The Muse: the Single Most High-Maintenance Guest EVER.

You know that feeling you get, usually at a very inopportune time (on the work commute, in the middle of an exam, while you're asleep, etc.), where your brain just switches on to full speed and your fingers itch and you just know, right down to the marrow of your bones that you need to write right now this very second?
That, my friends, is our ever-present-but-rarely-accounted-for story writing companion. The Muse.
The Muse is the thing that poets and singers warble on about, the thing that sparked Michelangelo's David, the Sistine Chapel, Da Vinci's Mona Lisa, and probably pretty much every other piece of truly spectacular visual, audio, or written art to date. The Muse, we can deduce from this, is a beneficial thing for any writer/artist to have.
However, The Muse is also the one who only shows up when its REALLY REALLY inconvenient. And then, when it DOES show up, it gets all pissy and won't let you do a damn thing unless you do it HER WAY. The Muse drove many a great writer to drinking, drugs, ridiculous car trips, and other outrageous acts in the name of 'following their muse' (i.e trying to keep the damn thing happy). The Muse, we can deduce from this, is also a very high-maintenance visitor, and one who can be extremely exasperating/mentally taxing/debilitating to a human being.
So, referring above to the original scenario: You are in the most inopportune moment possible in your day, and the Muse drops in and says, 'oh hi, drop what you're doing and bust out that pen, sweetheart, we've got work to do.'
That was me yesterday.
I was at work. I was fasting, and therefore half delirious with hunger. I had no pen or pencil nearby. And yet, The Muse sat there, tapping her foot impatiently until I scrounged up a pen on my lunch break and pounded out several hundred words in my notebook in a frenzy of creative excitement. I am on a roll! I thought. When I get home, I'll add this to the manuscript and keep going into the night!
Of course, by the time I got home, and had the time/energy/food/computer necessary to be REALLY productive, the Muse yawned, rolled over, and went back to sleep. Because, really, the fun is gone when the author is ready to write and therefore unable to be tortured by ideas with no time to put them anywhere.
And so I rest my case: The Muse is an extremely high-maintenance house guest, and quite possibly a sadistic torturer masquerading as a benign, whimsical creative fancy.
What do you want to bet she doesn't show up again until I am at work, starving, and pen-less once more?
Le sigh.
How do you deal with your flighty muses, readers?
~Katherine