I will kill time.

That's not a metaphor. I'm going to do it.

My computer's battery light has been flickering on and off over the last few days, depending on where I place my laptop and how bendy the plug cord is. I'm typing this now the only way I can, with a slab of trout placed 45 degrees between the motherboard and my stomach. The plug cord is pulled taut around the necks of two small children. They're still breathing enough to send out the automated "eye enlargement" e-mails I pay them for, but unfortunately their computer is having a similar problem to mine. I'm going to need another stream fish and some more necks, stat!

These eyes are nice, but wouldn't they look better WAY BIGGER?

Originality is impossible. I'm pretty sure that everything I just wrote has been imagined at some point in time by somebody else in history. I still dream that I'll come up with something that nobody else ever has (like maybe a theology based around the nonexistence of God? eh? eh?), but I'm not holding out hope. I'm consigned to the fact that I'd be best off fitting into a role society has already deemed as awesome, like starfleet commander or something. I'd be pretty good at giving orders to petty officers, and I could even try to work the monotony of peacetime military ops into a starting point for creativity. Imagine...

Commander Me: Petty Officer Collins!
P.O. Collins: Yes, sir?
Commander Me: I'm tired of looking at your human features. Find a cat, and replace yourself with it.
P.O. Collins: But sir... There aren't any cats aboard this ship, and the nearest feline-inhabited planet is over three parsecs away.
Commander Me: Are you questioning my orders? Take the auxiliary craft to MewMew Beta immediately and bring me back a damn cat!
P.O. Collins: But sir... The auxiliary craft is the only emergency vehicle functioning after this morning's food poisoning disaster.
Commander Me: Are you questioning my orders? Make sure you bring back some kitty litter, too. I think we already have the litter trays.
P.O. Collins (sighs, salutes, turns to leave): Yes, sir...
Commander Me: Oh, and Petty Officer Collins...
P.O. Collins (turns back, salutes again, no sighing): Yes, sir?
Commander Me: I'm just being creative!

The crew would laugh, and I'd probably get a lot of high fives. We'd travel through a few galaxies, sipping astro-nectar and talking about the days before we arbitrarily left Earth. Scientists had proven long ago that there was nothing in space worth discovering. Planets like MewMew Beta, as cute as they may sound, actually suck. Hard. We just left Earth because we felt like it. Ha! How young and naive we were! Those were the days... maybe...

And then, one Wednesday, as our ship would be floating towards a supernova as boring and inconsequential as the others, an unknown object would be sucked up into our ventilation ducts. I'd order Petty Officer Collins to go fetch it, because I really don't like looking at his human features and want him out of the command deck as frequently as possible. After a few minutes he'd return - with his stupid mustache and googly eyes - and he'd hand me what we'd discovered.

Picture of Collins, with a suspiciously large number of medals for a petty officer...

In my hands would be a screenplay. The screenplay would be dated centuries before I was born, of course. And the screenplay would start with "That's," ramble on a bit, and end with "cupcake." Reading through it, I'd become drenched in cold sweat as the realization of the reality upon me dawned. Losing electrolytes fast and sweatily, my body would demand sugar.

Commander Me: Petty Officer Collins!
Petty Officer Collins: Yes sir?
Commander Me: You're still annoyingly human. Do something worthwhile and get me something sweet. Get me a Pixy Stick. Or maybe some JujuBees. Or maybe some raspberries covered with cream, but a sweet cream that's not too thick. For God's sake, just get me anything, please, anything that's not a cupcake.