They Said I Couldn’t Be Real
They said I couldn’t be a real superhero because my breasts were too small and unperky. I could never fit the required uniform, and my hip-to-waist ratio didn’t conform to the fever pitch of the modern fan-boy’s favorite four-color dreams (not to mention that my lips are neither thick nor pouty and will never be either bee-stung or ruby-red like a certain Amazon queen’s). “But I can fly,” I said, quietly, not quite in quiet unburning tears. And they said, “So can birds and planes and neo-Nazi Zeppelins. It’s not the power that matters, but the...
Read MoreThe Spandex Spider
People don’t realize how lonely the super-life can be. No one to cook dinner or wash your clothes and your costume always in constant need. They don’t see the bruises, the scrapes, the scars. All they hear are the cheers, even when they’re hissing beneath their breath without an ounce of fear. They’ve never watched you eat alone without a mask, microwaving burritos that taste like plastic ash, never knowing your tongue never quite escaped Dimension MAX. They’ve never had to wake up in a strange lair with an atom-splitting headache, trussed upside-down, smelling...
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