"I give up. I can't write a romance fic. I just can't. Not even to fit the holiday. Not for anyone." I felt like throwing my computer keyboard across the room but restrained myself. "Lonely hearts will never find the company they seek," I said slowly, my unconscious poet working again. "Hmm . . . That could be a song."
Sighing, I stared blankly at my computer screen for another five minutes. "Depressing, depressing, depressing," I muttered. "No one wants to read about your miserable existence."
"Then why are you typing it?" said Mr. Nobody. Mr. Nobody is my "boyfriend" of nine years, since the sixth grade. He really has a crush on Sophia, my imaginary gymnast friend, but he's waiting to break up with me until I have a real boyfriend.
I shrugged. "Nothin' better to do / But to stare at my shoes / Waiting for love," I sang.
"What's that from?" he asked.
"What's what from?"
"The song you were singing."
"Oh. I just made it up. Hmm . . . Might write the rest someday. You know, it's in 4/4 time. Like everything else I write. Why can't I write something in 3/4 for once?"
Mr. Nobody shrugged. "Ya got me."
"At least I've written in minor keys before. You know what?"
"This story is pathetic."
"I hadn't noticed."
I rolled my eyes. "Here. I've got an idea. Why don't you do the typing. At least it'll be more interesting that way."
Mr. Nobody looked at the ceiling in ponderance. "Sure," he said finally, pushing me out of my chair and taking a seat at the keyboard . . .
I grinned sarcastically at Naomi Sisko, my "girlfriend" of nine years, ever since she was in the sixth grade. Real people can be annoying sometimes. But I had a great idea, one that would wrap up this story in the best way possible. I cracked my knuckles one by one, then positioned my hands to type. Once I was done, I let Naomi have her chair back.
I wondered what Mr. Nobody could have typed that would leave him looking so smugly, so I retook my chair as soon as possible. I just knew he had done something horrible to my story, and I was right. But there was nothing I could do about it, because his words had closed the door for redemptive plot twists. There, in plain black caps, were the final words of my story, set in stone by my imaginary boyfriend: