Writer's Block Sucks Worse Than a Two-Dollar Hooker With Herpes!

Not that I would know from personal experience or anything...*cough* However, I can imagine that it can't be a pleasurable thing. You may have only spent two dollars, but now you've got a lifetime of Valtrex prescription payments. Huzzah!
Yes, and writer's block is worse than that. How could that be? Herpes is like the worst thing in the world. Ask Paris Hilton. Ooh, burn.
First of all, my writer's block is like herpes in that it will not go away. Ever.
I was working on this story recently. Actually, I've been attempting to write this thing for about two years. I've also been trying to get my driver's license for about two years. Motivation is not my strong point to begin with. Add serious mental blockage into the equation and you get counterproductive, uninspired, hackneyed bullcrap. That describes about 97% of my writing, FYI.
The plot has gone through a massive metamorphosis throughout this time. Main characters have been added, changed due to my own changes in taste, the plot actually exists now, and it's just seemingly the most badass thing I've ever decided to put down on paper, so to speak. This thing was going to be my magnum opus. Nothing else I do would ever surpass this level of literary genius I've created. One day, people would read this and just drop dead from how amazingly written it is. I'd win some serious awards and become a gazillionaire. I could finally live my dream. I would buy...God. He'd be the President and I'd be the CEO of the business we call "life." I'd bring Michael Jackson back to life and promptly smite anyone who makes him feel bad about himself.
But writer's block returned in an outbreak so fierce that I felt like my head would explode. My head was like a watermelon and Gallagher's standing there with his mallet, a sinister grin playing across his face. Impending doom. Plans for ruling everything crashing and burning all around me. Life as I knew it was slipping away. I had people expecting to read the story, but I just couldn't deliver. I felt like a failure. I've failed my characters most of all. They never got a chance to endure the hell I planned to put them through. It's so unfair.
And that was me about three hours ago. Haven't touched the thing. Instead, I'm here writing about how I can't write.
I probably just passed it on to someone else. Misery loves company. I need a vacation from my problems. My trip to California is a definite go, so maybe I'll get some inspiration while I am there...hehe.