"Well, could I be Justin Timberlake?" you asked jokingly.
"Since Justin Timberlake already IS Justin Timberlake, we couldn't do that," she answers seriously, typing something into the computer in front of her. From where you are standing, the screen is unreadable. "You could be someone like Justin Timberlake. Do you wish to be like him?"
The question catches you off guard, and, you hear yourself answer "Sure."
"Okay," she replies, typing. "How much like him? And what age?"
"Ah." You wonder if she is serious. You really don't know that much about Justin Timberlake-- his name just sort of popped into your head. "Well, I want to be a good singer, dancer, actor, and young..., and really good looking-- good, great genetics, you know?"
"I certainly do, sir," she answers, smiling. "We guarantee all our lives are of the quality you desire. Could you be a bit more specific, please? Hair and eye color?"
Wow. She does seem serious! But..., you haven't really thought too much about this. What do you want? Maybe something a lot of people consider classic?
"Blond hair, blue eyes, tall and broad shouldered," you tell her. "Lean and muscular."
"Excellent choices, sir. Sexual orientation?"
Yikes! You've been feeling pretty insecure since your girlfriend left you-- is it that obvious?!?
Glancing at the woman, you realize it was just a question. Judging by the way she is (barely) looking at you, she couldn't care less what you chose.
"Straight! Heterosexual!" you state, perhaps a bit too quickly and forcefully. Maybe it was your imagination, but a hint of amusement seems to twinkle in her eyes.
"What sort of background would you like? Any brothers and sisters? If so, older or younger? Would they be in the band? What sort of background? Rich, poor, middle class? What state would you be from-- or country, for that matter? The more specific, the better, unless you like surprises."
Feeling overwhelmed, you find yourself babbling the answers, not even certain what you are saying.
"Uh, yeah-- brothers and sisters, some older, some younger, something like that. Maybe a twin, in the band with me? Not too many, you know, too many to keep track of?"
"How about a twin brother, an older sister and a younger brother and sister?"
"Sure, and, er, we could have moved to California for, I mean, to pursue our careers? From, I don't know, some mid-western state. We're middle class or something?"
"Well, it is up to you," she says, typing away, presumably entering the data. "Should I put all that down? We could randomly generate what state you originated from, if you like."
"Yeah, yes, could you do that?" What are you doing?! But this can't possibly be real, can it?
"If you could please sign on the pad, sir," she requests, rotating one of those computerized signing pads and a stylus toward you. It looks like the kind delivery drivers and many stores have taken to using-- the kind on which your signature comes out looking like it did back when you were first learning to write..., which seems to hold true for everyone else you have ever asked. A bit numbly, you take the stylus and sign.
"Now, how would you like to pay?" she continues, politely. "We take most credit and debit cards, checks, and, of course, cash."
You pull out a card and she swipes it through a reader. The machine pauses just long enough to make you start worrying, then displays "APPROVED".
"Now, would you please step this way..."
She opens a door and gestures for you to go through it. You hesitate for a moment-- the room on the other side is dark, too dark to see what is in the room... Shrugging, you step through. A wave of dizziness sweeps over you and your eyes blur. You feel yourself falling--
--and then find yourself standing facing a mirror. A cute looking prepubescent boy with curly blond hair and electric blue eyes is staring back at you!