I was born with a perfect five-point star-shaped freckle on my hip which, as I have grown, has been stretched out into an amorphous blotch. I have squeezed Mr. T's bicep. I was a key witness in a murder trial. I sing in the shower. I’m the only child of a suicide’s widow, and spent the first eight years of my life talking to myself. As a result, I don’t understand you at all, and odds are I kind of creep you out. I love breakfast food. I don’t believe in ghosts, but I like the stories. I have never seen the movie “Greaseâ€. People assume I’m highly intelligent because I wear glasses, and when I take my glasses off, people treat me like I’m an imbecile. This is funny, because nobody’s wrong: I’m as smart as I am stupid; I am a wizard and a disappointment. I have broken my nose eight times. I want a massage. I can’t lie to someone without laughing. Once every day, I test myself to see if I have somehow, miraculously, developed telekinesis: I'll scan around outside for some sort of mid-sized inanimate object, something like a manhole cover, or garbage can. Then, I'll stretch my arm out, splay my fingers, and tensing the muscles in my palm, I'll concentrate on lifting the object off the ground with my mind. When I've figured out how to do this, I will most likely don some sort of ridiculous costume, and start flinging criminals into walls. I'll halt runaway trains, and protect entire communities from mudslides. I will save you all, because secretly, all I have ever wanted to be in my whole life is somebody’s hero.
