I NEED SOME HELP WITH WRITER'S BLOCK

I need help. I know not of what to write. If you could, my dear one reader, could you pick one of the starting points below? And I'll try to write a story about it? My mind is molasses; my fingers are cement blocks.

Towards the end, the pull from within had become too great to withstand. So Vernon Palley had just...given in.

Miniature. Everything had become miniature. His forks and knives and spoons. His bed. Shit, even his dog had been traded in to the pet store; in return, he had gotten himself a Miniature Pinscher. As he had shrunk, so too the world with which he'd chosen to surround himself had shrunk.

Strippers and guacamole dip. Reggie would think long and hard before he ever again let those two entities meet.

As a sixth-grader, Sally Rothers had hatched a plan to use 10 M-80s to blow up the ice sculptures in Picadoily Park, in downtown Yerkers, Maine. She'd seen nothing wrong with it then, and now, 15 years later, she maintained her assertion that ice sculptures were the work of the Devil.

Some men buy fancy sports cars or date younger women or slap dead animals on their bald spots to combat their mid-life crises. Johnny Vanderwhal chose to go in a different direction. He started blowing people up. It was his line of work: He was a gas man. He could make them look like accidents.

"Charlie-fucking-Brown, again?! Seriously, Mick, every time I talk to you you're going on and on about Charlie Brown. He's a fucking cartoon character, for Crissake! When are you going to join the rest of us on planet Earth?!" Susan slammed the phone into its receiver and took a long trembling drag on her Virginia Slim. Damn. She still loved the fool. "Gimme a Scotch on the rocks, Todd. Make it a double."

Besmirched, belittled and belligerent, Billy Boxom broke the broom in half and stormed out of fifth-grade classroom, leaving the scarring snickers behind.