A Cuticle in the Space Station

     Stories are great, aren't they? I love to devour them with a voracious appetite any chance I get. Getting lost in the emotion of a deliciously sultry romance or fantastic adventure where the fate of the world rests in the hands of one simple orphan boy are some of the only pure pleasures that life has to offer.

     Of course, my own busy schedule of writing ensures that I don't get much time to read, especially while earning a meager amount as an online product consultant (a terribly dull choice of career if you ask me). However, it pays the bills, and I can stay at home all day working on my life's true calling.

          'Cause they're calling, calling, calling me home
          Calling, calling, calling home
          You show the lights that stop me turn to sto-o-oone
          You shine them when I'm alooone

     Oh, the singing? I like to sing. If I weren't such an expert with words, I may have ended up a famous musician or the next star on Broadway. Moves like these only come around once a generation.

          How you like me now
          How you like me now
          How you like me noooow

     Ooh, that's right. Check it out.

          I feel good, da-na-na-na-ah
          I feeeeeel good

     Whoa! Moonwalk baby!

          Hoo! War! What is it good for?
          Ow-absolutely nussin' yeah!
          Ooh! Ahh! War!

     Like I said, moves like mine come around only once a generation. It's a shame I'm letting them go to waste, but my interests lie in the ability of words to weave tales otherwise unimaginable. In fact, I've been working on a masterpiece of my own for the last three years. It's called A Cuticle in the Space Station. I got the idea for it during one of my rare visits to the doctor. I never get sick, you see, because I rarely expose myself to the germ-filled world out there. Anyway, during this visit, my doctor mentioned something about my cuticles displaying a lack of nutrition. I had been daydreaming of a space station during the checkup, so when his words met my thoughts, an explosion of magnificent inspiration occurred. I would tell you what my piece de resistance is about, but every great author knows it's better to show than tell.

     Oh and look. I've got a message from one of my dear friends.

          Doo, doo, doo
          Lookin' out my back door

     We're all aspiring writers who met online, and now we chat almost daily. There's the ever-so-dramatic Doyen Woodlock (a pen name) who never ceases to astonish me with how little she accomplishes in such a long time. Temper and Parker, on the other hand, manage to eek out something every now and then, but Temper lives up to her name and Parker... Well, Parker likes to argue too, but this message is from Scott. He's usually the only sane one of the bunch, not counting me of course.

     "How did that publishing query go? Have you heard back yet?" he asks.

     How did it go? Hmm. How did it go indeed? I suppose it may be prudent to tell him that I am still awaiting some sort of response. However, I do expect it to be quite a positive one.