Spaceman.

The engine was a mass of wires and fireflies that danced together in their stationary or floating sort of way    
beneath the bonnet of a slender egg-shaped machine that made me feel a speck of dust on the pea, in the frozen pea bag of life.    
I danced, once upon a time, like my Spanish ancestors.  
I danced upon a red planet that was the colour of my satin salsa shoes -  
But that's not what a Spaceman wears.    
Spacemen wear leather jeans and a beer belly and a pink bra.
It's nothing like Jerry Springer; they wear corporal suits and do the waltz every now and again.    
I forget when 'now' and 'again' were;
far too busy dancing like my Spanish ancestors,    
though honestly I have no Spanish ancestors.    
We were flying on the Galaxy, though it's no chocolate bar and I haven't seen chocolate in weeks.
I lie,
I hid one in my leather trousers' pocket  
and couldn't get it out - it's probably melted.
Do things even melt in space?    
"Oh, did you hear this funny joke?"
Really it's not so funny.
It's not funny for me, a spaceman, who has travelled to distant lands and seen far away places.    
"USA put money into creating a pen for spacemen due to zero gravity ruining the pens ink flow...Russians just used a pencil."    
Ha.
Ha.
Very    
funny.     
I tried sticking my little finger into the small gap in the left side of my leather trousers pocket, pulling the chocolate bars wrapper apart and dipping my finger 
into the melted chocolate.
No, no, just had the image of dippy tummy.    
Good, game's over.    
I speed out from behind the curtain,  
with my sleek, white trainers no longer glowing in the dark  
and run like a chipmunk on caffeine all the way to the shooting game  
where I can be a legendary army man.    
What a day to spend at the arcades!    
I love tenth birthdays with Granddad.