I'm Trying, Really

I've been sitting at my desk for the past 57 minutes, fully intending to post something witty or poignant. Possibly both. But it's just not coming.
   Writer's block is not a concept I subscribe to, it's like saying a quarterback has 'throwing the ball block.' Writing is what writers do, and if you're having a hard time of it you figure out what's wrong and work through it.
   But right now, this morning, forces are conspiring against me. Downstairs, since 8 AM, workers have been hammering, sawing, screwing things in and generally making a racket to wake the dead. Or me. I think they're replacing the AC mechanism(s) down in #9, because they're indulging their noise-making about five feet from where I sit and around the corner. Where my own AC stuff is. I tell you, I'm like Sherlock Holmes here.
   Just when I think they're done they find something new to beat on, or something new to saw, or something new to screw into something else. Crazy-making.
   And there's a couple on the first floor with a baby, the cutest little girl you've ever seen, probably two years old I'm guessing. Big surprise, she doesn't like the hammering, sawing, and screwing any more than I do. But since she's two she gets a free pass to complain in the only way she knows how. By crying.
   Hammer hammer hammer saw. Cry cry cry. Hammer hammer hammer saw. Cry cry cry. Hammer saw hammer saw screw screw screw. Cryyyyyyyyyy...
   But wait, there's more... since the gates downstairs are open for the workers determined to keep me from concentrating, door-to-door salesmen now have no barries to keep the off the property, so now I have uninvited guests. About fifteen minutes ago someone knocked on my door. I assumed it was the manager or one of the workers downstairs telling me they needed to get into my place for some reason. Oh no. A kid, pimply-faced, nervous and dirty looked at me with wide-eyed surprise as he realized I didn't have a shirt on.
   'Hi, my name is (fill in forgettable name here, I think it was Jared), and I'm selling subscriptions to pay my way through school...'
   Kee-rist. I just can't get a break.
   I politely refused and decided not to threaten him with a visit from the cops. Even though our police force loves rousting these slave-labor subscription selling operations, this kid has enough problems just being part of it, he doesn't need me to add to his misery.
   It's quiet now.
   Too quiet...