Writer's block blows

Why do I have to fucking write? Writing sucks the greenest of all donkey dicks! I've been sitting at this desk for hours today trying to give shape to this essay, and the harder I try, the deeper into a quagmire I push it. It's like being constipated. It's enfuriating and nauseating, and this...this is what I want to do with my life???

I'm trying to write an essay for a local Writer's League contest. The prize is five hundred bucks and publication. I'm not after the prize, I'm after the accomplishment of wresting a clean story from a thick muck of difficult memories. I know it's in there. But I'll be damned if I know what to chip away to reveal it. I think at first, oh, here: this is an easy chunk of the story to hone into three thousand words or less. Oh, goody, and here's a theme. But I go to follow that thread and the whole thing starts to writhe around and hit dead ends and all these questions I think of in an attempt to regain my structure point me round and round until I begin to wonder who's home from work that wants to go out and get a beer.

Oooh, you...you stupid effing story! Don't you make me come back there! I will kick your ass right now, in front of all the other ideas, then how'll you feel? Huh? Huh?