Oh, baby, I'm a ... STAR!

Sometimes, when riding the elevator alone at work, I dance. I dance like everyone is watching me. I imagine that I'm a rockstar. I'm on stage. A million fans are screaming out my name. The music is pumping, pumping, pumping. I'm dancing harder, harder, harder. I spin. I groove. I do dance moves that no one's ever seen before. George Michael opened for me and now he's there standing in the front row. He makes eyes with me. I can barely see him through all of the stage lights. The sweat stings my eyes, but I keep dancing, dancing, dancing. I do a little spin and then I touch the ground. I can't get the music out of my head. It's so loud in here. Now, George is blowing me kisses. "Don't believe 'em, girl!" he yells at me as he snaps his fingers in the air. "Don't believe 'em, girl. You. ARE. A. Rockstar!" The music gets louder, louder, louder and I am just dancing my ass off. Then I hear the "ding." The elevator doors open, the florescent light floods in and just like that it's all over. It's over. I walk past the secretaries and head into my office. They'll never know, I think to myself, if they only knew ... It feels good to be a Closet Elevator Rockstar.