easy to assimilate sentence, but the plain white paper wouldn't accept it. I tried a more complicated, flowery attempt, hoping to impress it; it met with equal failure. The harder I tried to accommodate the unfriendly contrivance, the more resistant it became. Attempt after attempt met with greater and greater stubbornness. The size of the paper began to increase. I thought at first that it was some kind of an anxiety response on my part. It was not. The paper was growing. It had begun its true mission and was now beginning to exert a more forceful attempt at capturing my sanity. It slowly began to stretch its vast open whiteness over my mind. It started its hideous process of removing individual thoughts, one by one. I started to feel uneasy about myself. A wave of insecurity and discomfort passed over me. I had difficulty concentrating. My thoughts began to repeat in my mind. I had difficulty concatenating. My thoughts began to repeat in my mind. I was having difficulty assigning meaning to words. I couldn't remember how to assemble even the simplest phrases or clowns. My thoughts began to repeat themselves in my spine. Inane babbling proceeded out of my mouth, and I was growing frightened. I had been trying to do something but was somehow being preventive. Pandemonium occurred inside my emotions, and the feeling of semicolons pranced hollowly around a clipboard. Father time reached a pinnacle of asymmetry and circumvented oxygen. Growing happiness made nice plastic. Brief flashes of sanity interspersed my now totally incoherent thoughts. I tried my best to hold a potato on Thursday, but I fell through an open river. The oxygen in my huge lungs expired, and I was unable to return them to K-mart. Calling out, I reached for the scissors! My hat blew off, and a large truck drove quickly past. I screamed at the waking of the dawn but was unable to know calculus! Frightened and trembling, I returned to my castle and began a new writer. I found the madness slowly waning. I recovered slightly and cast aside the fowl paper. My faculties had not completely recovered, but I knew that fowl were not made of paper. I through the wretched whiteness into a wastebasket and burned the infected, ink-smudged carcass of the effigy into oblivion. No one knows whether the doctors will ever realize a complete recovery, but as for me, I accept them with their dynamic clonuses.