I start reading something like Faulkner and 2 pages in I need to write my own prose. I start, then once I put my pen down I'm done for. Can't start again. Well this is where maybe 10 minutes got me:

Many a boy has never fallen out of love with me.
Through the endless hallways of patterned carpetted walls and disorienting floors dotted with identical but entirely unsimilar (once inside) doors and seemingly insignificant numbers and knobs have I led them all. Some for months and years while some for the time one takes to rinse a Manhattan-sidewalk-bought cucumber. I luckily stopped buying those.
But my poor mother. Mother has only crawled through the disintegrating doorways, scraping her zebra-printed acrylic nails along cracked, single-coated plywood walls in Super 8 motels lining trucker-stopped highways in New Jersey and still, with only a mouthful of men. Most times that I did see her in her kitchen, she sat with no one but her cigarette and Jack Daniels. She trusted these boys to never break her collar bone or give her stitches in her palm. That is until so much Jack slipped through her teeth that she tripped over the dog's food bowl and forehead met counter corner faster than my narcoleptic sister's head hit the back of the seat rest during Titanic.