And That Is Why I Stare

I let the guitar fade out, then lean over and click on the stop button. I frown at the computer, wondering if anyone will really listen to it. I shake my head and shrug. No use pondering this now. Besides, no one will know these songs are mine. The only name they're getting out of this songwriter/singer is 'Anne Ann Umus'. Saying it, it sounds like unanimous. I smirk. Well, this is something nobody would expect little miss Plain Jane to do. And nobody is gonna find out about it. I check over the songs on the playlist one last time. It has to be perfect. I cover my eyes and click Burn. Slowly, I peek through my fingers. The screen reads 5% complete. I sigh. Waiting. Fun.
I roll my chair back and spin. I spin and spin and spin as the world whirls past me faster and faster, colors blendingtogetherANDmeshingANDchangingAND... stopping. I plant my feet on the ground, my head spinning even faster then I had been minutes ago. I sit back and close my eyes, waiting for the spinning sensation to subside. When I finally regain my head, I look at the computer.
Is it done? I groan, throwing my head back. The computer displays that it has only burned 45% of the CD. I heave myself to my feet and trudge downstairs. Maybe it will be done by the time I finish having a snack.
I walk through the living room, deliver a brief 'hey' to my 11 year old brother, John, watching cartoons, and into the kitchen. I walk over to the fridge and fling the door open dramatically, reveling in the feel of cool air washing over me. I sort through the contents of the fridge with my eyes, and note with satisfaction that the need-to-be-kept-cool ingredients required for cookie dough is in the fridge. Before I grab them though, I should probably see if we have the dry ingredients. I walk over to the pantry and slowly open the creaking doors, hoping that we have chocolate chips. I sort through the bags and cans and bottles until I have successfully grabbed everything for cookie dough. I dance back into the kitchen and dump everything on the island in the middle of everything. I squeal happily and run over to the fridge, flinging the door open. I grab all the rest of the ingredients and set them on the counter. I lean down to the cabinets installed into the island and grab the bowls and mixers I'll need to properly make cookie dough. As I slam the bowls on the counter, I flinch at the sound they make.
"Keep it down in there! I can't hear the T.V!" John shouts from the living room. About to yell back a retort, I pause. I definitely need help to make and eat the cookie dough. Hmmm..."Hey John! You wanna help me make cookie dough? You can have half!" I yell.
In a flash, John is at my side, smiling sweetly up at me. "What do we do, darling sister?" he asks. I snort, then explain to him the process. Somehow, he gets it immediately, and we are done before you can say, "Cookie Dough" three times fast. I flatten the cookie dough into the bowl and take a knife, cutting it down the center. I scoop out my half and plop it into a clean bowl, then hand the remaining half to my brother. I start cleaning up, and when I turn around from putting the eggs away, I'm surprised to see John cleaning up too. Upon seeing my surprised face, he shrugs and says, "What? I made this mess to." I grin at him and we finish cleaning in a comfortable silence. As soon as the kitchen is spotless, John and I go to our previous destinations, armed with cookie dough and parting as unlikely friends.
I sit on my spiny chair and look at my computer. 85% complete. Just enough time to eat my cookie dough. I devour it, groaning at the taste. Before I know it, the last drop is disappearing down my throat. I turn back to the computer just as 100% complete flashes across the screen. I cheer and pop the customized CD out of the computer and into the CD case. I grab the empty bowl of cookie dough and the CD and march down the stairs. I am a woman on a mission.
I dump the dirty bowl into the sink, and then march outside to the bike leaning against the garage. I set the CD into the basket and hop on my bike, pedaling furiously to the local music station. When I arrive I go up to the front door and quickly slip the CD into the mail slot.
I feel as if a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Someone is finally going to listen to my music.