I am a superhero. I save children from burning buildings; I save cats from burning dogs. I save old ladies from being run over by crazed taxi-cab drivers; I save crazed cab drivers from being slapped by angry old ladies. I can stop a hurricane with a dirty look, and I patched the oil spill in the Gulf with a leftover Band-Aid. I created a time machine out of yellow papier-mâché and gold nail polish, and then I travelled to the 1920s and told them not to buy stock on margin. You’re welcome.
On Mondays, I save my friends. On Tuesdays, my enemies. On Wednesdays I save both, and Thursdays are days for saving animals. Fridays I party (but make sure I teach people how to dance properly), and on Saturdays I fix holes in the o-zone layer. On Sundays I look back on my work and see that it was good, so I rest.
Last night, I infiltrated the mob and replaced their guns with bubble machines. They’d been going about life all wrong.
I was J.K. Rowling’s inspiration for Harry Potter, and the Odyssey is loosely based on me, but Homer wanted Odysseus to seem realistic so he gave him some flaws. I don’t have flaws.
When I’ve finished my night’s work, I head home and write all about it. I’ve written seventeen books so far. I’d publish them, but I’m worried the world would be jealous of my glory and turn to chaos. Of course, I could fix all of that by singing a lullaby…