Once I grow up, I’m going to be an Astronaut. My days will mostly be spent floating around my grand spaceship between various boards of shiny silver buttons, eating neapolitan-flavored freeze-dried ice cream sandwiches. I will be the expert on these buttons, working tirelessly day and night flipping switches and turning knobs. Of course, when I am not too busy with my switchboards, I will assist the others on the ship, who will hold such important positions as Doctor and Scientist. When they try to help me, I will yell things like, “Don’t touch that knob Johnson!! That’s only for confribulator emergencies!” After our mission is over, I will successfully navigate our spaceship back to earth through fiery walls of atmosphere. Upon landing, we will be greeted by crowds and crowds of adoring fans. They will all flock around us, begging us to tell them what it’s like to float in space. My colleagues will quiet the mass of excited citizens and inform them that without me, none of the mission’s success would have been possible. My knob turning and navigation abilities surpassed any of their efforts put forth for this operation. Naturally, I will blush and assure the crowd it was a team effort. But, when everyone insists that I take the most prominent spot of our float for our honorary parade, I will not decline.
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