Perhaps because I like to describe myself as a writer, a creative type, I have a flair for the dramatic. The little girl in me that shuffled around the house in socks making the clicking noise of high heels with her tongue, now clicks around the streets of New York in an Audrey Hepburn trench and a Carey Grant fedora. If I dress like an adult, it inspires me to be one. Now I find myself staring at my new typewriter, in order to become a writer. Instead, I have become a typewriter repairman. I've stopped short of completely disassembling it and sprinkling the pieces like confetti on the street three stories below, laughing hysterically. I want it. I want it so badly. Once I sit down at that Brother Correct-O-Ball 7600 it will all flow like melted ice cream. My desk will be sticky with spilled creative juices. The novels, the stories, the epics and the plays will pour from my sore, bruised fingers as the machine clackety-clacks it's way to a Pulitzer Prize. I need the romance and majesty of that machine to conduct the electric force that is creativity, channel it through those metal keys,  and zap onto the page a line that people will quote as often as "Work is the curse of the drinking classes". I can feel it, I know it in my bones, this machine is going to carry me to greatness. My steed, my carriage, my '69 Chevy Camaro. Yes, this baby is going to take me places. Now if I can only get it to work.