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  • We think it’s so glamorous having super powers, like strength and being able to see into things…everyone is nice to you because they appreciate what you do for their town, or because they are afraid of you…that you might catch them doing something wrong…kids grow up wanting to be you…they worship you and are a royal pain in the ass if something big is “going down” because they might get hurt and you have to keep an eye on them…always asking you to sign some damn thing like a baseball mitt; who in their right minds asks a Super-Hero to sign their mitt, you think, as you have Terrible Todd in a strangle-hold up against some derelict building just off of Water Street.

    What do they know about it, those who are non-super? Don’t they understand some of us had a mom who killed herself one cigarette after another? She worried…every time we went out late…the streets are dangerous…so mom worried and smoked and smoked and smoked.

    But, no, that never occurs to the baseball mitt wavers…the “Hey Super-Hero” folks…they don’t stop to think about how hard it would be to trust that anyone loved you just for yourself, and not because you’re often on Eyewitness News in a positive light…in fact you’re about the only one who ever is on Eyewitness News in a positive light…but all that might stop.

    Regular people have no idea what it’s like to break up with someone when you wear skin-tight, stretch-lycra to work, well, except for ballerinas…but most people have no idea as to how hard it is not to be sexually objectified when you’re wearing skin-tight, stretch-lycra…and when you do find someone who saw past the obvious fun aspects of “sex with a Super-Hero,” and then you loose that someone…well that’s real depression that is; that’s up on the roof with a bottle of something depression…that’s getting drunk and surly and hurling insults down from the parapet to those fools in the street living their toady little lives.

    You try to find someone who is going to take you seriously when you work crazy hours wearing colored skin and it’s dangerous as hell, but you can’t use a gun because you’re a Super-Hero…one of the good guys and good guys don’t need guns even if the good guy is actually a gal. But the bad guys have guns…boy, do they ever have guns…all sorts of guns…high-powered guns that will knock you down, but you won’t know it because you’re dead before you rocked back on your heels.

    If you’re lucky you find a bimbo or a mimbo who doesn’t realize what you do for a living is actually dangerous and that they should live in constant sorrow until you swing back in through their window, your stretch-lycra a little worse for the wear…you swing in tired and your bimbo or your mimbo starts talking to you about ticking clocks and having kids and there is a real reason Super-Heroes do not have kids…
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