He sat at his computer with a thousand different ideas swirling in a creative cloud around him like little gnats threatening to fly into the open orifices of his face.

He did his best to get them all down with his fingers flashing across his cheap keyboard, but Bill's clumsy fingers just couldn't accomodate. "Why did I quit that damn typing class," he cursed to himself as he struggled to get all of the creative gold encased in electron semi-permanence.

Idea: Make a song out of previous poems he'd written.

Idea: Write a play based on his experiences living in a basement apartment in Podunk, USA.

Idea: Write a musical based on the life of an eccentric author.

Idea: Try out for American Idol!

The creativity embraced him, pushed him to do more with his head, hands, ideas, everything! There were so many more things to write about! Cars, planes, trains, cheese, chess, dressing, dressing in drag, dressing in rags, dressing in costumes, royalty, loyalty, living la vida insane in the membrane! So many things!

Why was he balking now that he actually had something to record them on?

Then it hit him. The diarrhea.

"Dammit," Bill thought to himself, "Why does it have to happen now, of all times?" Bill rushed to the closest bathroom, all the way across his ranch house. It was his only bathroom, actually, if you didn't count the cobweb nest of a room in the basement. He cursed again as the cramps roiled in his stomach. Once he sat down, sweet relief waved over his person. The ideas started rolling again. Why was it he did his best thinking on the toilet?

He rushed to finish his business and sprinted back to his computer.

Nothing.

"Dammit!" exclaimed Bill. He knew he should invest in a laptop computer, but he was way too lazy to go through the hassle of actually going to the store and buying one. Plus, laptop computers were known to cost tons of money that he just didn't have. "I guess it's back to the old pen and paper."

Bill waited until another wave of cramps hit his abdominal area, grabbed a pen and some computer paper, and headed to the bathroom. It was a proven method of writing for him; the only problem was his strained, scraggly, and barely legible handwriting.