Post-Super Bowl blues

It seems you can't go to a Super Bowl party these days in Washington D.C. without getting burgled at gunpoint. Thank goodness I only live near Manhattan where people commit murder/suicide in broad daylight.

I have 24 hours until I must distribute my first short story to my fellow classmates at the writing class. It has been great to read other student's stories so far. My current favourite is redolent of so many Harlequin/Mills & Boon novels, featuring product placements (Gucci loafers, Armani suits, Laura Ashley curtains) as well as sentences that feature 'champagne cup-shaped breasts' and mispelled dessert (the heroine buys chocolate 'mouse'). After having laughed my socks off at others' efforts, I was somewhat sobered by the idea that they would be doing the same with my own story. So I made M. read it first.

He was only at the first page when he looked up to say, "I think baklava is a dessert."
"What?" I read the suspicious sentence; the protagonist is wearing 'a brown baklava'.
"Oh no. It's meant to be a balaclava! It's spellcheck, I was so paranoid about getting the wrong spelling!"
That was, unfortunately, just the beginning. M. then proceeded to correct my British use of words (flat/apartment etc.) and finally rolled over the bed. I had to ask, of course - "What do you think?"
"I hope it's not going to be some stupid young adult book," he said. "Can't you write something like CSI?"
I rolled my eyes.
"Or you could write a story about robots," he said.
"I don't write sci-fi," I said.
"What's wrong with sci-fi?"
"It's just not what I would write."
"I would be interested."

Somehow I don't think I can edit my short story into a piece of science fiction.